Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The next morning at sunrise Billy said, “Man, Chas never got so fucked in his life. Man, I
never seen a woman so horny. I think I might get some of that tonight myself.”
“Yeah. Well.” Call it a long jump from one stepping-stone to the next. At least more
stepping-stones seemed likely, though the señorita and Oregon were among the sorriest mis-
steps in life to date. I thought I'd learned my lesson, and that night went for a walk with a nurse
from Canada, a uniquely shaped person with slight swayback leading to a big, firm ass that
would have tilted her back except for the admirable counterbalance of her front. Frilly spit
curls in sandy brown surrounded her round face and round features, rounding out her easy
laughter and great good cheer for the times we lived in. Enjoying life and her summer trip,
she was having fun and feeling grateful for the world around as it was, even with its ups and
downs and roundabouts, because it stretched before us with so much lovely potential and so
many wonderful adventures. Simply spherically happy, she took my hand and held it to con-
nect us in the joy we shared. The night was so beautiful, she said, and we were so young and
alive. She turned to face me and took my other hand as if to complete the circuit. She asked
me if I had any idea of how rare, unique and unbelievably rich was the time we shared.
What could I say, yes? I thought of asking her if she had any idea what her luscious
curvature meant to a young male with raging hormones. But I knew she knew. I could have
shared the Moody Blues paradox, that thinking is the best way to travel, but most people
would rather take the bus. But witticism seemed the better part of not getting any.
And what would the point be? Having learned my lesson on what women really want, I
puckered up and leaned halfway in—too fast in closing the gap, maybe, but never mind; she
made up her half the distance, and we stood in starlight smooching sweetly on the camp-
ground in Pamplona. It was easy, so thorough in its relief—not as thorough as it could be, but
still, the gates opened. I reached up to squeeze a melon, because I knew that a woman would
appreciate some foreplay before we found some relatively level ground on which to join the
sexual revolution.
She shuddered. She swatted me away, stepping back and asking the ultimate stupid ques-
tion, “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing?”
“You touched my breast.”
“Well. Yeah. I can't really, you know, feel you . . . up. If I don't . . . touch . . . your breast.”
It was like a different kind of joke, a bad one, hardly funny if you have to explain the punch
line.
“I don't appreciate that at all.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't worry about it.” And that was that; another hundred yards of small talk, over and
out, giving me a long night ahead to ponder what I'd learned or hadn't learned or might never
learn or maybe should seek special tutoring to learn . . .
