Spanish Plum

short fiction

Even though you were technically my second boyfriend, and the seventh man I’ve been in bed with, you were my first of many things. First real love, first meeting with the parents, first live-in arrangement, first (and only) abortion, among other firsts. You were practically my first glimpse, corny as it sounds, of eternity.

We first met on a rainy August afternoon. August 11th, 2003, I remember. My boss couldn’t meet you due to an impromptu lunch meeting with execs from Manila so he asked me to meet with you quickly, check your mood boards, and then reschedule your meeting with my boss for some time after. You were twenty minutes late, and you apologized incessantly. I didn’t mind because you were soaking wet from the rain and your eyes made my knees wobble. You have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen: big, round, and hazel because of your Spanish blood, as you later explained to me—which makes me want to ask now: how exactly Spanish are you? You last name is Lam-ang. It doesn’t sound Spanish at all. At least, not for me. And I’ve met your parents. They were both from Butuan, none of whom has a hint of Spanish blood. I wish during the two years that we were together I was able to ask you if you were adopted or an illegitimate child, but I was always afraid you would flare up again.

You got pissed after I told you my boss couldn’t make it, which made you even more attractive to me. I always had this thing for pumped-up gentlemen. Of course, you didn’t tell me you were pissed, and you did your best to hide it, but all your uncontrollable hissing was very effectual. And I, pathetic single woman, couldn’t help but appease you. So I told you I loved your presentation, and that I could actually make decisions for my boss so your pitch was as good as approved. It lightened your mood and it pleased me. I wanted to see you again.

I saw you again the week after, when you met with my boss in his office. Your meeting ended pretty well and your pitch, as I had promised it, was approved. On your way out, you passed by my desk, and you asked me out. I was on cloud nine.

Our first date went so well that I felt right then that you were the one, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with. Perhaps you felt the same because you asked me out again even before our date was over. And I guess I should carry the burden of the blame. I pretended to love Stanley Kubrick. You were a huge Kubrick fan and I took advantage of it. So we talked primarily of A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket, as though they were as simple as the weather. I never told you that the only reason I’d seen those movies is that my boss is a huge Kubrick fan himself and he made me watch them. This led me to believe that your pitch was approved not because of my urging but because of the shared fandom you had with Sir Larry.

I loved Sir Larry as a boss. I ended up as more than just his PA but a best friend as well. And I should say that much of how we turned out at first was also because of him. He enjoyed seeing us together, so he made sure I got to spend time with you as much as possible.

So this led us to our first night together. After three weeks of dinners out and cups of coffee and Kubrick marathons at your place, I put out—the longest that I ever held out for a guy. Before you, I slept with men on the first and only date; I never dated the same guy twice. There’s no denying that you were indeed special. There was something about your love for the cinema, your passion for your job as an account executive/copywriter with that now-defunct advertising firm, and your self-proclaimed Spanish blood that made me want you to get to know me better, to appreciate me. So I put out that night, and I felt like I was losing my virginity again. I was nervous as hell. But you, damn you, made me feel so special, so appreciated. That night I knew that I was falling deeper and deeper, and I got scared.

I got less scared, though, when we made love again. And again. And again. And all that fear diminished completely when we started to do it almost on a daily basis. So after three months of going out, all I could think of was having sex with you. Sometimes I’d get wet while at work thinking about having sex with you. And I’m very sorry but I never told you this: I got so horny one time in the office that I fucked the janitor. It was an impulse thing. I was longing for you but you were in Baguio that week for a conference.

This had been quite acknowledged between us, but I have to tell you again: I loved your cock. It’s red and shiny, its head plump and healthy like a sineguelas, and its shaft a fat, crooked thing that felt so good inside me. And I made the stupid mistake of saying it out loud. “Your cock head is like a sineguelas.” Secretly, I thought that was the only Spanish in you. It made you laugh then, but it started the euphemism that you so enjoyed saying over and over.

Do you want sineguelas after dinner?

Come to my place for lunch. Have some sineguelas.

Sineguelas for breakfast?

And sineguelas it was: morning, noon, and night. I especially loved it when you plowed into me like a jackhammer. You were the first guy to ever make me scream with pleasure. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, you were the first man to ever give me an orgasm, and multiple orgasms at that. And it wasn’t just about the sineguelas. When you ate my pussy it drove me crazy. Your tongue knew its way in and out and I always ended up looking for something to grab. I would pull on the blanket, throw pillows around, pull on my hair and squeeze my own tits, because that was how wild you drove me. I probably came a million times the whole time I was with you, because you never rested until I fell unconscious from sheer exhaustion, and by then I’d already cum about ten times.

On our fifth month together, while you were driving me back to my apartment, you told me you loved me. I cried. You may not have known this, but I cried. I didn’t tell you back that I loved you, too, but when I got into my room I cried really hard. I cried so hard I started masturbating just as hard. Because I did love you, too. I was just too petrified to say it back.

A few days after you professed your love, I finally found the courage to tell you. You looked so happy back then that you asked me to move in with you. I said yes. Little did I know that saying yes was the start of the terror I never thought you were capable of causing me.

At first things weren’t that bad. The sex was still fantastic. And it gave us the freedom to do whatever we wanted. You would fuck me on the kitchen sink, on the kitchen table, on the coffee table in the living room, in the laundry room, on the bathroom floor. You even enjoyed fucking me in the terrace noontimes on Sundays, because the apartment building was usually empty on Sundays as your neighbors always went to the mall. But I do remember a couple of times hearing some cheering from the opposite apartment while you fucked me doggy-style.

I loved it when you fucked me doggy-style. Your sineguelas hit my G-spot quite deftly while you rubbed my clit with your fingers. It totally drove me crazy that was why I didn’t mind being watched.

But then things started to go downhill. Probably it was because we were getting too familiar that you started showing your true colors. You started to get honest, and for the most part your honesty hurt.

You told me that you weren’t particularly fond of my blowjob.

It depressed me like hell. I felt inadequate. You asked for a deep-throat, which was something I wasn’t capable of doing yet. Because I didn’t even like giving head then; I always ended up gagging, all choked and teary-eyed. Hence I tried something awful, one that caused us to not speak to each other for weeks. You do remember, right? You probably don’t want me to mention this now, but yeah, I did it so you would know it wasn’t easy giving blowjobs. When we had that threesome with Tirso, your high school friend, I intentionally pushed your head down so you could blow him. And you slapped my hand away, staring at me with disbelief. To be honest, I thought you were OK with it because you did make out with him, and the way the two of you were kissing made me believe it wasn’t the first kiss you shared.

So we didn’t talk for a few weeks. That was also the time that I found out I was pregnant. So you couldn’t blame me if I decided to induce an abortion. I had no idea if we were on the verge of breaking up or not, and I was unsure if the baby was yours or Tirso’s because you assholes both ejaculated inside me. But then, when I couldn’t stop bleeding and had to be taken to the hospital, we made up. It was the kind of kiss-and-make-up that made me the saddest woman in the world. Because I always thought I was pro-life, and being with you made me say goodbye to a lot of principles I never thought I would be able to let go just like that. So it wasn’t just the pro-life thing. You made me the kind of woman who would bend over backwards just to please a man.

And yet, I stayed for another year. And I continued with the task of pleasing you.

Our office janitor became my cock-for-practice. I was still intent on giving you the best blowjob but you never told me how you wanted it done. All you did was tell me I wasn’t doing it right. Our office janitor was different. He would tell me when to do it slowly, when to go fast, which part of my mouth I should rub his cock head with, and most importantly, he gave me all the time in the world to learn how to deep-throat. You did nothing but thrust your hips forward and push my head down. You never waited for me to get ready. Joseph always let me do my own thing. And in two week’s time, I was able to reel his cock into my mouth until my lips touched his pubes. And I didn’t gag.

Don’t you remember that one night when I sucked you in and out masterfully that you came three times in my mouth? Yes, I’d gotten all the practice for that from Joseph the janitor. And that night, after driving you crazy with my technique, I started entertaining the thought of leaving you. But I still stayed for a few weeks more. And then things got worse.

You asked me to swallow.

I never wanted to. It was the last thing on my mind. But since I got so good, you were addicted to it. You even stopped pointing your sineguelas into my vagina. All it pointed to was my mouth. And I missed your sineguelas inside my pussy, the way you fucked me real hard to kingdom come.

Swallowing your load was the worst thing ever. Primarily because it was too pungent in taste that I couldn’t stop burping after. Even after I gargled Listerine and drank glasses of water, I still burped and burped. And I burped and burped the next day. The burping stopped at lunchtime when I downed two cans of Sprite. I promised myself never to swallow cum again.

So I left you. Yes, this decision had been too sudden, especially for you. I thought I could stay longer to see if things could still work out, but finding the engagement ring in your drawer was an eye-opener for me. If I stayed and waited for you to come home from work, I knew I couldn’t say no if you proposed in person. And I couldn’t live the rest of my life always wanting to please you.

So goodbye, my love.

I still love you, Chris, but I have to start loving myself more. May you soon find someone better suited for you.

Love,

Nora
xoxo

Birthday Dinner

short fiction

MICHEL SETS A plateful of spaghetti on the table. He made it just the way Alfonso likes it: Pinoy-style—sweet and spicy. He next arranges a loaf of bread in a circle on a large plate, with a bar of unsalted butter at the center. His plan is to have them toasted later, buttered, and then sprinkled with McCormick Garlic Bread Sprinkle. Just the way Alfonso likes it.

This is going to be one delightful birthday dinner for Alfonso.

Michel’s relationship with Alfonso is complicated beyond words. This is probably because Michel is a Leo, and he can get pretty cranky at times. When they fight, Michel craves for an argument, an exchange of words, so they can settle their issues in one sitting. Alfonso is Aquarian, and he can be such a pushover, a doormat. It pains Michel each time Alfonso caves with an apology immediately, regardless of whoever’s at fault. No matter how you look at it, it’s always Michel who ends up feeling defeated.

The clock strikes seven. Alfonso should be home any minute. Michel walks over to the fridge and takes out a 1.5-liter bottle of Coke then places it on the table. He leaves the bottle of rum inside the fridge for now. He’s sure Alfonso will want to have a drink later, foreseeably rum-and-Coke, as Alfonso doesn’t really drink anything else. Thankfully, though, Alfonso is not totally a drinker. He simply enjoys a nightcap once in a while. Usually Alfonso comes home too exhausted from work he only has time for dinner, a drink, and the first ten minutes of a Hollywood movie that he falls asleep to.

Alfonso is quite fond of Hollywood movies. He is drawn to the glamorous look of the celebrities that star in them. Alfonso’ss favorite movie, as far as Michel knows, is Heathers, a 1989 film starring Wynona Rider and Christian Slater. The movie, if Michel remembers correctly, circles around the topic of teen suicide, and it amuses him that Alfonso is so into it, even if Alfonso is the least suicidal person he knows.

It’s seven-thirty. Michel is hungry. He pours himself half a glass of Coke and grabs a slice of bread. He figures he and Alfonso should have dinner together, so a slice of bread shall do for now. He considers lighting some candles for a moment. “Candles… Ha!” he says out loud then shakes his head in amusement. Alfonso would never want a candle-lit dinner. It’s too… bourgeois. That is one thing Michel really likes about Alfonso. Alfonso doesn’t thrive on things that are beyond them. Michel can sum up Alfonso with Pinoy-style spaghetti, quasi-garlic bread, and rum-and-Coke. None too lavish.

Eight-fifteen, the clock says. Michel curls up in the sofa and grabs a book. He’s not really into books, but there’s nothing else to do. Alfonso meanwhile is quite literate. The dork has probably read all of Sidney Sheldon and Tom Clancy and Frederick Forsythe. Michel doesn’t even know squat about any of them. He tries to read a chapter off the book he’s grabbed. “’If Tomorrow Comes.’ Interesting title…” Michel tells himself. A couple of pages into it, he dozes off.

* * *

THERE’S HEAVY POUNDING on the door and Michel jolts right up. Eleven-thirty, the clock tells him. He runs to the door and opens it.

“What the fuck took you—“

Alfonso falls right to the floor.

“Jesus! What happened?” He pulls Alfonso up and finds that his shirt is smeared with blood. Alfonso’s right eye is bruised and swollen and his gums and ears are bleeding.

“Trouble with a client…” Alfonso says, barely audibly.

Michel drags Alfonso to the sofa and lets him lie there. “I’ll go get some water.” He runs to the kitchen.

Alfonso starts to sob. “I want to stop doing this.”

“C’mon, now. Don’t say that.” Michel goes back over to Alfonso and has him take a few gulps of cold water. “What happened?”

“The new client, the middle-aged notary public, that sonofabitch. He wanted to take all ten packets but he could only pay for half of them…” Alfonso can barely finish his sentences. He is sobbing and gasping for air at the same time. “Then he started hitting me, and kicking me, and he took everything, including all the money. I could barely make it here. I had to walk.”

Michel shakes his head. “That motherfucker….” He stares at Alfonso, who is by now crouching on the sofa like a scared caterpillar. He strokes Alfonso’s head. “Are you hungry? I cooked some spaghetti for you, and I can toast you some bread with butter and garlic sprinkle….”

Alfonso doesn’t say anything back.

Michel sighs and starts to stand up. “Just stay there. I’ll bring you the food myself.”

In the kitchen, while toasting bread, Michel hears Alfonso calling out to him.

“What?” he yells back.

Alfonso calls out to him again with that scratchy voice. Michel can barely make out any words.

“I can’t hear you, Alfonso. Just wait for me to get back there, OK?”

Michel goes back to Alfonso with a plateful of spaghetti and toasted bread, now buttered and sprinkled with McCormick Garlic Bread Sprinkle. His heart breaks at the sight of Alfonso, all battered like a crushed worm.

“What were you saying?” he asks.

Alfonso clears his throat and hesitates for a minute. “I…”

“What?” Michel grins. “C’mon, it’s your birthday. You can say anything.”

“I want to stop doing this. I’m serious. It’s too much. Please…” Alfonso begins to sob again.

Michel stares at Alfonso for a minute, heaving deeply. Then he hurls the plate to the wall. “You ungrateful piece of shit!” He grabs Alfonso by the collar. “Do you know how much trouble I’ve been through for you? Do you even have any idea?”

Alfonso looks him in the eye, quaking with fear. “It’s just that—“

He strikes Alfonso across the face. Alfonso sobs harder. Michel drops Alfonso back on the sofa. “Look…” he says, gently, in a consoling tone. “Let’s not get into this, OK?”

Alfonso’s sobbing slowly begins to subside.

“It’s your birthday, Alfonso. Just eat. There’s still spaghetti left on the table.”

Alfonso nods, sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Michel sits beside Alfonso, stroking his back. “You’re twelve now. In a few months, you’ll be in high school. Just give it four more years. Just finish high school and then you’re free to go. You do want to finish high school, don’t you?”

Alfonso nods again.

“Besides, once I get to bail Paolo out of prison, your load will get lighter. It’s just difficult right now, what with Mickey’s death and all.”

“OK.”

Michel stands up and yawns. “I’m going to bed. Clean up that mess, will you?” He nods his head towards the broken plate and spilt food across the room. “I haven’t even eaten yet. I waited for you all night. You have to think about other people for once.”

Alfonso starts for the broom and dustpan behind the door. “I’m sorry,” he says under his breath.

“And get something to eat before you go to bed,” Michel says as he opens the door to his room. “I don’t want you to sleep hungry.”

“I will, Tito.”

Michel gives Alfonso one last look before stepping inside his room. It truly breaks his heart, the way Alfonso submits with an apology all the time. He’s a good boy, that Alfonso, considering.

“Good night! I’ll take care of that dickhead tomorrow, don’t worry.” Michel closes the door behind him. He considers buying Alfonso a DVD copy of Heathers in the morning, as a post-birthday gift. “And happy birthday!” he yells from his room.

“Thank you,” Alfonso says as he starts to sweep the floor.

THE END