The Weekend Pt. 02

This story is part of the Letters of Love 2022 Story Event. It is a sequel to my story "The Weekend", written by the girlfriend of the male character who narrates the original story. I admit this is a long letter, covering a span of over a decade- as you'll learn this couple have known each other for some time. If you want you may read this story first and then read 'The Weekend', or vice versa, since each story stands alone as differing perspectives on the same chronology of events. Again, it's lengthy, but please enjoy.

To my dear Vato,

I've written to you so many times before. Letter after letter, unsure if you'd read it or even receive at whatever far off place you were stationed at. But this will be the last letter.

I'm writing this if only to make you believe the words you've already said. The words you finally admitted. I read your story, and while I never thought you were incapable of being sentimental, it definitely surprised me. The history between us feels like it stretches on for miles, and although we've finally closed the gap- I feel it's worth repeating the stories you already know. The memories you cherish just as deeply as I do. I want you to hear my words, and I want you to truly believe them. I want you to understand what you mean to me, how you affect me, but most of all, I want you to know how much I love you. Because after last weekend, there is no turning back. No more refusal or denial. We are in this until the casket is laid to rest. You are mine, and I am yours. Tú eres mi corazón.

I knew you were home that Friday night. I could see the dim light glowing from behind your blinds that you never open. Your car was parked in its usual spot, backed in so that it's facing out towards the parking lot. The way you always park your precious girl. It's the one thing you still have that hasn't been lost yet, something beautiful and perfect, unlike us.

I was a little nervous, always worried if you'd send me away. Because of him. And I don't know why I haven't told you the truth yet, why I kept up our old charade. I was scared if you knew the truth, you'd get scared. You'll hide from me again. The charade keeps us in within limits, it keeps the view of us to this little space that you're comfortable with. And I wasn't ready to give that up yet, even if it made us feel so guilty. And yet so good.

You looked a little sleepy when you answered the door, the wavy strands of your brown hair were curling up in a few places, the natural curls that are adorable when you let me mess with your hair. Our eyes meet and you sigh deeply, an exaggeration that I've annoyed you with my unexpected appearance. Which I don't believe for a second when I could already see the way your eyes look me over. I knew you still wanted this. I know you still want me. And I know this by the way my body aches the moment I'm close to you, and that ridiculous sigh you tried to pull off is actually a deep breath in because I've already affected you.

When you let me in, I apologized. I'm just enough coy for you because you eat it up. Because you know I'll tolerate your bullshit better than anyone, because I know how to push all your buttons. Because I know how to make you do the things that you should be doing. Just for you, I'll ask permission, when if we were real about it, you'd beg me to come over.

I set down my overnight bag, knowing you'd see that I intended to stay over. Then I stocked your fridge with some food because you never have any. It's a marvel you still have muscles that function. I let you smirk, knowing that you'd want to consume just enough calories to keep up with me that night.

We know the routine: I freshen up; you run around like I don't know your bedroom is a pigsty. Which is silly because in a few minutes, we would make our own mess of it. I found you in there doing the juvenile cleaning method of kicking things under your bed. It's hilarious and adorable. When you put your arms around me, possessively pulling me into you, I know how good it will be. I can feel you inhale deeply while we kiss; I can smell the lingering sweat on your body now reignited by our contact, the vague metallic scent you get from your work. Your kiss is already working, my body tightening up as you take repeated passes, partially opening your mouth for a teasing taste. When you pull off my shirt, I'm ready for more, but I want to hear you say it first. I want to feel how much you want me. I want to see it with my eyes while I undress you. Oh, it's all there in your face. The way you try to frown at my oral seduction, the way you pretend. But I know how much we love this game, how much you love my teasing. The teasing that is always equitably shared and delightfully resolved.

It's always been like this. Twelve years from the day we met, and you still turn me on like a switch. I can still see that boy standing on the sidewalk outside my work. Back when I worked at that grungy salon in the strip mall off Sunset Ave, sweeping hair laden floors and cleaning the pastel pink toilets. You were waiting outside the military recruiter's office, wearing a button-down shirt and slacks that are a little big for your narrow waist, your hair slicked back with too much gel. You were anxiously pacing the sidewalk, lost in thought when you didn't see me trying to get by you as I carried a garbage bag reeking of hair chemicals to the dumpster.

You apologized in a low huff, your voice not matching the look in your eyes. We're both embarrassed and too immature to be gracious, so I keep walking to the dumpster that's in the corner of the parking lot. On my way back, I see you glance at me and then quickly look away. You keep closer to the building, staying out of my way this time. But you stand up a little straighter as I get closer, you fix your face into this neutral expression. I give you a casual smile as I walk past, and I go back into the salon. For the rest of my shift, I wonder if you're signing up to join the army, or if you were there with someone else. I think about you when I go home, riding the bus back to my mother's.

In those days I was still hanging out with my old friends from high school; even though we've all graduated, none of us can afford to go to college. It's still the years of in-between nothingness, working and sleeping, scrimping and saving. On Saturdays we go to the sports bar on Del Mar Avenue, and it's three days later when I see you there. You're dressed down in jeans and a snug black t-shirt, your hair is parted in the middle with those unruly curls that tuck around your forehead like a set of horns. I'm staring at you when one of my friends notices my reaction and asks if I know you. I just nod my head.

It feels like fate. It feels like a sign that you are there. I'm steeling myself for courage, trying to think of what to say, but my body pulls me forward while my brain is still scrambling for the right words. I know you spotted me, but you're also stalling when you take a drink of your beer, only to slowly pull it away just as I walk up. You're lowering your glass, a pop of your eyes when I appear from behind the beverage. I say Hi, and you say Hi back. We say so little while our bodies silently respond to each other.

For those first few minutes, I wasn't sure if I was annoying you. You've never been a big talker. And I'm nervous, so I'm even chattier than normal, plus it's hard to hear your quiet voice in the noisy bar. You buy me a drink and we find a corner of the bar that's somewhat calmer. Everything you say is a sort of riddle. You won't give me a straight answer about anything- it's sarcasm and banter, or it's gestures and looks. I get more answers when you see my phone blowing up because my friends are leaving. Finally, you ask for my number. And I give it to you, trying to play it cool despite the giddy happiness I feel as you type my name into your phone.

I didn't expect you to text so soon; a blunt request sent the next day to ask if I'll meet you for coffee. I'm still not sure if you like me as much as I like you. Without feeling conceited, I think it's safe to say you think I'm pretty. I've grown up getting more praise for my appearance than I ever did for good grades. My mother used to refer to my physical attributes as "being blessed". I force your hand when I show up to our casual coffee date wearing the nicest dress I own; a thin summer dress covered in flowers that hugs my shape. The look on your face says my dress is working, and the way you apologize saying you should've dressed nicer.

You were so cagey even back then. You slowly reveal facts about yourself, telling me how you got suspended from high school for beating up another kid. You're not bragging, you're ashamed of it. But you tell me this because it sets up that you want to join the military. You want to learn how to control your anger. You want to do something with yourself, something besides fixing up cars. I can see how determined you are, this ambition that makes you talk louder and more forcefully.

You catch yourself in this uncharacteristic earnestness, and apologize for being so "fanatical". I tell you it's ok. I like that you know what you want. I don't mean to infer the dual meaning of this statement, but it's there, regardless. You smirk at this. We are sitting beside each other, outside the coffee shop on a little bench. The wind keeps blowing my long hair around, flicking it into your shoulder. When I pull my hair back, my fingers brush against your shoulder, and you glance down. You ask if I know what I want. I nod slowly in reply. I see your eyes flick down towards my lips, the tilt of your head before you kiss me. It was like being struck by lightning. You've always been a good kisser. Most men tend to mash their face into a girl, thinking that comes across as passionate. You are slow and methodical, your lips taking measured passes that make me almost impatient. You pull away just as my body is telling me to put my arms around you. I know my face says it all, and your grin says it right back. I don't know why I'm blushing, but you make me feel like I've just done something incredibly naughty. And I only want to do more.

On our next date, you took me out to the pier. You've dressed up in a button down silk shirt, your tan skin is shiny and freshly showered, the curls of your hair are gelled down in this clunky way that I want to fix but still find adorable. I've worn the same dress but layered a sweater over it, paired with high-heeled sandals. I've spent hours with a curling iron, putting soft waves into my thick hair that wants to be straight. I want to look pretty for you because I love your reaction, you make it seem like I've done some magic to myself. I could tell you were uncomfortable with the crowd, your eyes darting around watchfully, but you are indulging me, playing those silly carnival games just to win some prize for me. We stroll along, and it feels very couple-like having your arm around me. It feels comfortable. You make me feel like I belong by your side.

We keep walking until we reach the sandy beach. I kick off my sandals, and give you crap as you shuffle along in your tennis shoes, filling them with sand. The noise of the pier is fading behind us, while we slip into darkness. The ocean wind picks up and I say I'm cold. You tuck me closer to your side, wrapping both arms around me. You're not much better off in that old silk shirt. I say you're cold too, and you playfully squeeze me. You're trying to be light-hearted and casual, but we both feel the simmering tension that we keep stoking up as we touch each other. The moment I turn in your arms, facing you instead of being at your side, I can see how it affects you. Your smile can barely hold, your eyes darting down as I press myself into you. I bite my lip coyly, I glance down at my body with a pointed grin and back up at you. I wonder if you're gonna force me to be any more blunt when you finally kiss me.

I know I'm not supposed to do this. I'm a good catholic girl; I still have the white dress my mother made for my first communion. But times have changed. I'm not going to marry the first boy I kiss, and I'm not going to wait to be married before I experience passion. It's less the fear of seeming amoral, than it is to seem uninterested in you. Because I want you so much I can barely stand it. Even more, is a feeling deep in my soul, something I don't even understand yet, that says this is meant to be. Fate brought us together for a reason, and I'm not going to refuse the urges that make me forget my vows to God. If he believes in love in it's rawest and purest form, he'd want us to be together.

I knew I was a novice, but I've read some trashy novels and secretly thumbed through a Playgirl that I once found at a friend's house. My immature fantasies want you to show me what it could really be like. I'm feeling optimistic as you kiss with tongue; you feel strong enough to lift me off my feet, and you almost do just that, but we hear a noise in the distance and separate. It's a man walking his dog, throwing a toy into the crashing surf. You take my hand and charge off towards the pier.

We don't say a word as we race through the crowd, heading back towards your car. My feet are practically leaving the pavement, my sand covered feet slipping in my sandals. But we keep going, dashing into your car like something is chasing us. You get your key in the ignition, turn the engine on, then you ask me where do I want to go? Anywhere, I answer. I want you to take me anywhere you want. I want you to do anything you want. All rational concerns have left me and my only thought is what you can do with my body.

Your grin goes from ear to ear, a quick kiss before you must leave me so that you can drive. You head back up the highway, traveling a short way before you take a turn that twists up into the hillside. Your sleek little car winds around this narrow road until we come to a lookout. A small elbow of gravel that gives a spectacular view out towards the ocean. The pier is now a miniature collection of flickering lights, while the world around is darkness and wind.

A gust of wind shakes the car as you turn off the engine. I will never forget the look on your face when you turn to me. That smile. Your brown eyes glittering in the dark. It's not the smug look of a boy about to get his dick fucked. It's the look of being given a gift. Something you've wanted for a very long time, and it's finally been handed to you. Everything you hoped for, just there for the taking. And I want you to take me.

I've started undoing the buttons on your shirt as we kiss, untucking it from your pants while your hand hovers on my shoulder. There's not alot you can do with the snug dress I'm wearing. I get your shirt off; you are tan and muscled, not a hair on your youthful chest. I think you are the cutest Chicano I've ever kissed, and I whisper this as I kiss down your chest.

I'm being so impatient, tugging on your belt when you bring my face back up to kiss me. You gaze into my eyes, seeming to want some confirmation. You say my name, you say you have a condom in your wallet. Ok, I mumble, anxiously ready for the deed.

We briefly separate so we can hop in your back seat. I can't remember being that nimble in my life, but back then we could manage that. I get up on my knees, lift my skirt, and wriggle out of my underwear. You swallow hard, watching as I start to slither your direction.

I get onto your lap, and tug down the short sleeves of my dress. I peel down the top, allowing you access to my strapless bra. It's this starchy black lace that I paid nearly $30 for at the lingerie shop in the mall. I see your eyes get even bigger as I undo this pinching piece of support, and let my breasts spill out. I've been hiding the overwhelming size of my breasts since I hit puberty, resenting the way men ignore my face and woman make fun of me. Seeing your gobsmacked reaction, I am at last grateful.

You gently take me in your hands, holding me with some disbelief that I'm letting you do this. My nipples have ached for this attention, caressed by your reverent fingers, then moistened by your rough tongue. I marvel at your graceful technique, gently circling and flicking the hardening tips, thinking how careful you're being when my tits want to be manhandled. I squeeze your hands, pressing myself into your palms, feeling a growing ache between my legs.

You quickly tug yourself out of your underwear, and I stroke you, almost too excited to wait for the condom while you fumble with the foil packet. In the dark of the backseat, you manage to get the condom on, and I pounce on top of you. Or rather I try to pounce, and flinch. I'm wet and excited, but my body has never done this before. It takes some positioning, finding the right angle, until finally you glide into place. It's seconds of agony before it becomes pleasure. You've been patiently waiting with bated breath, sweetly caressing me, letting me set the pace as I start to pump up and down. We chuckle, smiling as it gets easier, as my body takes you in further. Waiting until you're certain I'm enjoying this, you go back to my breasts. You brush your thumb over my nipple in these lazy circles, drawing out a moan. It's so good and making me greedy for more, so I bark out that you need to suck my nipples again. And then I tell you to do it harder. I have no idea who I've suddenly become. This depraved girl yelling at her boyfriend to fuck her harder in the backseat of his car.

I can tell you like this, the way you gobble me up with a grin, squeezing my ass as I'm riding you. Burying you deeper and deeper within me. You're groaning now, getting close, and for some reason, I can't wait to hear you come. I want to hear this quiet gentlemen lose control. I want to hear you scream out. And you almost do, but you muffle your face with your mouth over my neck, grunting through these explosive thrusts. And as you do, I keep grinding up against you, discovering how to stimulate my clit while you thrust with intention. I feel a pulsing within my walls, a pleasurable tensing that far surpasses when I've played with myself.

When you hear me whimpering in this higher pitch, you go back to my breast and suck with all your might. You keep sucking as I cry out, riding your cock as I climax from a deeper place than I've ever achieved solo, feeling this throbbing that has never been so good. I barely catch my breath, feeling you unlatch from my nipple. You caress my thighs, you kiss my cheek. You whisper something in Spanish; I think you say dear lord and something else. And I agree that your cock has godlike powers when I rub myself through another small climax, only finally stopping when your semen is dripping down my leg.

When the madness has passed, I gingerly pull you free, and I see there is some blood on you. Not alot, but enough that you see it when you go to remove the condom. It's not as gruesome as it is mortifying, seeing your eyes go wide when you realize that you've taken my virginity. You sputter through some sort of apology, asking if I'm ok, if I need anything. And I realize I am in need of a bathroom before I go back to my mother's.

You take me to a gas station, the big AM/PM by the freeway. It has a large convenience store with a bathroom that you escort me to with the furtive movements of the secret service. I find myself flushed and wild looking in the mirror, my hair sticking up and mascara smeared under my eyes. You patiently wait for me to repair myself, standing guard just outside the door; I even hear you tell someone the bathroom is 'occupado'.

The cashier is waiting for you to pay for my can of Coke, and your cigarettes, when you keep glancing at me, still checking to see that I haven't fainted or worse. It's funny that you haven't even smoked in front of me yet, and I wonder if the cigarettes are even yours. When we go back to your car, you ask again if I'm ok. I tell you I'm hungry, because I find that you always make me ravenous after sex.