My Oh My

Her quick fingers flicked the rouge brush over her cheekbones for that red blush that transformed her into a cute and animated mamacita. The warm Cuban breeze carried the sound of the songbirds and a caress to her forearms that made her silken hairs stand up in little goosebumps. Her young hairs were so thin because of her age that she didn't feel the need to shave yet. Only someone very close could see them. Her fingers hurried to prime her eyes with concealer, layer on dark eyeshadow, and dab baby blue highlights for smokey eyes. With a quick succession of flicks, swipes, and dips, she transformed herself from a bland, simple, pale girl into a hot mamacita with all the eye-catching signs of a hot mamacita.

When her red, skinny strap heels, that deeply arched her foot upward, pranced down the stairs, she had the rush of excitement carrying her forward. She was going to look so good tonight! Her momma was sitting in the chair next to the door to give her an eye over. That lovely momma that had cared for her with love for twenty years, wiped the snot out of her nose in the crib and faced an adult woman now.

"Marciela, the skirt is too short! You'll draw the cockroaches out of their holes!" her mom complained.

"Oh mama, I won't be late. The sun is so hot!" retorted Marciela with a sweet smile, caressing her mama's face with both hands. Her mama couldn't hold stern with the gentle touch on her.

"But promise me to watch out for that mal hombre. You leave before he comes. I've heard many bad things about him!" said mama with deep worries in her eyes.

"Of course, I'll go for a light salsa dance with my girl friends. I will stay away from the absuadores," she assured her mama, giving her a smooch on her forehead.

"When you wear makeup and dress like that, you are so pretty. I love you so much! But you also tempt all the men in the street. There is only so much control an animal has," worried her mama, holding onto her hands to keep her from going out of the door.

"Mama, you can trust me. I've held all of the men at bay at college, not even a little kiss have they taken of your daughter," she hugged her mama's head against her chest to calm the old woman down from her fear of what might happen to her daughter.

Then, she slipped out of the door and bounced from garden stone to garden stone in the grass to the shed, where her priced Schwinn bicycle was resting. From the '60s, the frame had a big curve with the letters Schwinn made of little metal pieces that stood in streamline to the direction of travel. The handlebar was curved as well with oversized grips to give it an elegant flair of a giant cruiser. Everything was big and bombastic about the bicycle. She had to stand up on the pedal to make it start moving. Pom-pom-pom - each step was a full-body extortion for her little body and the impractical high heels that made her look very elegant as she pulled off the struggle. And then the massive thing was set in motion and the momentum would keep it going.

The rush of the wind in her face and on her body made her feel like she was in a different world. The airstream tussled with the hem of her dress and the sleeves. The little mamacita sat towering on the elephant of a bicycle as she shot through the residential streets, shooting through every stop sign because she couldn't stop and placidly letting herself be admired by gardeners with lawnmowers and old men with Havana hats sipping tea on their veranda. Her olive skin bare legs were pumping while her face leaned into rushing air with the abandon of a child. A little Cuban flag fluttered on top of her front light.

She jumped the front tire onto the pale granite sidewalk plaza in front of the cathedral. The flock of pigeons went flying into the air. She swung her right leg over the center bar to avoid exposing anyone with her skirt. With her whole one hundred pound body weight, she was standing on the left pedal to push it back and down. The back break slowly mellowed out the speed of the heavy bike. She jumped down with ease and hopped the last momentum off in her high heels. What a sleek maneuver!

The wide stairs took her up to the dark, heavy, wooden double door of the cathedral. She had to push hard as the door weighed thrice her weight. When it only opened a slit, she slipped through it into the darkness of the cathedral. Cold air hung motionlessly in silence. The cavernous and respectful world of the cathedral embraced her. Her eyes still used to the sun-flooded streets of Havana could barely make out the church pews, the lightly flickering candles at the altar, and the small colorful glass stained windows high up. She slipped up the side of the empty cathedral, every step making a clear sound across the whole space. The high heel sound announced that she was a woman, light, with a sexy, energetic step.

With familiarity and no need to see, she slipped into the confession booth and felt that familiar soft red velvet upholstery against her thighs. The fabric of the curtain that she pulled back was familiar since childhood - a little smoother on the outside, a little rougher on the inside. She listened for the click of the slide behind the screen to the priest's opening. Her whole life, that click had meant that there was no more turning back. She had to confess. The embarrassment spread from her neck bones through her skeleton.

"Bless me father, for I will sin tonight," Marciela said, touching herself the cross-way.

"What will be your sin, Marciela?" asked the priest.

"I will commit adultery, father," replied Marciela.

"Will it be light or heavy adultery?" asked the priest.

"Oh, it will only be a very light thing, but very heavy," she replied.

The priest paused in frustration to gather his calm tone back. "In the commission of your sin, will you be committing any additional sins?"

"I'll kiss him," she said. "I'll kiss him very passionately," she added gushing. "I'll let him touch me all over and everywhere," she babbled with excitement. "I'll go down on him until he is hard. And then I'll have him take me in the pussy. I don't think I'll let him put it in my butt. But if I did, how much extra contrition would that be?"

"If he puts it in your butt, it's not technically sex. There is no extra for that. Pray Corinthians 6:18 fifty times. Your future sins will be forgiven," finished the priest and closed the little door behind the screen.

She left the confession booth and walked to the front of the church. Her eyes had adjusted to the half-darkness. She was watching the light curtains drawn by the rays of the few high-up windows hanging across the space. The dark, cavernous, stony building felt like another world. She kneeled down in front of a statue of Mary Magdalen in a green dress, holding her hand up in religious contortion. She kneeled. Her bare knees dug into the green cushion that had been worn down to the point of barely padding the wood board underneath it.

"Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body."

She whispered the words with religious fervor while clutching her hands across her chest. Her eyes pushed closed and wrinkled because she pushed so hard on them. The words made images rise on the screen of her closed eyes. She could feel the immoral sexuality in her body. At night, when she was naked, she could sometimes feel her sexual immorality crawling underneath her skin like a thousand beetles.

"Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body."

The wisdom of the words was so true. The sexual immorality wasn't something that she simply did, but it was in her. She was soaked by it. Her whole flesh yearned and drove her to sexual morality. She spoke the words firmer, imploring the sexual immorality to leave her, but the pictures of indulging in the flesh how she imagined it tonight were only growing more vivid.

"Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body."

Harder, she intoned the words to urge herself to give up her sexual immorality. But her fantasy images of him holding her, skin against skin, made her struggle to repent melt away. And then there were only a few more repetitions left. With those done, it would be all alright to have this wonderful night. And the last repetition rang out over her lips, "I will sin against my own body tonight." She felt breathlessly excited.

Back out on the plaza, she picked up her Schwinn. She gave it a little running start. She had to pedal standing until things went into the swing. The street along the beach led her from the old town center of the cathedral uphill to the swanky rich part. The throng of classic cars became thicker. The dresses and sunglasses on people were more expensive. There were more restaurants, cafes, and bars. Loudly speaking and waving people drank cocktails in outdoor lounges. She caused less of an attraction because there were so many stylish people. She was only a poor girl, pushing her way on an old bicycle. The noise grew dense.

She had to do her crazy both feet on one pedal backstop because the sidewalk and street became too full of people. There was life everywhere. There was a saxophone playing. There was a red dress fluttering in the wind. A big-mouthed Cuban man with dark glasses leaned back laughing heartily. A little, scrawny dog ran to snap up a french fry that fell off a plate. A checkered taxi in a 60's chevy honked while the driver yelled.

Only a couple steps inside the old Spanish pavilion, she was yet in another world. Everything was blocky about the four centuries-old Spanish pavilion. The whole building was a square. The floor was made of giant squares. The walls were made from big stone blocks. The building had a big central square that was open with only pillars instead of walls framing it. Luscious palm trees and jungle plants were in big planters everywhere. Elegant white tablecloths were on all the tables. Everyone wore upscale suits and dresses. A woman with all the makeup in the world on her face, the world's treasure as rings on her fingers, and an attitude like the queen of queens sat behind the table with the white table cloth going all the way to the floor on the entrance. A folded over sign in elegant old world handwriting spelled out the price of admission. Merciela handed over a hundred Cuban pesos. The woman stamped her wrist with the outline of a bolero dancer, flaring her dress.

An elegant man in a white suit with a black collar had a carefully manicured thin mustache and highlighted the big gold ring on his finger by placing his hand on the counter behind him. The other hand was holding a heavy-bottomed drink glass to his lips. His fabric was very, very smooth, and his eyes those of a weasel.

The man next to him was ten years younger, looked like a guy behind the counter of a store, dressed up in the nicest shirt, which was still only coarse black cotton. His face looked smutty and nervous with ruby cheeks from eating too much rice. He stood with his hands square on his hips trying to look certain but had the pelvis pushed forward like he felt awkward from standing.

She walked past those men and others as they seized her up walking by. She knew that their minds were rating her how hot they thought she was and deciding if they should ask her for a dance or not. She knew that their gazes were dancing over her body like a swarm of sharpshooter green laser points. They crawled up her bare legs. They evaluated her hindsight, visible in the hugging dress. They would check her cleavage and breast size. And last but not least, they'd decide based on her face if she was friendly, a hoe, or a bitch.

She hurried past the gauntlet, trying to cover her discomforting fear. Past the bar counter and chairs and across the dancefloor, she found her friends and safety in the group of women. Liliana was six feet tall in a body-hugging, white stretch dress that was so snuck that every little shape on her body, including her navel button showed. She evidently wore no underwear except for two circles to cover the shape of her nipples. The dress went down to her knees. Women were jealous of her height. Many men were intimidated by her height. She was the leader of her group and decided which men were desirable to dance with and which weren't.

Novia had the darkest skin among their group and the most voluptuous butt and breasts. She wore a shiny green dress with lots of color depth to complement the deep brown chocolate complexion of her skin. Her hair was braided like a crown around the side of her head and flowed into a tail. She was always the first to jump to action and pointed at a man with torn jeans and a designer sports jacket walking into the dancehall. "That's Bembe! I hear he just came back from Miami. His parents are so rich and well connected! I want him to dance with me!" With that, she lifted her breasts higher in her dress to show more of her cleavage. She smoothed the fabric across her round butt cheeks to make them look their best.

The orchestra director tapped the music sheet holder with the baton. The crisp sound called everyone to attention. The trumpet blew a solo for eight notes. Then the congo joined in with a driving beat that made once feet want to dance. After another eight notes, the whole ten-person orchestra was jamming in that wild ring-a-ton of salsa music inviting dancers to the dancefloor.

The guy with the black shirt who looked like a counter person was the first to appear. He held his hand out to Liliana and asked: "¿Te gustaría bailar?" Liliana made an unhappy grimace for a split second before covering her feelings up. "I'm on my way to the restroom." Then she walked away. The guy turned around, walked back to the bar, and ordered another rum'n'coke to drown his defeat.

Novia turned to Marciela to whisper: "Last week, that guy asked Liliana to dance. She tried to politely tell him no, but he stared into her eyes and told her he could feel her desire for him burning. She blushed so hard. For a moment, I thought she really was secretly attracted to him. She couldn't talk. She waved him away, but his face had this warmth that even I could feel the heat in my body rising. Then he simply grabbed her hand and pulled her to the dancefloor. She was trying to push him away, but he held her in so tender that she melted onto his chest. They kept the whole dance like that. Her cheek on his cheek, all snugly. I saw her crying soft tears, like it felt so good to be in his arms. They were tears of pure happiness. When the song ended, she pushed him away and ran back. 'He's dangerous,' she told me."

"Which guy?" asked Marciela.

"You know the guy who comes only after midnight. He doesn't follow any rules. He wears a black leather jacket," explained Novia.

"Oh, that guy!" exclaimed Marciela, trying to hide that she paid attention to him.

"Every night, he takes another girl home. Or sometimes, I see him having sex behind the trees or in a doorway on my way home. You better stay away from him," warned Novia.

Marciela felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned around, a gray-haired man in a beige suit with a golden ribbon asked her to dance. He was a little on the round side, but the tailoring of the dress pants and suit hid it well. He had fast steps. His hand rose high whenever he made her spin so that she had to get to the tip of her toes. He liked making her spin fast like a ballerina. And when he did a bow to open up the space for her to do a cross-body-lead, his gaze climbed down her whole body from the eyes, to the boobs, to the belly, to the hips, to the legs, to the knees, and down to the shoes. His hand kept wandering from her shoulder blade to her butt cheeks. She had to keep positioning his hand higher. He said "perdone" each time with a warm smile.

She thanked him after the song. Right as she turned, she felt the next hand touching her hand. She looked up and into the eyes of one of the salsa sharks. The salsa sharks were the guys who were really good and danced every night. They often waited for a girl to dance to decide if they liked dancing with her. The old factory owner had sufficiently shown off Marciela's moves to gain his interest. The salsa shark wore a bandana and a black shirt with gold insignia. His face was already sweat-covered. The eyes were big and black. The forehead was somewhat heavy. The lips were somewhat stoic, like he wasn't even present. The eyes had a waiting glint, like any moment, he could jump to action, but for now, he was like a lethargic lion in the midday sun after a full meal.

Right away, he spun her into an outside, double turn. When she almost tripped, he caught her with his arms behind her back and laid her into a deep dip, so that her hair touched the floor. The next moment, she was spinning again and landed in his right armpit from where she was catapulted forward. Her arms were crossed in front of her body. He pulled back on them. Her arms tightened across her front body a seatbelt in a car crash. Flying backwards, he somehow lifted her up from the small of her back. She somersaulted into the air. Her legs shot towards the ceiling. For a split moment, she felt herself exactly upside down. The entire room looked strange upside down. She landed again on her feet.

Like that, the salsa shark constantly swirled her from one move to the next. She felt her arms guided to comb her hair. She felt her arms guided to reach out. And in the fastness of all, she could feel the flicks of his hand where they should go. He'd caress her butt for just a syncopation. He grabbed her boobs from behind for only a quick brush. He'd come up behind her and brush his hands in a pattern all across her body. She couldn't tell where she was with the quick movements. She couldn't tell what he was doing with her body. All she knew was that she was in a flurry of wild movement. She tried to look the best she could. She had seen elegant dancers make this look amazing and clueless beginners look scared and terrified. She tried to smile her best smile even though she didn't know when and where his molesting hand would strike next.

Thus the night had begun. There was hope of being asked to dance by the hot guys. There was dread of having to survive a dance with the rough beginners who pushed her around roughly. Liliana rescued Marciela once from an old, slimy man by pretending that Liliana had already asked for the dance. Being led by Liliana felt a safe place. The figures were simple. The hands were respectfully on the shoulder blade. The effect of the two women dancing together was that the crowd of standing guys drew closer to them.

When the next song started, Bembe was standing next to them, ready to ask Liliana for a dance before any of the other waiting guys could beat him. Liliana tried to put her best charm on Bembe. She caressed his face during the dance. She smiled extra big at him. When he wrapped her into a temporary embrace, she snuggled extra close to him and rested her cheek against his.

For Marciela, a middle-aged man with a checkered handkerchief around his neck was waiting to ask her to dance. He had half his head shaven. The other one was styled into a wave with a coarse texture. He was too old to be a punk. With his face having unusually deep furrows that seemed to come from lots of deep facial expressions, he seemed like an artist, who had been engaged in emotional and expressive work his whole life. From the first moment when he took her hand, she could sense that the man had an extreme precision with his grip, like he exactly meant to give her a 3.57 pound pressure. He seemed like his whole life, he had honed his tactile ability. With the first beat they danced, she knew that the man didn't go on auto-pilot, 1-2-3... He felt exactly the weight of the congo. He felt how the next horn was a little earlier and held, and he held her step for that exact extra moment back. And then when the singer belt out "porque," she could feel an explosion of impulse directed towards her solar plexus to be blown away by the words. Under his lead, she submerged into the music, the ecstasy of the drums and melancholy of the singer, letting her body drift to the words and express them with the utmost detail and precision.