Just a Little Holiday, She Said

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After I take in the dishes, I go out one more time to ask if they want anything else. The women are draped on the chaise-lounges; the men are brushing their hair, oiling them. God, one man is raking his knuckles slowly across the redhead's nipple. She's purring, for fuck's sake.

The blonde-haired woman rises with a motion just like a great cat, shakes her hair out a little, and then walks over to me and says, "No; muchas gracias, Señora. Everything was quite lovely and we're completely satiated."

She pauses. "But please, the restaurant looks very quiet, and it's early for you to be working in this heat. Please do sit with us awhile and relax." She holds her hand out in invitation.

Now normally I wouldn't, but she's right. There's no one else here, my prep work is nearly done, and truly, I wouldn't mind a break. But mostly, these people are somehow just too intriguing to walk away from.

"Thanks."

The blond man is already behind me with a chair. Still holding my hand, the woman guides me to the chair and gracefully sits me down. My God, she is stunning.

"It's hot, yes."

The blond man stands behind my chair; I turn my head to look at him. He has a hairbrush in his hand. His dong has filled out quite a bit.

Quietly, he raises the brush a little. "If you like, Señora."

I do a little start, pause, then nod. Hell, why not? I lean forward so he can retrieve my hair from between me and the chair. He does this so gently I hardly feel anything.

He removes the clasp and hands it to me silently. He gently collects the hair at my temples and brushes it back above my ears. He moves to my forehead, brushing back, then brushes up from the nape of my neck. He collects my hair in one hand and works out the tangles. The man does seem to know his job; he works quietly, carefully. I feel my shoulders start to relax a little -- I don't often get this sort of treatment. I close my eyes and lean back.

He's finished now, it seems. His hands are at my shoulders, tossing my hair gently, fanning it out over them. I sigh.

The blonde woman opens her eyes and looks over at me. "Would you like some oil?"

Goddamn.

I mumble something; the blond man rises silently, fetches the oil bottle, and returns. He lays my head back gently, then begins with my forehead, moving on to my eyebrows and temples. After oiling his hands again, he massages my cheekbones, my jawline. I feel the tension draining away. I also feel my nipples rising under my blouse.

He's starting in on my neck when the blonde woman says, "If you're hot, you could open your blouse a little."

She's right. I unbutton my blouse right down to the waist and fan myself with the tails, dropping them to my sides.

I start to consider what a customer coming into the cantina might think of all this. We're way out on the sand, though, and I'm facing the sea. I also have a feeling that a single calm look from either of these women would silence any question.

There's a strange, quiet power here. It's a sexual power, partly. But it's also supreme confidence and really just sheer moxie too. I don't think these men were so attentive before they met these women. The women never raise their voices; hell, they hardly talk at all, but the men just seem to know where to be and what to do. And they do it willingly, gladly, even cheerfully.

The blond man behind me is oiling my neck. As he moves a little lower, I arch my back a little and my breasts rise. He takes the hint and moves there. They're large, but he manages, starting on the sides, then underneath, then between. As he moves to oil my nipples, I start to feel a definite tingling and dampness between my legs. A purr rises in my throat, now.

The red-haired woman sits up, swirls her hair behind her, stretches, yawns. God, with that auburn hair, that animal grace, she's... she's... She's a tiger is what she is. A goddamn tiger-goddess.

She speaks: "We've been watching you all morning; we think you may be one of us. You could join us, if you like."

I'm taken aback. Who are "they", and what would it mean to join them?

But then I think about this lousy little cantina and my crummy little flat. I look at these women, with their stunning, confident presence, watching me calmly. I look at the men around me also, watching me quietly, respectfully, but hungrily too. I think they agree, though nobody's asked them, I'd guess.

Then I think of my mother, the world's strongest woman from the things she went through. She used to tell me that sometimes your best move is to just take the chance. Does the world look better on the other side? Then leap already.

The tiger-woman rises gracefully, walks over, extends a hand. I take it and rise also. She releases my hand and looks long into my eyes. I breathe deeply and shake my hair out. I look at her quietly, then I shrug my shoulders and let my blouse fall to the sand.

As I bring my hands to my hips, I say, "I guess I won't need these, either."

"No, you won't," she says.

I slide my shorts down over my hips; they drop to the sand. The breeze is cool between my legs; it whispers over my nipples.

Tiger-goddess smiles. She raises her hand, caresses the side of my breast.

"Welcome, sister," she says.

.

I feel hands on my hips. I turn my head and see the blond man.

Tiger-woman, still standing quietly in front of me, says, "That's Sven."

I turn to face Sven. He stands there quietly, studying me. His hands are still on my hips. Something lightly grazes my belly. I look down and start to reach for it, but stop.

"Sven?"

"Sí, Señora?"

"Kneel, Sven."

"Sí, Señora," he says with a quiet smile. His hands slide slowly behind my buttocks and down the back of my legs as he kneels before me. He starts to stroke between my calves.

.

I'm standing on my right leg now; the other is over Sven's shoulder. There's something sloppy wet and really distracting, really amazing, going on between my legs. I gasp once, and then again. The curly-haired man stands beside me, nuzzling my neck, kneading my bottom, rolling a nipple between his thumb and fingers.

"I'm Carlos," he says.

I'm feeling really warm. The sun is invading my head.

I feel someone else behind me, tracing the space between my buttocks with a fingertip.

"That's Manuel," says Carlos.

I'm facing toward the kitchen; I see the cook standing there with his mouth half-open, his spatula dangling from one hand. Even from this distance, I can see something growing in his shorts.

Hmmm -- one of the other tables is occupied now; a middle-aged couple, but they seem very, very quiet. They just watch intently. The man kneads the woman's knee, below her skirt. He shifts and puts his arm around her; she nestles in, her hand sliding up his chest beneath his shirt.

I feel a touch between my cheeks. It's probing for the little nub there. It finds it. Suddenly I expand and the sun rushes in and fills me.

.

I'm lying on my back now; legs apart a little, leaning against Manuel. He's collecting stray hairs and stroking my face. Carlos kneels beside me, caressing a nipple, licking something sticky from my tummy.

I look over at my blond-haired lioness mate and say, "The cook is a good man; I think you might like him." She smiles, stands, and turns to face the kitchen, legs slightly apart. She puts her hands to her neck, fans out her mane behind her, then beckons to him. He drops the spatula and stumbles toward her.

He stops in front of her, not breathing. She kneels, unties his shoes, removes them gently, sets them aside. She strokes his inner legs, up to his thighs. He gasps, looks down amazed, then his eyes close.

She stands, removes his apron, lifts off his shirt and pulls down his shorts. She looks down; it's clear he's happy to see her.

.

Sven kneels before me between my legs, watching me with his quiet half-smile. I look a little lower; he's really happy to see me too.

"Come, Sven; kiss me," I say, with a little wave of my hand. I raise my knees, arch my back and lie back in the warm sand with my hair all around me, a jaguar-goddess.

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The man at the table has pushed his chair back; I can see his shorts on the sand beside him. The woman is kneeling in the chair facing him, her blouse open and tossing in the breeze. Her skirt is up around her waist. She arches her back and shakes her hair out. She gasps; he groans.

.

Sven's head is lying on my chest, his arms up along my sides. I stroke his hair. Off to my right, I hear a rising sound. The cook is kneeling before the lion-goddess, reaching between her legs to stroke between her cheeks with his hand. His face is tipped back between her legs, rocking, rocking.

The sound rises, falls a little, then rises again to an animal scream. I'm sure you can hear it far, far away.

.

The cook still kneels, but now he's bent over forward with his head touching the sand, panting. The lioness stands beside him, stroking his back gently. She turns her head and looks out to sea.

The tigress rises in her amazing animal way, then stretches, yawns, and purrs. She shakes her head; her mane flares out behind her. Her skin shines in the sun.

She walks over to the cook, takes him by the hand and lifts him to his feet. He's still hard as a rock. "Come, José," she says.

"José?"

She looks at him quietly for a moment; she reaches out to stroke his hip with her fingertips. "José," she repeats quietly.

He stares at her, losing himself in her eyes. "José," he says softly, rolling the name on his tongue, as if trying out the taste. Then he stands a little straighter; his shoulders square a little. "José," he says again, quietly.

"Let's swim," she says, turning toward the water, his hand still in hers, but now stretched across in front of the two of them. She reaches behind him with the other hand and traces lightly between his cheeks, then up his spine. He shivers visibly.

"Yes, let's swim," I say, catching my other sister's eye. I rise and shake my head, splaying out my mane. The men stand too, and we all follow an auburn tiger-goddess and our new acolyte down to the sea for his baptism.

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II.

"I could use a break."

My lioness sister and I are swimming along the coast, while our jaguar sister and the men walk along the beach. The water is warm and quiet, even silky, but we're quite far out, and we've been in the water a long time.

"Me too," she says. "How about those fishing boats over there?"

Two small fishing boats lie a little way off. Each has several poles out and a fisherman napping under his straw hat. My sister heads for the nearest boat; I swim to the other.

I tread water beside the boat; it's a small sailing canoe with a crooked mast. From where I am, low in the water, I can't see inside. I tap on the hull; the fisherman's head pops up. His eyes go very wide.

"Can I come aboard to rest awhile?"

"Uh -- Uh." He stammers wordlessly. I imagine he's surprised to see a swimmer out this far.

"Sí. Sí -- come aboard." I grab the gunwale; he leans far back to balance, at the same time extending a hand to help me climb aboard. It's really awkward; the boat rocks violently; I tumble in and fall in a confused wet heap, laughing.

"Gracias, Señor. Gracias," I say, catching my breath. I sit up and try to sort myself out. It's a small boat, so we're quite close. He kneels; I settle with my legs tucked beneath me.

He just stares at me, silent, amazed.

"Sirena," he whispers, awestruck.

Sirena? Oh -- Mermaid. Suddenly, I see why he might think that. I'm naked, of course, all tangled up in my long hair. I'm sure he's thinking, "What the hell have I caught today?"

I reach out and touch his knee. He jumps a little.

"No, just a woman out swimming," I say, as if a naked woman swimming miles from shore was an everyday occurrence. I massage his kneecap with my fingertips to calm him. My nakedness and the touch are having a different effect, though. I can see a bulge growing in his shorts.

I hold my hand motionless on his thigh and look into his eyes. He's breathing very shallowly.

"Please don't take me, Doña Sirena," he whispers. "I have a wife and two little ones who depend on me."

Sirena. Mermaid, but also Siren. A Siren whose unbearably sweet song lures sailors to their doom.

We sit quietly while I ponder this. Is that what we are? Sirens calling men to their doom?

I look over at the other boat. They're too far away to hear voices, but I can clearly see my golden-haired sister reach down and open the fisherman's shorts. He's fondling her breast. They'll clearly be busy for a while.

I look closer at the man in front of me. Strong arms from rowing and pulling lines, he's burnt brown by the sun. He looks to be nearing middle age, with a kind face. A strong man, brought low by fear -- fear of me.

Time to decide.

"What is your name, Señor?" I ask.

"Mi nombre es Felipe," he says, quietly.

"Do not fear, Señor Felipe. Let me rest awhile, and I will leave you. Remember me though, and go home and make your wife happy tonight."

He breathes a little sigh; I see his shoulders relax a little.

I start trying to untangle my hair. I look at him, smile, and gesture. He reaches over and tentatively begins helping me with my hair. We work at it together for a while until it's straighter.

When I can finally sweep my hair behind me, I lean a little closer, and take his hand in both of mine. I look at it closely; I knead the callouses with my thumbs. It's a beautiful, strong hand; skin rough with much toil. I raise it to my lips and kiss it, then bring it to my breast. He gasps.

"Have no fear, Felipe," I say, smiling.

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* * *

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There's a man in my kitchen.

I stop for a moment, and watch him from behind as he dices onions, grates cheese, and cores peppers. A salsa simmers on the stove; we're making chiles rellenos.

He works quickly, smoothly, with a sure, deft touch. He's clearly spent many years in kitchens. I stand and admire him as he works.

Yes, there's a man in my kitchen -- a naked man, at that.

There's more to admire than just his kitchen skills. He's tall and lean, with straight, glossy black hair to his shoulders. His skin is dark from the sun.

Having him here brings back memories. It's a long time ago now, many years, since my Andres left me. Just like every morning, he went out fishing very early, but then one day his boat came home alone. It's been a quiet life here, without him.

I look past the man's shoulder, out the window. Past the shade of the yard, past the low garden wall is the beach, and beyond is the bright sea.

I look at the man again. He's so handsome, no, so beautiful, that I can't resist touching him. I run my hand down his back to rest on his powerful, taut cheek. I can't help myself; I have to give it a little squeeze, too. He turns to me with a quiet smile, then turns back and goes on working. He doesn't try to hide the effect my touch has on him, though.

"Careful with that knife, now, José," I say, with a smile. "We already have plenty of minced meat for the peppers."

He looks at me levelly, then suddenly flicks his wrist, sending the knife spinning and twisting up toward the ceiling, flipping end over end. The knife falls, and without breaking my gaze, he catches it by the handle.

"Sí, Señora." He smiles crookedly. He shakes the hair from his eyes, turns away, and goes on chopping, a smirk on his face.

I turn my head and look out the window to my left, to my vegetable garden. It's a riot of tomatoes, beans, peppers, eggplant, squash. Four men work there, all naked as well. One turns the compost pile in the corner of the yard; two are on hands and knees in the rows, weeding. The fourth I see over at the far wall with a trowel in his hand; he's patching broken stucco. My garden has never looked this good.

But under the trees, out toward the beach, are my three true guests, resting in the shade.

What can I say about them? Where would I start?

They are stunningly beautiful young women, but they are more. They're different; they seem to know something, something that I think I always longed to know, or maybe did know, myself. But I feel they're teaching it to me, somehow, slowly.

They lie naked on the sandy grass, completely at ease, talking quietly. Watching them, I sense a powerful, quiet confidence and grace.

But strange, strangest of all, is that I'm naked too. How on earth has it come to this?

I turn to the counter and start rolling out tortillas. José smiles at me again. I fry the tortillas quickly, one by one.

.

I sit with my three guests under the trees behind the house, the fresh sea breeze caressing my bare skin. It's a delicious feeling; how is it I never did this before?

It's midday, siesta time, but we're talking quietly, not sleeping.

The guest I've come to think of as a tigress says, "We've been living off the kindness of strangers. I'm always amazed -- old women come out as we pass by; they offer us mangoes, papayas, tortillas, boiled eggs."

"One even said, 'Bless you' to me," remarks another woman, the lioness.

"And you've taken us all in for days, now," says the dark-haired woman, the jaguar. "We've eaten your garden down to stumps."

"We women talk among ourselves, in the market, across the back fence," I say. "A few months ago, my friend east of town told us of you, how you had come to stay with her, how you ranged the countryside, how you were becoming confident, stronger, bold, even a bit wild. Then you disappeared suddenly, and she asked us to watch out for you. She thought you might be on an adventure."

All three chuckle. "Yes, you could call it that," says the tigress.

"Word has quietly gone around among the women that you're doing something new; something different, maybe even something important," I say. "The little bit we can see of it, we like very much. You can count on us."

We all sit quietly for a while, lost in thought.

The lioness speaks up: "But if we want to go on with this, we should learn to feed ourselves."

"My Andres often said that there's no excuse for a fisherman to go hungry on this coast. He's gone now, but his boat is still in the shed, and most of his gear is there too. It's yours if you want it."

"Pedro, the man who just joined us, is a fisherman," says the lioness. "He brought his boat with him. With two boats, we could all travel together."

"I think you need some privacy, too," I say. "There's a very quiet, very beautiful cove east of here, far past the end of the road, where Andres took me when we were young lovers. It might be just the place for you."

.

"Will you not come with us, sister?" asks the lioness.

The men have caulked Andres' boat, and sorted out and loaded his gear. Pedro's boat is ready, too. Both boats are stuffed with as much of my garden produce as will keep long enough to eat. The men have carried the boats across the sand to the water, and they wait there, ready.

I stand at the beach wall with my three friends, my goddess sisters, as they prepare to depart.

"No, I think not. I have a comfortable life here, and I'm not as young as you. Do visit me again as you pass by, though."

"We will," they all answer.

"And bring your lovely young men too," I say.

We all throw our heads back and laugh.

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III.

I stand on the cliff with my leopard sister; the sun warms our backs. We stand hand in hand, feet apart, the early-morning land breeze blowing our hair out before us. We look down on our lovely cove, still partly in shade. We're breathing a bit from our morning climb.