Turning Bi
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I think people tend to dismiss him as that blow-hard with a beard. Thinking like that, why wonder when you're cut down? Because that's propagating the oft-fatal error called underestimating the enemy. Overestimate, I always say, play up to that esteem and they're suddenly your friends. Let people underestimate you; that gains you tons of maneuvering room.
Castro may well be one of the most stubborn of men, but he's highly intelligent; never has he allowed his stubbornness to lead him astray into outright stupidity. The dude moved the missiles, you know what I mean? He emptied the prisons and put 'em all on boats to Florida. Savvy guy, hey?
So, you've been isolated on your little island, having kept the running dogs at bay for nearly forty years. You look around the world. Hey, things are changing. The Warsaw Pact--hell, they got a goddamn Polack in the Vatican wearing the big hat. Bastard flies in wearing a bed sheet, mumbles a few old man words, and suddenly there's not a pair of dry panties on the island. The Soviet Union cuts up the credit cards and then turns back into plain old Russia--they got the Golden Arches over there, the People lapping up the Big Macs. They're digging up Che's bones to prove Che's Che, that Che's dead, like Che's Butch Cassidy or something. Fucking Omar Sharif Guevara. Wonder what Ortega's doing these days? A chain of Danny's Surf & Turf?
Smell the smoke drifting down south. Cigar-mania is sweeping the states. The Havana Banana is commanding premium price. But importing them through Canada, or across the Atlantic, and who the hell do you think's making the mark-up?
But ho!--look at Beijing. They got the KFC. And no one's bossing them around. They say, I'm too lazy to take a dump; I'm gonna sit on your face and you're gonna suck the shit right out of my asshole. And Washington puckers up every time.
Aha! Communism with a Capitalist smile.
This is where me and Darren come into the picture. And, peripherally, Panama. How we wind up down on the island. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.
"So what I'm thinking is, Darren,... "
"Whoa, that's dangerous shit when you start doing that, Ray."
You know, we're a pair of schmucks getting drunk in a bar.
What I'm thinking is, that fucking banana republic is so old it's starting to go all squishy inside. Castro, man, he's ripe for new friends.
"Sugar cane," I'm raving, "ditch the workers. Build a machine to plant and harvest. Joint venture. Insist on control of production. Market raw crystals as a luxury commodity. Drop sugar futures into the basement. Clean up the world market."
The bad thing is that when I start to get like this, the bartenders generally refuse to serve me any more.
But Darren knows better than to not pay attention to my jags. He's made too much money off of them.
I'm the ideas guy. I point directions. Darren thinks he's the big boy because he rounds up all the cash. He shakes hands with people of enormous bank accounts. He does lunch with people so rich they never have to pay for their meals. Darren believes he is a tree, arms up like limbs, in the cool cash of fall. He rattles his branches and the foliage of green, black and white showers down on me. Like I'm the guy who sweeps up all the money and is oh so eternally grateful and beholden.
Power schmower. Fuck that. Cash is crop.
I breakfast with the people above the money. What are bank accounts compared to Treasuries? Money's a slut. It just shows up and you can spread it any way you like it.
Darren does tend to squander his share of the proceeds. It's what keeps our partnership alive.
Me, I plan to take my money and... I wasn't sure quite what. Become like all the good socialists stateside. Care deeply about the downtrodden masses because you feel so damn good in the morning after a night spent sleeping on a thousand dollar mattress. That was the life for me.
I consult with some people I know, get a rough design done of the damn machine within a week. It takes a few months for Darren to get the finances rounded up and the prototypes built. Assembled, field tested, then disassembled and packed into containers on a ship docked off Miami. Everything is kept very hush-hush. I'm already thinking... this cane planter/picker, with some modifications, we might wind up breaking the Chinese, get them feeding their billions with cheap imported American rice.
So we fly down there. Down to Miami, then on to the island.
This is it. This is where things start to get kind of ugly. We're stepping into the story, we join up at the airport. He shows up with fucking Panama swinging on his arm.
The one woman in all the world I have no time for. I'll sneak a bomb on if I have to be on the same plane as that bitch. What can you say about her?
"Darren," I called coldly, giving a scornful glance off her, "I believe this to be a business trip."
He fumbled but she picked it right up. "I happen to be all business." Not a question. Nor pausing for Darren's confirmation; it wasn't needed.
"You mean like an oily little machine?"
"You mean like bought and paid for, no pleasure intended?"
"You mean in the same class of deduction as dinner and drinks and a room?"
Panama was nothing if not all business. I didn't have to say any of those things to her. She heard it all from the way I looked back my reply.
I snorted a little. "No doubt," I did say.
Panama sort of tossed her head and swung her hair, but in a gesture that was barely perceptible.
I continued to boil in my own little way. With Darren--I'd long ago decided--the best bet was to keep my temper on far reserve. Ray can seem the most good-natured guy around--but if you get him mad you're dead. I'd perfected it to where I only had to pretend to be angry to get my way.
"That's not expense account," I fairly snarled, "that's out-of-pocket. Yours, hers, but not my fucking pocket."
That settled, what else could I do. Go home and blow a damned good deal because of it? It being the she-creature known as Panama. No way!
If Darren was about twice his age, she'd be his trophy wife. But he's not; she's his gorgeous girlfriend. The best that money can buy. A cash drain. I watch Darren mentally juggle the numbers. I doubt he has the money to use a payphone. The poor guy's paying more in credit card interest than many people make in a year.
Panama--oh the allure, the exotic cachet. The name conjures up a dark lusty beauty from down by the canal zone. Though she speaks fluent Spanish, in fact she's a blonde grain-fed bimbo from the midwest. Like a walking advertisement for a Florida Spring Break. She claims to have just the one name, as if she's somehow famous. Like Madonna. But everyone knows Madonna's not some alien goddess from the planet Sex-- she's a mortal who moved to the big-time from Michigan: fucking Italian pope-hugging stock.
Panama City, I call her. I fake a south-of-the-border accent and call her The Panama City Beach.
So off we go to Cuba, no doubt to some beaches, in the company of the beach.
This is an official visit; our queries were met with an invitation. We arrive as guests of the State. The hotels, as I understand it, are in shameful disrepair, so for accommodations they put us up in a quaint little cottage.
It's open and airy, the grounds resplendent with gardens. There's a central room--livingroom--set off by a half-wall from a small kitchen. Two bedrooms and a fully equipped bath off down the hall. Windows and doors everywhere. The three main rooms have outside walls of French doors opening out onto the gardens and walks.
To say that Panama and I did not get along would be kind. I can't say for sure that she hated me on sight, but it was soon apparent that the second glance was enough. It probably didn't help that that first time I ever saw her on his arm, I remarked at their approach, "Nice Rolex."
I wasn't being very charitable, but really... I could have said Nice Timex.
Darren was meeting me for one of our lunches. We hook up at this nasty little diner for these lunches, where we can jaw up new ideas in private. And he comes in wearing this babe in a scant $500 dress. And he's wearing that huge smug smiley face I can't stand. There's no doubt but that he's also wearing aftershave.
"You fucking show-off," I shout.
I mean, he's blown our fucking cover. I'm tired of him doing this glittery shit. And I really don't like the way this woman is looking at me--I can give back better than that by the bucket.
"You're like a crow, Darren, you know that?--quite an eye for the scraps of flashy trash."
She's looking at me like a bug she wants squashed.
"With all due respect, ma'am," I gave her a cowboy nod.
They sat down across the table from me.
Darren has a cement grin. "Ray, this is Panama; Panama, this is Ray." I extended my hand, truly meaning to calm down. She looks at it with distaste, like a cut of spoiled meat, then ignores it.
"Darren's told me about you." The auspicious pre-introduction aside, her tone is evident that he imparted nothing but slander.
"Panama? huh?" I turned to Darren, continuing, "Goddamn good of you to bring the Canal back into American hands. Fuck Carter. How about hiking her skirt and showing us the goods. Ready for the passage of a strange ship eager to rededicate the transport?"
So there the three of us are, cozy as can be in a Cuban cottage.
What bugs me is that she's included so he can show her off. He's done this before. And it bugs me. Showing off to me. Showing her off to me. There is no doubt that Panama is a woman well-worth the showing and well-worth the show. You'd have to be of another species not to mentally undress her the first time you saw her. The second and quite a few other times as well. Man, woman or child; she's that tasty. But I get tired of all the rehearsed grab-assing.
She's rather enthusiastic, it seems; there's no doubt that she's whipping him on along.
I don't care that they're at it morning, noon and night for all the world to hear. I don't care that Darren's always got that grin like he's been eating shit by the truckload. I don't care that there's Panama hanging out on the sofa, barely dressed and verily hanging out. Lounging around and reeking of fresh-fucked cunt. A steam bath of semen.
It's her attitude I don't like. She can be decent to other people. But me, she either pretends I'm not in the room, or she acts like I should be paying for the privilege of getting so much as a glance off her. Hell with that!
Sitting there like she's the big tube of filet behind the glass case. Specialty cuts. Gotta ring the bell to get the butcher up front. Leave a credit card as a deposit. And she's like, cheap ground beef for you, boy! That grey glop over in the cooler. 89¢ a pound. 20% fat content. 20% gristle, cartilage and bone. 20% floor sweepings. Dog food for people.
I don't do dogfood. Nor do I have much tolerance for fancy cow.
Fortunately I'm quickly too busy to care about any of that. To think of any of that. To even be around any of that.
I'm spectacular in the preliminary rounds of meetings. I got a shoe off and I'm banging it on the table. I can see the awe in their eyes--this crazy nordamericano, he's even better than Kruschev!
"Cuban cane is incomparable. You're gonna fuck them beet boys up in Lousyana! They put the goddamn nooses on themselves--what we're gonna do is cut the fucking floor right out from under them, stand down there and watch 'em hang! We're gonna make all them subsidized gringo grain men suck up all their goddamn corn syrup."
Yea, right, of course our plans will put a bunch of peasants out of work. But honestly, who's ever really given a shit about the peasants anyway. And then there's the beauty of the Communist Model: full employment. Just pay the poor bastards to sweep the beaches or something. Hey, that way everything'll be real pretty when they get that tourism thing going again.
We get the wink, the nudge, the nod. I see that old Bearded Bastard listening in at the cracked door. His head nodding up and down through the blur of the door's upper pane of frosted glass.
This leaves Darren on a flight back to Miami to get the boat and bucks on their way, while I get ideas to spend all my comparable time schmoozing.
Darren's plane flaps off the runway at ten in the morning. Sure it's early enough in the morning, but hell, the morning's almost shot, the morning's half the day, and I got a fucking full day ahead of me.
I gotta get my goddamn name on all the pieces of papers. I really need to go lick some Castro butt.
Darren's the kind of business partner, you know, you're a team, a fucking team--you go at it together, get that victory clenched, all but in hand, and the bastard starts thinking what do I need that bastard for?!! He'll fuck you over in a New York second. Not that that's ever happened to me. That's why we're still partners--I don't let him. The slime doesn't know the meaning of slippery.
I do all the papers I can get my hands on. Then I manage an audience, hanging out with Castro for a few hours in the late afternoon. It's his hand has to spell out my name on the rest of the documents.
It's incredible. After all these decades, the Bearded Buffoon has no command of the chronic enemy's language. I could have strolled in saying, "Hey Castro, I'm here to suck your cock," and he would have had to turn to the guy seated off to the side in an upholstered chair.
The guy turned out to be a good translator; at least, all the funny quips I kept making did, after a deathly mumbled pause, make the big guy roar. And when I turned serious, professing the bedrock of my sympathy for socialism, I swear Fidel's eyes welled up.
And then I'm chattering away, the translation like an echo, "That big cigar in your mouth, you don't even want to know what those things sell for in the States. The only way to vanquish your foe is to learn to fight him with his own weaponry. To be blunt, just how much of that margin makes its way back to madre cuba?"
I really ended with that. Quickly. Correctly. With the C blunt and the U long, pronounced like 'cuda, as in barracuda, as in the shape of the fucking island, as in its danger to the fat seaslug to the north.
Well, you know, me and Fidel, we're back standing up and shaking hands for like ten minutes. He's mumbling away and the translator's words are bouncing off my tympanic membranes. I've seen him write my name on lots of papers. I decline the dinner invite, modestly, in a way that leaves Castro smiling happy and clapping me on my shoulder.
A girl is sent to escort me home.
Not staying for dinner apparently entitles me to some take-out.
But she's not a girl. Her name is Emma, while she looks full-blooded. She speaks Spanish with an English-language accent. Her parents were pals of Castro, knighted diplomats; she grew up in private schools in Europe. Her command of English is much gooder than mine.
"You know," I mentioned as we walked along the road, "anytime you want to ditch out is fine with me. I'm not going to, I mean I'm not, that is, you know... use your services or whatever. Not like that."
"Then like what?" Emma asked back.
"Well, you know. Like those other duties as assigned of yours."
"What you mean?" she shrieked, "like some sort of class sacrifice of your entitlements?"
Her grin was what made me love her.
"What? You don't want the fuck of your life?!! I'm a paid professional, mind you, employed in a top governmental capacity."
"Well, I hardly dare doubt that," I smiled back.
"I've returned to my island," Emma nodded, "I'm serving my country, my sacrifice is justly compensated, and I get to fuck like crazy."
"I've got a better idea."
"And what's that?"
"You masturbate like wild, for the love of your country. Not to discomfit you too much, but I will have to be in the room at the time."
I explicated my plan. She loved it.
The bedrooms have those wonderful French doors out onto the terrace, so one can come home without announcing it via the entry hall. As we bustled past the bushes, I could see Panama sitting on the couch in the livingroom.
There was the long creaky wisp of pulling the sagging doors in across the flagging. The final sharp click of the latch.
Then we spent an hour or so in my room. Emma lay on the bed and enjoyed herself vastly for most of the time. She whimpered and cried out salaciously, in a level of Spanish I could understand; it was all cocks and cunts and my name.
Very nearby big tower bells clanged; Emma explained the bells rang nightly, at this off-hour, in honor of some revolutionary martyrdom or another. She informed me of this while she had nearly a hand's-worth of fingers crammed up inside her, pointedly eyeing my crotch. I was mightily tempted, but I didn't want to get submerged in my plan.
Instead I ignored my erection and pressed her for a promise of different girls for the same the next couple of nights.
On the third night I had the grand fortune of getting a real moaner. The woman keened on cue and key. And had a rather nasty prattle going on. That I could decipher because of course when one sets out to learn a new language, all the dirty slang comes first.
Clappers hit bells badly nearby.
So I slipped out the French doors. Stepping carefully through the foliage.
The next room over, lights on, bold as day, there's Panama sort of slumped on the sofa with her pants to her knees. Busy, busy hands! Well along in pulling her pud, as us boys always say.
All this in three nights! A few more nights, man, it's classic Pavlov.
The bells! the bells!
Then there's the night I don't go out to round up my whore. I don't say anything about it, and what can she say about it when for the first night I don't go away?
Panama started getting all fidgety. The caged big-cat syndrome. Like she had some roaming that needed getting done, but something was in the way. As if I was standing in the way of her and the t.v., so the remote didn't work.
Aeryn
- 30.08.2021
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