T
Teddy Ruffles v.2.0
Guest
The Japanese girl wasn't really a Japanese girl. She was a girl from San Francisco of Japanese ancestry. She looked Japanese, but she talked and acted like a Northern Californian.
I met her at Rick’s Cafe just before sundown. That is where many tourists go to see the sunset. At least they say they go to see the sunset. I always went there at that time to watch the girls who came to watch the sunset. I have a hunch that the pretty girls went there then to be seen. While I appreciate a beautiful sunset, I prefer to savor them alone where I can think, rather than in a throng and a pretty girl on a brief vacation is even more ephemeral and yet more apt to pleasure than even a perfect tropical sunset.
She was a pretty, sole eyed nymph with black, straight, medium length hair, nicely blunt cut at the nape of her neck, swinging gracefully, naturally, and fetchingly as she moved her head animatedly when she spoke.
She was not dark in San Francisco, as her tan lines later showed, but she had been sun bathing for a week or so in the tropics, and she tanned quickly.
She was a newly minted dentist.
She was staying with a girl friend and was getting over a guy or something and she seemed to have decided not to have anything to do with any men while on this Jamaican vacation. She didn't want to talk about any of it but this is what I inferred from what little I could glean about her situation. Her friend was a great beast of a white girl. At least that is how I saw her at the time, although she probably wasn’t really all that fat or that tall, but she was that unsympathetic. Not really unsympathetic, but she was the opposite of what Spanish speakers mean when they call someone simpatico.
I think Moby Dick was rich and was paying for the cottage that both girls were staying at, but I could have been wrong about that. I didn't pay much attention to the girlfriend, except to note that she was my enemy. Her main goal seemed to be to make sure that the Japanese girl kept her promise and did not have sex with anyone. My only goal was to make sure that she broke her promise and, more to the point, that she broke it with me. Beyond that, I also got the feeling that if the Japanese girl was going to make love to anyone, the beast wanted to make sure that it was not going to be me. Our dislike was mutual. The beast, however, only lurked in the background in my mind; I never talked to her much or got into an argument with her or anything like that. I got the feeling that I was close to being upper most in her mind, if not uppermost.
I was recovering from a car wreck. I had been patched up by a Cuban doctor in Savanalamar without benefit of anesthesia or x-rays. The doc set my broken nose by shoving, none too gently, large wooden shafted Q-tips up my nose as far as possible and then snapping the shaft off at nostril level. He secured the wooden stubs in place by running a piece of tape from one side of my nose, across the bottom, and up on the other side. He used his thumbs to mash my nose into shape and taped it down. I was cut all over my face from the flying glass. They do not use safety glass in rental cars down there. I held still by grabbing the sides of the cot, tightly pulling myself into the thin mattress, while the would be Che Guevara stitched me up without so much as an aspirin or a swig of rum to take the sting out. I was in the accident at about six in the evening and he stitched me up at about ten the next morning, so the shock had long since worn off. He did a pretty good job for a commie. I had one very bad cut under my left eye and my left ear was sliced deeply. Some of my other cuts needed stitches, but most of them didn’t. I had been out of the hospital for a few weeks, maybe three. I didn’t look as bad when I met the Japanese girl as I had looked right after the accident, but I still looked like Alfred E. Frankenstein. That is because in addition to the cuts and stitches, one of my front teeth was busted off at the gum line. I looked very silly and self conscious when I smiled.
Still, as bad as I looked, I was still being picked up by the girls. The first girl who had sex with me after the accident came over for a visit but after she was there for a while, she didn’t want to leave. I was puzzled at first, since I looked scary, even to myself, but she said she didn’t care about the way I looked, so if she didn’t care, neither did I care. She knew me before the accident, but we hadn’t sex before I got hurt. And she wasn’t the only one, either. So even though I looked bad, I was not shy about how I looked by the time I met the Japanese girl. In fact, my looks didn’t seem to bother the Japanese girl. It didn’t seem to be an issue. It was clear that she liked me better than she liked any other guy, but still she had her mind made up that she was not going to have sex with anyone. Her girlfriend too seemed to dislike me more for my attitude and character than because I was so hideously ugly.
Since my car was wrecked and I was out on bond killing time until I had my trial for having the wreck, I was dependent on a buddy for rides to go visit the Japanese. They were staying about 10 miles from where I was staying, too far to walk. Although I think I did walk over once, only to find out she was not home. There were no phones. I was always pestering him to take me over there but he wouldn’t take me very often. Finally, I managed to arrange things so that I could see her at a small party on the beach. We all, maybe ten or so of us, drank rum and coke, talked and laughed, but she kept her distance and was only polite, not really friendly to me as she had been before but cool and aloof. I bided my time, drank, and watched her every move. She looked beautiful. She had more made up on than I had ever seen on her, wearing a bright tropical print top loose out over dark tight pants.
Eventually, we left the thatched bar and sat in chairs drawn up in a circle on the beach under the full moon. The moon shone so brightly, it seemed more intense even than tropical sunlight. Not only was the light streaming down upon us, it was also reflected off the ocean lapping at our feet. The broad sheet of white light rippled by wavelets threw a shimmering, flickering light into the already heady mix. Someone lit a big spliff of pungent ganja and we passed it around, toking and sipping on our drinks.
The moonlight, rum, and ganja were too much for her. Hell, the moonlight, rum, ganja, and her sexiness were too much for me too. She ignored her girlfriend’s baleful glare as I moved in and got her to sit on my lap. She laughed and flirted with me, but she had not yet surrendered to me. Being a dentist, however, she did have access to pain medicine and she gave me a percodan, which I washed down with a swig of rum. I don’t know if she took one, but I think she did. When it was time to leave the beach, she and I rode back together with a guy who I knew. He owned a group of real nice cottages up on the cliffs. When we got to his place, he told me on the QT that I could use one of them to spend the night with the Japanese. I was more than ready to get into bed with her, but she refused and instead went out on the porch, sat down, and began talking to the guy who gave us the ride. I followed her out of the bedroom and sat down next to her on the wicker divan. We smoked another, smaller, spliff and made small talk. I was a little worried about now. By rights, we should have been making love. I started to think that maybe the reason she was not having sex with me was not because she was trying to get over some guy. Maybe it was because she was still in a relationship with a guy. Hell, maybe the guy was the brother of the beast or something. In any case, I was starting to worry that my night might turn into a “you should have seen the one that got away” experience.
To avert such an outcome, I slipped my hand under her top and grabbed her by the tit. My arm was already resting across her shoulders, so it only took an under and up motion for me to work my hand under her blouse and up to her small, firm breast. It felt warm, soft, and smooth under my rough hand. She brought her legs up, which kept the guy we were talking to from seeing what I was doing, but he probably had a pretty good idea. She didn’t try to take my hand away. I enjoyed listening to the small talk more now that I had something to occupy my hands or hand, anyway. After only about ten minutes of this, she apparently made up her mind about what she wanted to do. She took me by the hand and led me not back to the bedroom, but across the road separating the guesthouses from a deck built on the very edge of a cliff at the water’s edge. Sitting down on a lounge chair, she silently invited me to join her. With a little finagling we were able to lay it flat. The sea, sighing softly against the base of the cliff thirty feet below, smelt saline and sharp. The moon was still high overhead, although it had slipped a little from its zenith. The moonlight mesmerized, glinting, reflecting off the endlessly changing texture of the sea.
She was young, beautiful, and sexy. I was in “must”. I was also half drunk, fully stoned, and a little numb from the percodan. I ravished her up one side and down the next, turning her every way but loose. She was extremely passionate, energetic, and very sensual.
As dawn broke and became morning, our all-encompassing passion ebbed. We gradually descended from the magical to the mundane world. As I dressed blurry-eyed and bewildered as if awaking from a particularly vivid dream, I became aware that I was slightly hung over and deeply tired. As we walked across the road back to the main house, disheveled and the worse for wear, a Jamaican yard worker crossed our path. We exchanged brief greetings.
After he passed, as we continued walking toward the guesthouse, she said that he and perhaps others had probably been watching us. If they had been, I had not been aware of their presence. I hope they had not been watching, because if they had been watching, they must have felt bad. As far as they knew, that was how it always was for me. But, of course, that was not how it always was for me. In fact, it had never been as good as that night and it probably never will be again.
I saw her again a couple of times.
Once at her place in the afternoon where she gave me something in the bathroom.
Another percodan? A trinket? I forget. Something small and insignificant but given in a way that made me understand that the night on the deck had been as special to her as it had been to me.
And once when she was about fifty yards away in a bikini, brown and glistening with coconut oil, sunning herself on a deck isolated from the platform I was sitting on by an impassable expanse of jagged, wickedly sharp coral rocks. I watched as she moved around the deck and then went out of sight into the compound. She never looked my way.
Although I could tell she was tempted, I was never able to get her into bed again. The beast, time, and whatever made her so hesitant to have sex in the first place, worked against me. She left for San Francisco before I could arrange a return match.
Copyright 2003
I met her at Rick’s Cafe just before sundown. That is where many tourists go to see the sunset. At least they say they go to see the sunset. I always went there at that time to watch the girls who came to watch the sunset. I have a hunch that the pretty girls went there then to be seen. While I appreciate a beautiful sunset, I prefer to savor them alone where I can think, rather than in a throng and a pretty girl on a brief vacation is even more ephemeral and yet more apt to pleasure than even a perfect tropical sunset.
She was a pretty, sole eyed nymph with black, straight, medium length hair, nicely blunt cut at the nape of her neck, swinging gracefully, naturally, and fetchingly as she moved her head animatedly when she spoke.
She was not dark in San Francisco, as her tan lines later showed, but she had been sun bathing for a week or so in the tropics, and she tanned quickly.
She was a newly minted dentist.
She was staying with a girl friend and was getting over a guy or something and she seemed to have decided not to have anything to do with any men while on this Jamaican vacation. She didn't want to talk about any of it but this is what I inferred from what little I could glean about her situation. Her friend was a great beast of a white girl. At least that is how I saw her at the time, although she probably wasn’t really all that fat or that tall, but she was that unsympathetic. Not really unsympathetic, but she was the opposite of what Spanish speakers mean when they call someone simpatico.
I think Moby Dick was rich and was paying for the cottage that both girls were staying at, but I could have been wrong about that. I didn't pay much attention to the girlfriend, except to note that she was my enemy. Her main goal seemed to be to make sure that the Japanese girl kept her promise and did not have sex with anyone. My only goal was to make sure that she broke her promise and, more to the point, that she broke it with me. Beyond that, I also got the feeling that if the Japanese girl was going to make love to anyone, the beast wanted to make sure that it was not going to be me. Our dislike was mutual. The beast, however, only lurked in the background in my mind; I never talked to her much or got into an argument with her or anything like that. I got the feeling that I was close to being upper most in her mind, if not uppermost.
I was recovering from a car wreck. I had been patched up by a Cuban doctor in Savanalamar without benefit of anesthesia or x-rays. The doc set my broken nose by shoving, none too gently, large wooden shafted Q-tips up my nose as far as possible and then snapping the shaft off at nostril level. He secured the wooden stubs in place by running a piece of tape from one side of my nose, across the bottom, and up on the other side. He used his thumbs to mash my nose into shape and taped it down. I was cut all over my face from the flying glass. They do not use safety glass in rental cars down there. I held still by grabbing the sides of the cot, tightly pulling myself into the thin mattress, while the would be Che Guevara stitched me up without so much as an aspirin or a swig of rum to take the sting out. I was in the accident at about six in the evening and he stitched me up at about ten the next morning, so the shock had long since worn off. He did a pretty good job for a commie. I had one very bad cut under my left eye and my left ear was sliced deeply. Some of my other cuts needed stitches, but most of them didn’t. I had been out of the hospital for a few weeks, maybe three. I didn’t look as bad when I met the Japanese girl as I had looked right after the accident, but I still looked like Alfred E. Frankenstein. That is because in addition to the cuts and stitches, one of my front teeth was busted off at the gum line. I looked very silly and self conscious when I smiled.
Still, as bad as I looked, I was still being picked up by the girls. The first girl who had sex with me after the accident came over for a visit but after she was there for a while, she didn’t want to leave. I was puzzled at first, since I looked scary, even to myself, but she said she didn’t care about the way I looked, so if she didn’t care, neither did I care. She knew me before the accident, but we hadn’t sex before I got hurt. And she wasn’t the only one, either. So even though I looked bad, I was not shy about how I looked by the time I met the Japanese girl. In fact, my looks didn’t seem to bother the Japanese girl. It didn’t seem to be an issue. It was clear that she liked me better than she liked any other guy, but still she had her mind made up that she was not going to have sex with anyone. Her girlfriend too seemed to dislike me more for my attitude and character than because I was so hideously ugly.
Since my car was wrecked and I was out on bond killing time until I had my trial for having the wreck, I was dependent on a buddy for rides to go visit the Japanese. They were staying about 10 miles from where I was staying, too far to walk. Although I think I did walk over once, only to find out she was not home. There were no phones. I was always pestering him to take me over there but he wouldn’t take me very often. Finally, I managed to arrange things so that I could see her at a small party on the beach. We all, maybe ten or so of us, drank rum and coke, talked and laughed, but she kept her distance and was only polite, not really friendly to me as she had been before but cool and aloof. I bided my time, drank, and watched her every move. She looked beautiful. She had more made up on than I had ever seen on her, wearing a bright tropical print top loose out over dark tight pants.
Eventually, we left the thatched bar and sat in chairs drawn up in a circle on the beach under the full moon. The moon shone so brightly, it seemed more intense even than tropical sunlight. Not only was the light streaming down upon us, it was also reflected off the ocean lapping at our feet. The broad sheet of white light rippled by wavelets threw a shimmering, flickering light into the already heady mix. Someone lit a big spliff of pungent ganja and we passed it around, toking and sipping on our drinks.
The moonlight, rum, and ganja were too much for her. Hell, the moonlight, rum, ganja, and her sexiness were too much for me too. She ignored her girlfriend’s baleful glare as I moved in and got her to sit on my lap. She laughed and flirted with me, but she had not yet surrendered to me. Being a dentist, however, she did have access to pain medicine and she gave me a percodan, which I washed down with a swig of rum. I don’t know if she took one, but I think she did. When it was time to leave the beach, she and I rode back together with a guy who I knew. He owned a group of real nice cottages up on the cliffs. When we got to his place, he told me on the QT that I could use one of them to spend the night with the Japanese. I was more than ready to get into bed with her, but she refused and instead went out on the porch, sat down, and began talking to the guy who gave us the ride. I followed her out of the bedroom and sat down next to her on the wicker divan. We smoked another, smaller, spliff and made small talk. I was a little worried about now. By rights, we should have been making love. I started to think that maybe the reason she was not having sex with me was not because she was trying to get over some guy. Maybe it was because she was still in a relationship with a guy. Hell, maybe the guy was the brother of the beast or something. In any case, I was starting to worry that my night might turn into a “you should have seen the one that got away” experience.
To avert such an outcome, I slipped my hand under her top and grabbed her by the tit. My arm was already resting across her shoulders, so it only took an under and up motion for me to work my hand under her blouse and up to her small, firm breast. It felt warm, soft, and smooth under my rough hand. She brought her legs up, which kept the guy we were talking to from seeing what I was doing, but he probably had a pretty good idea. She didn’t try to take my hand away. I enjoyed listening to the small talk more now that I had something to occupy my hands or hand, anyway. After only about ten minutes of this, she apparently made up her mind about what she wanted to do. She took me by the hand and led me not back to the bedroom, but across the road separating the guesthouses from a deck built on the very edge of a cliff at the water’s edge. Sitting down on a lounge chair, she silently invited me to join her. With a little finagling we were able to lay it flat. The sea, sighing softly against the base of the cliff thirty feet below, smelt saline and sharp. The moon was still high overhead, although it had slipped a little from its zenith. The moonlight mesmerized, glinting, reflecting off the endlessly changing texture of the sea.
She was young, beautiful, and sexy. I was in “must”. I was also half drunk, fully stoned, and a little numb from the percodan. I ravished her up one side and down the next, turning her every way but loose. She was extremely passionate, energetic, and very sensual.
As dawn broke and became morning, our all-encompassing passion ebbed. We gradually descended from the magical to the mundane world. As I dressed blurry-eyed and bewildered as if awaking from a particularly vivid dream, I became aware that I was slightly hung over and deeply tired. As we walked across the road back to the main house, disheveled and the worse for wear, a Jamaican yard worker crossed our path. We exchanged brief greetings.
After he passed, as we continued walking toward the guesthouse, she said that he and perhaps others had probably been watching us. If they had been, I had not been aware of their presence. I hope they had not been watching, because if they had been watching, they must have felt bad. As far as they knew, that was how it always was for me. But, of course, that was not how it always was for me. In fact, it had never been as good as that night and it probably never will be again.
I saw her again a couple of times.
Once at her place in the afternoon where she gave me something in the bathroom.
Another percodan? A trinket? I forget. Something small and insignificant but given in a way that made me understand that the night on the deck had been as special to her as it had been to me.
And once when she was about fifty yards away in a bikini, brown and glistening with coconut oil, sunning herself on a deck isolated from the platform I was sitting on by an impassable expanse of jagged, wickedly sharp coral rocks. I watched as she moved around the deck and then went out of sight into the compound. She never looked my way.
Although I could tell she was tempted, I was never able to get her into bed again. The beast, time, and whatever made her so hesitant to have sex in the first place, worked against me. She left for San Francisco before I could arrange a return match.
Copyright 2003
