by Alan, TS
David, having seen how upset Marisol was, asked why she was crying. I told him I broke her heart. He knew what I told Marisol. I had confided in him.
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,” was his response. He shook my hand, hugged me, in that caring, but not too emotional way, and said, “Take care, bro.” Then he walked away.
I knew he would keep my secret from the others, but I was sure Marisol would seek the solace of a confidant. Eventually everyone would find out what happened. I wanted to tell them myself, but I felt the sooner I was away from them, the safer they would be.
Sometime during the third week I heard Marisol’s voice at the door. She had given a light knock and announced my meal had arrived. It was a polite announcement but devoid of any real emotion. She slid the meal tray under the door, where Corporal Drukker had engineered a serving slot, and then departed.
The brief salutations continued into the forth week, until one evening I heard a solemn plea to open the door, because Max missed me. I heard a scratch at the door. As the week progressed, Marisol’s beseeching grew, admitting she missed me, too. But I never went to the door, nor ever acknowledged anyone with any verbal communication except the doctor.
I hid away, mostly meditating and exercising, practicing as much of my martial arts routines that the living space could accommodate. I did miss them, especially Marisol and Max, but it was for the best. Unless Doctor France could put my mutation into dormancy there was always a chance, without warning, that I could get worse and turn against them. This was a risk I was unwilling to take, even though at times they beckoned my return.
One late afternoon, the doctor came to me with the latest results. France seemed to be extremely pleased with himself at his discovery. It was an explanation to the transmute anomaly, what he had hoped to discern before he was unceremoniously handed a cease and desist notice, and a transfer notification from his superiors. Through various reagents and comparative sequence analysis he discovered protein damage in my mutated CCR5 gene. The damage impeded the gene’s ability to completely block acquisition. This made me one of the unexplained anomalies that mutated. Though the doctor’s experimental antivirus had temporarily halted the metamorphic changes, it had not destroyed the disease, only slowed its replication. I suppose I was lucky. I hadn’t changed completely, yet… and for my friends it stopped the infection.
However, in order to halt the progression of my genetic mutations, stem cells from a donor with the CCR5 delta-32 allele would have to be transplanted into me. This, Doctor France said, could be done. The Genomic DNA extraction process could be synthesized utilizing the equipment in the facility’s laboratories. As good as that news was, there was a downside. Not enough genetic material had been retrieved from the train for both Luci and myself, even with Master Sergeant Brown’s and Corporal Drukker’s contributions.
In order for a patient to remain without viral rebound, continued transplantation would be necessary. France warned that discontinuation of antiretroviral therapy typically leads to a rapid rebound of HIV load within weeks, and therefore, in all likelihood, the same would occur for Trixoxen. I had a choice: use the stem cells for my own therapy or use it for Luci. The obvious choice—the doctor made sure to inform me—was for myself, because it was highly unlikely that he could reverse the damage done to Luci’s DNA and Luci was gone. The obvious choice wasn’t necessarily the right choice for me. I wanted to help Luci; it was the right thing to do. Then again, I didn’t want to become a full-fledged transmute. I liked being me.
The doctor left me to think about it.
Most likely, I would fully mutate—not a certainty, but a probability. The thought of being a condemned man serving out a sentence in solitary confinement brought me anxiety. I could not condemn anyone, much less myself, to such isolation. Even the most heinous crimes should not be punished with solitude. It was more ethical to terminate the condemned. However, seppuku was not a tradition or a practice in which I was willing to partake. If I chose to forego transplantation, I either would have to leave when the chaos above subsided, or re-integrate myself into our little society with a shoot to kill order if I suddenly turned.
I decided to meditate. Like Stargate SG-1’s Teal’c in deep kelnorim, I could submerge myself, oblivious to my surroundings, for hours. However, Teal’c didn’t have a drunk and disorderly ex-Marine to contend with.
It was 9:00 p.m. I ate, completed writing another journal chapter, showered, and began my evening mediation. I was reaching the tranquil oblivious state when I heard a loud thud and shattering of glass at my door. Joe was ranting and raving, spewing obscenities like a foul-mouth derelict going into DTs. He had been drinking heavily and was taking out his anger and frustration on my door, trying to get my attention and provoke me into something.
I lost my peaceful place and was going somewhere I didn’t want to go. When I heard the frantic shouts of my friends trying to calm Joe down I knew I would have to do something. I put on my sneakers and approached the door in olive drab boxer underwear and an olive drab wife-beater.
Everyone was surprised when I came out of my room. When Joe saw me he broke loose from David and Sam’s grasp and ran toward me. I stepped out of the doorway, over the broken glass, and met his challenge, which was not a challenge at all. I blocked his left punch, which had been directed at my face, and cold-cocked him upside his head. He stumbled a few feet sideways and collapsed unconscious to the floor.
“Could someone lock his drunk-ass in his room? And clean up this mess, please.”
“Only if you deal with this problem in the morning,” Julie said, speaking for all of them, though Marisol and Max were not present. I assumed they were on command center duty.
“He’s out, no more problem.”
“That’s the tip of the proverbial iceberg, J.D. He’s a—”
“Fucking pain in the ass that needs more than just a bitch-slap,” Drukker said, interrupting Julie.
I was taken aback for a moment. I had never heard Sam swear. “And why is that?” I asked.
“Because you’re not doing what you agreed to do,” Julie said, giving me notice of my dereliction of duty.
My unwanted, elected duty was to be “Team Leader” and “Committee Chairman.” Before I hid away, Julie decided a committee needed to be formed in order to facilitate repairs, inventory, daily job assignments, and rules of conduct and duty. We called it the survivor committee.
After several minutes of being admonished and apprised of the situation, I decided on a conditional release from my self-imposed exile. I would re-enter society and fulfill my obligation as leader, but there was to be two stipulations: all personnel had to be armed at all times, and if I was considered a risk I was to be terminated, or if possible, ejected from the base.
Begrudgingly, they agreed.
I ended up taking Joe to his room. Kermit cleaned up the shattered bottle.
* * *
When I returned I found Marisol sitting on the edge of my bed with a piece of cake in her hand and Max by her feet. She stood up when I entered and presented me with the desert. It was adorned with a singular used and unlit birthday candle. She was dressed like I was, boxers and an undershirt. Her boxers hung low, barely clinging to her tiny hips. The undersized shirt clung tightly to her full breasts revealing her erect nipples through the olive drab material and an ample amount of cleavage through the neckline, which she trimmed lower to accommodate her figure. Her beauty and sensuality stirred me. My feelings for her were more than just sexual, but it was lustful desire arousing my libido.
“What’s this?” I asked, as she drew closer.
Max sat by my feet. I patted him on his head as Marisol responded.
“It’s cake.”
“I see, but why?”
“It’s my birthday and I wanted to share my cake with you. Chef made it. It’s chocolate.”
“Chef?”
“Yes, Chef. Kermit.”
&n
bsp; How about that, I thought to myself, she gets to call him that but I don’t. The old man must have a soft spot for the ladies.
“Happy sweet sixteen.”
“Sixteen!? Why do say that?”
“Because you told me you were fifteen.”
She looked at me with a puzzled look.
“In the guard house at conEd. When you were changing your clothes, remember?”
She gave me a knowing smirk. “Oh, yeah. I was just playin’ with you since you were peeking at me.”
I was busted, and I tried to think of something clever to say, but couldn’t. I finally said, “Guilty.”
“That’s okay. You didn’t see anything except my butt. I have a nice butt, don’t you think?”
I hesitated. “You playing with me?”
Marisol walked toward me as she spoke. “Do you want me to…? Cake?”
“Ah, no thanks.”
“Me or cake?” she said, as she gave me a look of seduction.
I took a step away to allow her an unhindered exit. “Uh, okay. I think it’s time for you to go.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m confused. First you hate me; now it sounds like you want to fuck me. Is this a payback thing? Get me all worked up and then walk out?”
She walked away from me and placed the cake on the dresser. “I’m not like that,” she said, her head hung low, still looking at the piece of cake.
“Then what is this about?”
“It’s about my eighteenth birthday. I have no one to share it with. No family, and you’re the only one I want to be with.” She turned around and faced me. “I’m eighteen and I wanted… wanted—”
I could see the tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
“No tears,” I said roughly, interrupting. “I won’t fall for that.”
“You’re an asshole!” she shouted, with anger and resentment evident in her face. “I came to say I was sorry for acting the way I did. I realized that we weren’t boyfriend/girlfriend, and I shouldn’t have gotten so mad when you told me you had sex with that… person. It just hurt, because I thought you really liked me. I’ve missed you. I wanted you to be my boyfriend tonight. But all you are is a pendajo!”
She slapped my face.
I cried out, “What the fuck!?”
Max growled.
She did it again on the same cheek.
Again, Max growled. I silenced him.
She slapped my face a third time.
“Stop hitting me,” I shouted.
She attempted another strike; this time I grabbed her hand.
“Isn’t this like a movie?” Marisol said. “The girl slaps the guy and then they make love?”
This time she slapped the other side of my face with her left hand. I grabbed her hand as she drew back for another strike. I had control of both her arms as I grasped firmly onto her wrists.
She drove herself into me as I held her arms away from her. She was not trying to break free, but attempting to kiss me. She pressed her body firmly against mine. Her breasts were large, round, soft, yet firm. Her long silken hair smelled of coconut. I felt my manhood swelling and so did she. She gave me a naughty knowing smile and I succumbed.
Her lips were shiny and fragrant. Her kiss was soft and moist. Her skin was smooth and smelled of apricots. She wore mascara and understated eye shadow, enough to enhance her beauty but not to be her beauty. She had come fully prepared for seduction.
As we lay in bed I felt the savage, burning urge to mount her and thrust myself into her. I was hard and ready. The urge was strong, but not as strong at it had been with Luci. I concentrated and was able to overcome my immediate need. I slowly caressed her. Her light brown skin was soft and ever so warm. She was thin, enough so that her pelvic bones protruded slightly as she lay on her back, but she still had all the fullness and curves of a woman.
She trembled lightly in my arms, slightly embarrassed and uncomfortable in her nakedness as I slowly and deliberately explored every facet of her soft, exquisite body.
Telling Marisol I loved her would have been the wrong thing to say. I had not reached that point in our newly developing relationship. I had very strong and growing feelings for her. I was overwhelmed with joy that she had found it in her heart to accept what happened between Luci and I, and realize that what transpired was not love, but an out of control, primal, sexual need.
Telling her she was beautiful would have been acceptable, but I thought it a bit trite. Any man can say those words to his partner, and mean it. But Marisol felt emotional vulnerability. She needed to know that she made the right decision. She needed words of reassurance to ease her anxiousness, and words that would make her less self-conscious about exposing her body to me.
I whispered softly to her, “It feels good to touch you like this.”
Moving my hand from her upper pelvic area between her legs, I said, “I want to make you feel good. I want you to always remember our first time together.”
I gently kissed and suckled her body, moving past the cross that lay near the nape of her neck, over her full breasts and down to her tender stomach. My hand teased and probed her opening and clitoris. Marisol placed her hands on the back of my head, gently caressing me and moaning slightly.
“Mi amor,” she gasped with a slight breathlessness in her voice. “Te deseo tanto.”
Her womanhood was bare and smooth. My desire to be inside her was growing stronger, but I controlled my passion and continued to pleasure her. Her body to tightened and quivered from the building excitement of my loving attentiveness. She gasped and moaned as she began to climax. When she had finished her orgasm from my slow and teasing foreplay, I moved myself between her wanting thighs, and slowly maneuvered into place.
“Please,” she beseeched, then whispered, “Be gentle. I’ve never done this.” Then she abruptly told me to stop. “Do you have a condom?”
“A condom?” I asked.
“Mi amor. I don’t want to make any babies. Not now.”
“A condom,” I repeated.
At times I used to carry condoms in my go-bag, but it had been such a long time since I had been in a relationship, or on a date, I wasn’t sure if I had any.
She was right; we didn’t need to make babies. As awkward as it was, I got out of bed and went to the closet where I had tossed my old bag. I found some buried in a side pocket below a pair of socks.
I turned around, showed her the condoms, and said, “Condones. Está bien?”
“Chingaso,” she replied, slightly embarrassed and astonished as she stared at my erection.
I wasn’t sure how to reply to her comment. Her comment was meant as compliment, but it I didn’t know how to reply to her urban slang. So I said nothing.
“Papi. Vuelve a la cama y calientame,” she beckoned.
She wanted me in bed to keep her warm, but her seductive words were not just meant for my warmth; they were an invitation. She allowed me to fulfill my need, repeatedly, into the early hours of the morning.
We did not sleep much. We were too busy exploring one another’s bodies, giving each other pleasure, and getting to know one another, which was something we previously hadn’t done. As we lay in bed cuddling and talking about our lives before the end of humanity, she asked about my scars.
Everyone has emotional luggage. Most people learn to cope with it while others suffer their whole lives with it, a few to a tragic end. I came to terms with my stupidity and acknowledged my poor judgment and arrogance, but that still didn’t mean I liked talking about it. When I came up with an evasive answer, Marisol could see it was a sensitive topic. She gently kissed my scar and changed the subject.
“Why do you have those big tattoos on your arms, mi amor? You look like one of those Japanese Mafia guys.”
“Yakuza,” I said. “No, it’s not anything bad.”
“The dragon is cool. But why the fish and water? Isn’t that kind of… girly?”
“Koi no takinobori,” I said. “Ko
i’s waterfall climbing. Means to succeed vigorously in life. Japanese and Chinese mythology believes a carp that can swim upstream and jump the waterfalls will be transformed into a dragon. It’s symbolic for life’s struggle and achieving your goal.”
I had two tattoos. On my left upper arm there was a koi and a waterfall. On the other was a dragon flying into the clouds. Both ran from above my elbow to my humerus bone, and were mainly inked on the deltoid region. They were traditional in design, though not traditional in application.
I learned things about Marisol. Her last name was De La Garza and she was born in New York City. Her parents were of mixed nationality. Her father was Columbian and her mother was Mexican. Once a year she returned to her maternal homeland for what her mother and father called vacation month, which was anything but a holiday. Her parents enrolled her in parochial school to learn true Spanish, how to pray properly, and to be taught how to socialize in a manner befitting a young lady. The coming summer would have been her last “vacation” before entering into M.I.T. on a full mathematics scholarship. Her family did not tolerate Spanglish, or any form of urban slang. She used it when she talked to her friends, but never around family members because she knew she would get slapped. I preferred to hear her speak proper Spanish. Vulgarities from her mouth made her crude and less ladylike. It was bad enough I was rude and crude; it didn’t sound right coming from her.
We fell asleep around dawn, but our sleep was light and restless. We held one another close until the waning morning stirred us from bed. Our shower turned to passionate lovemaking; the sensation of water flowing over our flesh fueled our desire. As we softly patted one another dry, paying more attention to our kissing than our drying, Marisol removed her silver cross pendant with its clear center stone and tried to place it around my neck.
