Don't Deport My Girlfriend!

My name is Jacob. I grew up in Texas, born and raised in a small town in the northeastern portion of the state. It was exactly what you'd expect: Guns, God, football and barbecue. I was never into all that, so I could not get out fast enough. I made the grades and was able to go to Boston University.

For the first time, I had peers I could relate to. It was wonderful to be able to share my liberal views on issues, or talk about science fiction or punk rock. It was exhilarating, but college flew by. And like all good things, it ended. I had nowhere to go, but back to Texas. Not my small hometown, though. I landed a job at an online news organization based in Austin. I wasn't happy to have to go back to the state. But if I had to pick anywhere in Texas to be, it would be there.

Working as copy editor at a small digital news outlet didn't exactly pay the big bucks, but I was happy to do the work. I was happy to have the opportunity to maybe move up. And the city was really nice. Austin has a strong progressive movement going, so I could find people I could relate to and connect with. And I did miss the barbecue. And one night, my values and my taste for pulled pork collided.

I attended an event hosted by Liberal Texans United on the subject of immigrant rights. There were three different speaker from different organizations, all telling their stories and trying to get people to donate or get involved with their various causes. It was during the telling of a particularly rousing story that I first laid eyes on Camila.

The speaker was an organizer telling his own story of becoming a citizen, and how much he had to sacrifice to get there. Camila was so animated during the speech, yelling affirmations and jumping up in support of the speaker. You couldn't help but notice her. But that wasn't the only reason I noticed her.

She was gorgeous. Just gorgeous. There's always this conflict as a liberal when you notice a woman like this. You want to see her passion, her dedication, her struggle. But I'm still a man. And I can only fight that voice that says, "Don't objectify! Don't stare!" so much. Camila was my type. The first thing you notice is how punk she looks: Bronze skin, arms adorned with tattoo sleeves, her dark hair in a short pixie-cut style with the shaved sides, and dressed in a somewhat revealing military punk style. It's a look I find both attractive and intimidating, as if I want to ask her out but am afraid she might just deck me for making a move. The perfect woman.

The night was ending, what little remnants of the provided barbecue being packed away for donation to the local homeless shelter. Some organization representatives lingered at tables with a sign-up sheet for volunteers or text/email updates. I spotted Camila at one, and bee-lined over to it. I wasn't even sure which organization it was. I just signed the sheet and acted really interested. I nervously said my line to her: "We have to all come together and do something!"

She gave a courtesy smile and nod, as though she could see right through me. Embarrassed, I shuffled away and out the door. Walking to my car, I heard a voice.

"So you're just going to spout some platitude and not do what you wanted?"

I spun around and there was Camila, arms crossed and giving a slightly warmer smile. "Uhh...and what was that?", I asked.

"Ask for my number, you pussy".

"Oh, no. I just wanted to you know...join the fight and -"

"Dude. I'm telling you to ask. You're cute, but I will just say 'fuck it' at some point".

===

She didn't have to tell me again. That was the start of what would become our relationship. I couldn't believe my luck. I was never anything special with girls, but there this incredible woman coming on to me.

That encounter set the tone for our relationship over the weeks to come after. I was basically your typical feckless TV sitcom boyfriend, and she took the reigns. I learned why she was so passionate listening to the speech that night. She was an illegal immigrant. She had been in the country since she was three years old. The US was basically all she knew, but she never had the means to pursue citizenship.

She survived however she could: Currently as a bartender at a dive bar called the Tipsy Mule. It was kind of a seedy place. She had countless stories of men harassing or trying to manhandle her, but her coworkers and the owner looked after her. They knew she couldn't afford any incident that brought attention to her.

Still, I worried. I'm a painfully average guy. I'm 5'9, 176 pounds. Not the smallest, but nothing remarkable either. Secretly, I also worry that I don't deserve Camila. I don't make much money. I'm no wizard in the sheets. And she's...she's incredible. The first time we made love, I was stunned. Under those clothes is a supremely toned body. She was emaciated, though. She had abs and she had curves that would make any woman jealous: An ass sculpted by exercise and a life of working on her feet, and very nice C-cup breasts. I didn't deserve this woman, but I hoped no one would tell her that.

===

I was doing some support work for a story on city politics one Friday. Editing isn't sexy, but it has to be done. I had my eyes on aiming for a job as a site writer myself. But I had to prove myself, still being fairly new. This means I worked late very often. I bent over backwards to get noticed, often to no avail.

Camila was getting frustrated by my decrease in availability. She thought I was trying to "define myself by my career" too much and had stopped participating in the activist scene. And there were other problems that really had me nervous. We had only recently become intimate, and there were some...compatibility issues. In her words, I make love like a Puritan. I didn't have the confidence to take control. I was still intimidated by her, honestly. How do I just change my whole mindset and let go of my insecurities?

I got home around 8 PM that night. Camila had the keys to my apartment and had made a habit of hanging around there when she wasn't working. I expected to walk in and see her on the couch reading up on the news on her computer. But she wasn't there. I instantly called her phone. No answer. She wasn't working that night, but maybe people at the Tipsy Mule knew something. I got in the car and took the short drive over.

The bartender that night, William, saw me walk in and it seemed like he instantly melted down towards the counter.

"What is it? You know something", I said.

"I'm sorry, man", he said.

"What? Tell me what happened!"

"Camila came in to get her paycheck. She seemed on edge already. But then this fucker grabbed her and tried to pull her in and kiss her. She backslapped him and clawed at his face."

I was startled. I said, "Oh my god. I'm glad she stood up for herself - "

"No man. You don't get it", William said. "He was a customs agent."

"Shit", I said. "Shit. Where is she?"

"He had a buddy with him. Another agent. The took her. Dude, I'm so sorry. I don't know what happens next."

===

I didn't know what to do. I felt helpless. Who do I call? Do I call law enforcement? They are agents, they are law enforcement. How are these things handled? Is there an appeals process? But he tried to force himself on her. Doesn't that matter?

I paced around my apartment uselessly. I had no answers, only worry. I collapsed on my couch and buried my head in my hands. I had no fucking clue what to do.

Hours passed. I was lost in worry. I'd pace more. I'd do research on the deportation process. I'd call the local police and then hang up after a ring or two. One time I got let it ring enough to get an answer. They asked what my concern was, but I could only respond, "I don't know." And I promptly hung up after.

Then at 4 AM, the door knocked. Still wired from my panicked state, I jumped up to answer. And there was Camila. And there were two very large men with her.

We embraced each other before we were interrupted. "We'll wait outside while you two talk," said one of the men. They shut the door and Camila and I were alone.

"I don't understand," I said.

"Jacob. I'm sorry," she said. "I fucked up. I'm so sorry."

"William told me what happened. It sounds like you just defended yourself," I responded.

"No. Not like that. I can't do that. I've been harassed like that so many times and this time I went too far and to the wrong people. Jacob...they're not deporting me."

"Oh my God," I exhaled, "that's fantastic!"

"I made...a deal, Jacob. I had no choice. I can't go to Guatemala. I don't even speak Spanish. I couldn't survive. I had to do this."

"I don't understand," I said. "What deal? What's happening, Cammy?"

"I have to do what they say. I need you to understand that. I have no choice."

"What is the deal, Camila?"

"It's not even that much of a change, if you think about it".

"Camila. What is the deal?"

"I...I'm going to be working at a different club," she said. "As a dancer."

My eyes grew as I began to understand, "Dancer? You mean..."

"A stripper, Jacob."

===

The Onyx Stallion had a reputation. It was very exclusive, for one. No one I knew had ever been there, and I had plenty of friends who frequented strip clubs. But the club was known for it's scandalous nature. I had edited a couple stories about it: Stories of high-power businessmen who were caught having cheated on their wives with dancers. It always seemed to blow back more on the patrons, leaving the club largely untouched.

So it worried me that Camila would be working there. But she had to. We had no leverage to fight back against the agents. We try, and they send her away. Simple as that. She was an investment to them now, which meant they could keep eyes on her to protect that investment.

Strangely, though, it wasn't so bad at the start. They started her on the day shift, which made her schedule align much more with my own. Wanting to be there for her, I stopped working late at my job so I could be home with Camila. Despite the increased time together, we weren't being intimate. She said she didn't feel comfortable with it, so unused to being objectified at her job all day. I was supportive. I was just happy she wasn't sent away.

Weeks went by, and she seemed to accept the situation. Initially after being forced into the job, she dressed more conservatively when not working. But soon, she was back to her old style: Very punk. Maybe even...a little more sexy? I saw it as her coming back to her old self. One night we were cuddling on the couch while watching a show. I got up to use the restroom. I returned to see her dancing. It was surprising. Not unwelcome, but surprising.

She caught me staring and said, "Sorry, Jake. I was thinking of a dance I wanted to practice."

"Oh," I replied. "I understand."

"Do you...want me to show you?" she asked. "Sit".

I sat, and she started slowly gyrating her hips while standing in front of me. She raised her arms up and held them together, then brought them down while shimmying closer...and closer. She brought her hands up to her breasts as they came near my face, and slowly removed her top. It was only a peek, though, as she turned around and then snuggled her ass against my lap.

"You can touch, bay-bee," she said. Was that an accent? She doesn't have an accent, I thought to myself. But I took her up on her offer, reaching my hands up to her breasts as she grinded her ass against my hardening cock. While I wasn't looking she had undone the tight cargo shorts she was wearing, and leaned up to pull them down along with her thong.

She turned and looked down at me, "Looks like you approve, Jakey."

She finished pulling down her panties and then laid next to me on the couch with her feet towards me. "I'm ready, Jake," she said while squirming seductively. "Make love to my pussy". I stood and hurriedly started pulling down my pants. I got them down and she said, "No, silly. Use your mouth. Show me you love me...bay-bee."

That accent again. Whatever, I wasn't going to deny her. Dutifully, I knelt on the couch to please her. She responded instantly. How long had it been since made love? A month? Longer? She closed her legs as if to hold me down, but I wasn't going anywhere. I had to do this. I wanted to do this. Despite not being touched at all, my cock remained hard. It was a respectable 6 inches long erect (I told you I'm an average guy, right?).

After not too long, Camila started bucking her hips gently to meet me. And then, she squirted. I'd never seen her do that.

"Ohhhhhhh, Jake!! Jake, bay-bee!" she moaned. Then she seemed to relax, offering exasperated 'Ahhs and ooohs'. She laid back and stared up, rubbing her pussy. She gathered the juices and then tasted her fingers while looking at me. "You did so well, Jacob. Thank you."

===

We'd never had an encounter like that one before, but it became more common. I had to ask her why she wanted to do it this way, rather than full intercourse. She confessed to me that she had started to get very turned on by how sexy she felt dancing and feeling men's gazes on her. She had built up sexual urges and needed release. But still, she said she was not yet ready for me to penetrate her.

I remained supportive. What choice did I have? This goddess - who I had no business being with, and who could have been taken from me forever - had chosen me. If being a good boyfriend right now meant eating her out and giving her pleasure, then I was still the luckiest man in the world.

I felt pride at how good I was at it. I was never a gifted lover, but I started to feel that maybe oral sex was my gift. When Camila would react to my tongue, my penis would react in turn. It was exciting to me. And I felt closer to her than ever.

===

And then, it all changed again. The agents showed up at our door again one day. They asked to come in and to speak with Camila alone. I went to my bedroom and listened to their quiet, muffled voices. Not making out anything, I could only wait. It seemed like a calm conversation.

Soon, the bedroom door opened and I found myself looking up at one of the agents. I was crouched in the position I was listening to them. I remember his smile as I looked up and he said, "Get up, boy. Camila has news for you."

They remained standing. The first time we had a conversation like this, they had left Camila alone to tell me. This time, it felt intrusive to have them present. But they had the power. Both physically, as they were both very large and also armed. But they also had the power to make Camila disappear. And that was the ultimate power, so I could not protest.

"Jakey," she said, "they're promoting me."

"Promoting?" I said as I glanced nervously at the agents, who continued their confident smiles. "What does a stripper promotion mean?"

"Don't say it like that, Jakey," Camila scolded, "I work hard."

"Uhh...yes. I mean, of course. I'm sorry," I apologized. I didn't really understand her offense. We didn't ask for this. This was being done to us.

"I'll be working nights now. Prime hours."

"We'll hardly be able to see each other," I reminded her.

"We'll have a couple hours a night, maybe," she said. "We don't have a choice, Jacob," she stated, her tone growing more forceful. "You have to be OK with this. Do you want me gone instead?"

I overheard one of the agents chuckle.

"No. Of course not. How could you ask me that?" I said.

"Good. We'll get through this. Now I need to talk to the men some more. Can you please go back to your room, Jakey?"

Now the agents both let out an overt laugh.

"Yes, Camila," I said.

===

Camila had been a good investment, it seems. And her success at her new work meant sacrifices in our relationship. I was getting used to the feeling of powerlessness. From hearing the news that Camila had been taken by the agents and not knowing what I could do, to having to accept she would have to be a stripper, to accepting and becoming comfortable with our new love life, and now this. I'd have to be find with being around her maybe two hours in a given day (if lucky).

With the new time slot, I was seeing her prepare for work more. Her clothes had become more revealing. Her punk aesthetic once seemed like a statement of her own values and activism. Now it seemed like a fetish for other men. I remembered the stories of The Onyx Stallion. I thought of the wealthy patrons who frequented the club. Their type wouldn't care about Camila's struggles. She really was just a fetish to them.

I saw some puzzling things seeing Camila prepare for work. She would speak to herself in the mirror. But she'd speak with an accent, like the one that would slip out when I was pleasing her. She was getting into a character. A barrio girl. It was part of her job, this practice. I tried to talk to her once while she was doing it, and she stopped me.

"Ain't got time for that, bay-bee. Mama's gettin ready ta make dat muh-nee."

And she did make money. Despite the cut from the club and the agents, it seemed she brought home enough to buy more clothes and healthy food for herself (not for me, though. "Gotta keep my body in top shape if I'm gonna keep up," she said). She got more jewelry and piercings. At some point, the clothes and jewelry leveled off. She said she wanted to save for some life upgrades. Moving to an actual house rather than a shabby apartment would be really nice, I thought.

Our already strained love life also took a hit. I resigned myself to masturbating habitually, mostly. But on occasion, she would take a few moments before preparing for work to have me go down on her. It was rougher now, though. I chalked it up to the limited time we had together. But she'd grind her face into me harder, often time holding my head down while swearing constantly. I'll take what I can get, I thought. It didn't excite my dick any less. If anything, I'd have to masturbate as soon as I got her off. I'd some times catch her smiling at me while I jacked off furiously and she was brushing her teeth or doing other preparations. I took it as approval and got more excited.

Camila didn't feel safe walking home from work at such a late hour. One of the agents, Eric, would often give her rides home. I guess he was the one keeping tabs on her at that time of the day. If he wasn't available for whatever reason, I'd get a call and I'd have to park outside the club and wait for her to come out. She was often insatiable when leaving work. She'd demand me go down on her while parked in the car outside the apartment, sometimes even still outside the club. It felt good to be needed.

===

The new lifestyle was disruptive to me. I got less sleep. And it showed at work. Copy editors are a-dime-a-dozen, and missing things will make you vulnerable. I had missed too many things and made too many mistakes. They didn't want to throw me out on my ass, though. They offered my a janitor job. It was a little humiliating to have to take such a demotion after I had originally been making strides towards a promotion. But there was a positive, the later hours for a janitor would let me see Camila more.

I told Camila the news. I was not expecting her response. The demotion was a result me taking care of her and trying to make the most of every moment we had together. I was sleeping 4 hours a night and it took a toll on my ability to do my job, and the demotion followed. But when I told Camila, she laughed.

She laughed.

"I sorry, bay-bee. It's just. You gon' be cleanin up the shitter?' she jested. The accent was getting more and more prevalent over time.

"We get to spend more time together like this", I offered.

"Yeah, you gon' be my ride home now. Eric say he was gettin' tired of it anyway," she replied.

Wait. Agent Eric wasn't there to monitor her?

"I need that tongue, Jakey! Go down on mama!" Camila commanded and laid back on the sofa spreading her legs.