Blonde, Naked, in the Jungle

by K. Walker

  I admit it was a little thrilling. A genuine mobster! Next day, after his one drink he didn’t leave like he did usually. He waived me over to his table.

  “Siddown, talk to me, things are quiet, you got nothing else to do,” he rumbled in his deep bass voice with just a hint of accent. So I talked to him. Next day he was there again. He knew funny stories about celebrities in Vegas. Talking and drinking every day for a week, and he left a hundred dollar tip each time. I could see where this was going, and I let it. One day he invited me for dinner on my day off. A glittering restaurant, all linen tablecloths and heavy silver. After dinner he offered to show me his penthouse condo, and I went, and we ended up in bed.

  It wasn’t like I was selling myself, not really, I told myself a little anxiously. But it wasn’t exactly that he turned me on, either. He was old, you know? But he was interesting and a little thrilling. With his hand-tailored suit off, he had a bit of a stomach, but the muscles of his arms and shoulders were immense. He stood about six foot five and as wide as a door. There was nothing slick about his style in bed, a little stroking to get me wet, then slide that big Italian thing inside me. He lasted a long time, which I guess is the upside of being old. I didn’t come, which is very unusual for me, but I faked it to make him feel good, and that made me feel cheap. Afterwards, he smoked a cigar in bed.

  “You’re a good kid. You wanna drink? I got the best Scotch or Bourbon.”

  “No thanks, I don’t touch the hard stuff.

  “How come? Don’t like it?”

  “My Dad drank too much, it put me off.”

  “OK.” In a bar he had been fun, but in bed his conversation kind of dried up. Soon he was asleep, and I lay awake thinking about the future. Did I want to be a mobster’s girlfriend? What were the duties and the benefits? I decided that I probably didn’t, but I wasn’t ready to burn any bridges.

  Next day, he dropped me off at work in his big Caddy.

  “See you Wednesday,” were his farewell words.

  Sure enough, two days later he showed up, this time about midnight when my shift was about to end, evidently planned to take me home with him. But I had the car, and Puri needed my ride to our home when her job ended. He didn’t like that, but he didn’t sulk much. Next day, he picked me up for a noon-er, making it alright with the club. Again, a long hard fuck and no orgasm for me. He didn’t shower me with jewels. Or offer to fly us both to Paris. I was beginning to wonder, when would the glamour of being a gun moll start?

  “Who am I, Angelo,” I asked him. “Am I your girlfriend? What does your girlfriend do? I mean, besides …that.” He laughed.

  “Shit, baby, I’m old. I won’t need you so often. Maybe sometime I take you to the Bellagio and let you gamble with my money. If you win, you can keep it. If you lose, I just fuck you harder next time. Buy you some nice dresses. Some friends are in town next week, maybe we have a party. Don’t worry about the club, they will give you time off if I ask them.”

  “I’m saving money for college. I can’t afford to miss work.”

  “I’ll give you what you would have made.” I thought about that for a moment. I would really prefer cash that I could bank. Anyway, he wasn’t exactly talking diamonds and furs. But I didn’t want to be the one to ask for more, because then what am I but a whore?

  “I prefer to work for my money.”

  “Me too,” he replied with a thin smile. “My work is different from some people, but I do it well.” He took me back to the club, where my shift felt longer than usual and I thought the other girls were gossiping. They shut up when I approached.

  That Sunday, he did take me to a casino, although not a fancy one. He gave me $500 to play with, and in no time I lost every penny. He gave me another thousand, and I lost that. It bothered me, to think of the waste. I guess gambling is not for me. Winning may be great but losing is misery, and in the end everybody loses but the house.

  Then, sure enough, he took me back to his penthouse and fucked me for half an hour, he standing up, me on the side of the bed with my ankles on his shoulders. Still no Big O.

  The following week, there was to be a party in his place. The night before, he picked me up when my night shift ended and took me to the apartment. I had loaned my car to Puri. I was tired and trying to figure out what to say, how to get out of this without pissing off a dangerous man. The smell of cigarette smoke, and food, and his cigar, hung over us both. He was impatient, and tried to hustle me straight to the bedroom.

  “Wait a minute, OK? Let’s clean up, all I can smell is cigar,” I said peevishly. His face hardened, then settled into a blank unreadable mask.

  “You think the old man smells bad?” he asked quietly. “Now I smell too bad to fuck?”

  “I never said that. I just want a shower, OK? Then we can do whatever you like.” He stood silent for a moment, then laughed harshly.

  “Ok. Come On.” My clothes went in a heap, and the big tiled shower with its multiple heads felt good. He joined in a minute or two, after hanging up that expensive suit, and we scrubbed and played, and I stroked him, and it seemed things were OK. We dried each other off and then he carried me to the big king-sized bed and laid me on the edge, with my bottom nearly falling off and my feet on either side of his head. He stood there, filling me up, and he set a punishing rhythm. I started to get into it, my breath coming in quick little gasps. His eyes gleamed, like he knew just what he was doing. He knew, after all, a lot more about this than I did. I wondered how many hundreds of women he had fucked.

  Suddenly he pulled out, picked me up like a feather and flung me head down over his left shoulder. I never knew before just how strong he was. He walked quickly through the apartment to the living room, kicked open the doors to the big terrace outside, and carried me into the hot Las Vegas night. The bright lights of The Strip gleamed in the distance. We were twenty floors up, and the nearest building was quite a ways off, but Christ, I was naked.

  “Angelo,” I whispered, “Please…” I don’t know to this day, what was supposed to come after please.

  “Shut up and take it.” He carried me to the thick shoulder-high clear glass barrier that surrounded the terrace, topped with a round bronze railing, and plunked me down.

  “Grab the rail,” he said, in a voice that did not permit hesitation. I grabbed it as though my life depended on it. Maybe it did? In a moment he slammed into my from behind, filling me to the brim, stretched and a little sore and wild. He pulled back and slammed forward. The force of the strokes rocked my whole body. Again. Again. The desert wind blew against my nipples. Then he pulled nearly out and, with an open palm, slapped the right cheek of my ass. It felt hard but controlled. I knew that he could break me like a twig, but that wasn’t on the program.

  “Ouch!” I cried.

  “You earned it, you get it,” he replied. “Now, you gonna take. You want the neighbors to hear? You want maybe they take pictures?” I struggled to be silent as he fucked me hard, five or six in-and-outs more, then on the out cycle he slapped my left cheek. This went on for a long time, and I could feel my ass burning. Ten slaps, fifteen, I lost count. I could also feel my insides twitch. In my whole life, nobody ever hit me. I ought to be mad as hell. But I was also turned on. And it didn’t hurt that bad. I began to moan.

  “That’s it, you like it rough?” He suddenly increased the pace, a short-stroke hammering back and forth just an inch or two, that left me always full but always moving. The familiar wildness began to take over, my legs shook, my thighs spasmed uncontrollably, until finally I cried out helplessly, overwhelmed, shattered, heedless of whoever might hear, caring for nothing by the waves of pleasure that shook my body and erased my mind. Nothing else existed. I was scarcely aware when he came, filling me like a shot glass and running down my thighs. Spent, I released the railing and sank to the tile floor of the terrace in a daze. When I regained consciousness, I was in the bed.

  “So, you do like to fuck,” he rumbled into my ear. “I been around. I can tell.
”

  Next night was his party. I went reluctantly. The previous night had been intense, but maybe not in a way that I wanted again. I was afraid of my own reactions, afraid I was setting myself up for a bad life. I resolved to say something to Angelo, soon. The party would mean another shift missed, but Angelo gave me $500 in cash and said to forget about it.

  The party was catered, I didn’t have to do a thing but stand there in a short dress and spike heels. Lobster rolls and shrimps on toothpicks. An open bar, with Krystal and Grey Goose. Waiters in black tie. About 20 guys, most with dates, the girls hot looking but kinda hard. I knew nobody. The girls all Latinas, as were nearly all the guys. They were a full generation younger than Angelo. Nobody talked business, but it was pretty clear the businesses were crooked. Angelo made a big deal out of introducing me to a guy named Roberto.

  “He’s a cousin of a business partner,” Angelo whispered in my ear. Roberto was skinny and nervous looking, with bad skin and a scar on one ear. He pinched my ass before I had known him five minutes. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of Angelo’s people, so I hid out in a bathroom. When I came out, Roberto was gone.

  “Where you been? “ Angelo grumbled. “People been asking about you?”

  “What people? Nobody knows me.”

  “Roberto, he asked about you.” I shrugged with irritation.

  The last guests left, the caterers cleaned up and left, we were alone. Angelo looked angry at me.

  “You should respect my friends.”

  “Angelo, we have to talk.’

  “So, talk!” He sat down in a heavy leather easy chair and kicked off his shoes. My mind was in a whirl, trying to figure out the right things to say.

  “You’re a great guy. You are generous to me. You make love great. But…”

  “But what? Always the but’s…”

  “This is not what I want for my life. I didn’t come to Vegas to be a girlfriend, I came to earn money and save up for college. I’m not a Vegas type of girl, I’m a college girl who just can’t afford to go. The quicker I save the money I need, the quicker my life will be back on track. I think,” I held my breath, “I think maybe we shouldn’t see each other any more.” He was so big and so strong, and he had killed people. Would he hurt me? He looked at me quietly for a long time, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he shrugged.

  “OK. There are a lot of pretty girls in Vegas. I gave you a chance. Why don’t you want to do what other girls do? If you asked me for a gold bracelet, I would buy it. Pretty dresses, I would buy them. Nice vacation, maybe go to Hawaii, we could do that. You worry all the time about money. I have money.”

  “Fine, then send me to college. Pay for me to attend college, and I can visit you.” I could scarcely believe I was saying this. What if he said yes? But he didn’t.

  “No,” he shook his head. “That’s too much. And I wouldn’t see you enough. You want to be my girlfriend, live here, I will give you an allowance. Otherwise, I guess we are done.”

  “Then we are done. But be my friend, Angelo. Don’t be mad at me. I need to do what I need for my own life. I need to be happy with my future. OK?”

  “You tell me I smell bad, and you disrespect my friends. I guess you are right. You’re not cut out for this life.” He looked grim, then shrugged again.

  “But I had some good times with you. So, we stay friends, OK. Maybe I come to the club occasionally, we talk, I give you a tip. What the hell. Friends? Sure.”

  Chapter Two: Kidnapped, Into the Jungle

  Angelo drove me to the little house that Puri and I rented, and I didn’t see him for two weeks. Then, middle of a quiet afternoon, he showed up. He was smiling.

  “Hey, kid. How are you.” It was like he had never been mad. We talked about this and that, then he had to go. As he got up, he took a fat envelope out of his inside coat pocket.

  “I didn’t forget what you said. Jobs and stuff. Take a look at this. I think I can help you. Much faster and cheaper than college. Take a look.” He left.

  It was material about language training in South America, and about how to become qualified as an ESL teacher or a professional translator. I should say here, that I speak and write really good Spanish, as in totally bilingual. You reply, what’s the big deal, she had a Mexican Mom and grew up in Arizona? But my Mom was born here. A surprising number of ex-Mexicans speak the language badly, or speak a dialect rather than standard Spanish, or their English is full of grammatical errors. I took Spanish in high school starting with a third-year level course, then two years of AP classes in Spanish-language literature. I am really seriously bilingual at a high level. I know that I could translate documents, maybe even do simultaneous interpreting, but no one would hire me without a credential. A school in Venezuela claimed they could give me a paper that would open the doors. I talked it over with Puri. She knew someone whose sister trained in Merida, in Venezuela, and now worked in New York. I thought about it a lot, and began to get enthusiastic. But I wondered about the college end. The best jobs all required a B.A. as well as the language certification. But Angelo, when he showed up a few days later, had an answer for that also.

  “You make these things too hard,” he told me. “Don’t let them make a sucker out of you. College is just a piece of paper. You maybe need a piece of paper to get a good job? Buy the paper!” And he told me about places where you can buy a degree, with transcripts and everything. It might not work for a public school teaching job, because they require student teaching experience. But if you have the language skills, and any old sort of degree, a translation or interpretation firm doesn’t look farther.

  “I’ve heard you talking Spanish. You can do it,” he encouraged me. “This can be the gold bracelet I never bought you.”

  Things moved fast. I called Mom, and she saw no objection. The course in Venezuela would take just six weeks. Angelo would buy me the college degree when I got back. This all sounded a lot better than two years working and saving, then four years in college, before I could earn a penny as a teacher. So, I said yes. Angelo arranged it all, the air tickets, the application, paid the fees. The approval from the school in Merida came in a week. I looked at pictures on line. It’s a beautiful city, in the Andes in the west of Venezuela, not far from Colombia.

  Three nights before I was to leave, I worked a final shift at the club, then decided on impulse to give Angelo a farewell present. I parked my old Chevy at his fancy place, and the reception desk called up to his apartment because I didn’t have a key. But it didn’t work out. Over the phone I heard a woman’s voice in the background.

  “Sorry, honey. This is not a good night. But you have a great time in Venezuela, and call me when you get back.” Mom and Puri saw me off, Mom had come from Tucson on the bus. I permanent-loaned the Chevy to Puri. My great adventure had begun.

  One thing surprised me. As I was walking across the asphalt toward my plane, I looked back and, standing inside a big plate glass window of the terminal I saw Angelo. He had come to see me off! How nice. He smiled and waved and laughed, and I waved back. He really looked happy for me.

  It was a long trip, flying first to Miami. After the first few hours, I got too tired and stiff from sitting to be scared of flying. Overnight there, then a new plane and on to Caracas, where you land not at the city but on the coast nearby at a place called Maiquetia. The heat and humidity hit me like a blast, walking down the stairs from the plane. Customs and immigration went quickly, then I went directly to the plane for the short hop to El Vigia, a small city an hour by road from Merida. We would arrive about 3 p.m. The airport in Merida itself (Google told me) was spectacular, set in the mountains, but so dangerous it was shut down a few years ago. But the letter from the school said not to worry, I would be met and driven the last lap. Sure enough, there was a youngish fellow with a pencil mustache and a guayabera shirt, holding up a sign “Katie Sornsen” and a taxi waiting outside.

  “Wow, a taxi,” I said naively. “Great service.” Without thinking
, I spoke in English, and he replied in the same.

  “Only the best for our students”, and he smiled. The driver threw my bag into the trunk, but I kept my backpack. The guide leaned back in his corner of the back seat and relaxed. We quickly pulled out of town, heading south on Highway 1. I gawked out the windows. The taxi was not air conditioned, but we seemed to be getting higher in the cool hills. The Andes on both sides were spectacular. Little towns and hamlets came every few miles, roadside stands that sold drinks and food. Slummy little houses with tin or thatched roofs. Not that different from some of the informal settlements I had seen in Arizona. But after a half hour, I was puzzled. I knew that Merida was roughly east and then due north from El Vigia. The afternoon sun was still on my right hand. Why were we heading south?

  “Excuse me,” I asked the guide. “You do know that I need to be taken to the Instituto in Merida?”

  “Sure, sure, no problem,” he said, not stirring from his spot.

  “But Merida is north, and we are heading south.” He smiled.

  “There is a special excursion today, the new students are all to meet at the Chorro El Indio national park, to see a famous waterfall. Then, we go to the home where you will live with a family. Tomorrow, is time to check in at the school. See, everything OK.”

  That seemed odd, to take students on an excursion before they even registered, when they were tired from travel. It would be dark in a few hours. How could we see much of the park? The road was not very good now, and we would have to retrace our ride in the dark. I told the man that I would prefer to skip the outing, and to please take me directly to Merida.