Big Stick, by Ricardo Nirenberg.


"Speak softly and carry a big stick: you will go far." Theodore Roosevelt


"It hurts, doesn't it?" Fay raises one haunch, then the other, to check if it hurts, each time lifting a dainty, perfect foot off her sandals.

"Mmm... yes, it does," she coos.

Those sandals, she bought them in New York exclusively for me, for our trysts, because I like her in high heels, but of course it was Frank, her unsuspecting hubby, who ended up footing the bill.

"Not as bad as it hurt two months ago, though, when I couldn't sit for hours after making love with you," she laughs, while she brushes her long, jet-black hair, naked before the dresser.

I watch myself up in the ceiling mirror. Awesome abs, powerful pecs, great lats. Schwarzenegger's lying on a heart-shaped water bed, and I'm not making this up. If I was money-oriented, which I'm not, I could have a great career in the movies. Look at me. Ladies' Latin Delight, Gaucho Mucho Macho, The Wild Bull from the Pampas. Then I look at Fay brushing her hair. She looks like china or porcelain, the sweet concavity of her lower back sluicing down to her superb buttocks and, underneath, that shade like earth just plowed, still moist with the spray of my lovetide. She says now it doesn't hurt her as bad as two months ago, but that's because so far I never pushed all the way in. If I did, believe me, she would be screaming for mercy.

That first time, Fay started crying as soon as we entered the motel room (incidentally, her unsuspecting hubby foots our motel bills too,) and it took time, patience, and a lot of gentleness on my part to quiet her down. It was her first adultery, she whined. She came out of the bathroom slip and bra still on, either out of modesty or to show off her lace-trimmed, heartlet-sprinkled lingerie. At first she tried a faint, oblique, coy little smile, but the moment she took my manhood in, muscles tense and fully stiff, her eyes opened wide in amazement and her mouth wider yet in disbelief. She didn't move, she stood trembling like a calf before the butcher, before the rock python I should say, until I picked her up and lay her on the bed.

That first time there was blood all over the sheets afterwards. The woman had been married for over fifteen years, and she was still intact! I am the first real man in her life, or as she often says, I was the first to tap her dormant womanhood. Restricted to Frank's undersized pecker, she would have remained a virgin, that's for sure. There was another problem, that first time. I wanted her to talk dirty to me, but she wouldn't. She says dirty words are repellent, a put-off, and remind her of her abusive father, especially the word "fuck." "C'mon, try and say 'fuck the hell out of me!'" I insisted, but all she would say to me was, "I need you! I want you! I love you!" It was pathetic. So I had a brilliant idea. I taught her Argentine dirty words, which are more exciting from my own point of view, since I grew up there and it's my native language. That was okay with her. She would say "choto" or "poronga" (both of which mean "cock",) and then smile like a good girl who's learned her lesson. And now she'll often whisper in my ear, "Choto," as I'm driving her Mercedes, and, when we're waiting at the motel registration desk, she'll write on a piece of paper "poronga por favor," and show it to me with a modest droop of her eyelids.

"What did you tell Frank this time?"

"Same as usual," Fay shrugs, "church work."

I take a sip of champagne. We ordered a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to celebrate my green card and that now I'm legal, after five years of living in constant fear of being discovered and shipped back home, or thrown in jail. With a sheet corner and a bit of champagne I wipe some stickiness off my thigh. The droplets shining between Fay's thighs look poetic, and I don't say this just because it is my cum, no, they really look like morning dew on a golf course.

"But doesn't he ever suspect? What if he calls the church and finds out you are not there?"

"Nah, he wouldn't. He doesn't care, he's too busy anyway, too obsessed with work..." Fay stops brushing her hair and turns towards me. "Frank is a good provider, you know, but --"

Don't I know it. Frank happens to be my boss. I grin at the thought of him at the office or on the road, busting his ass, while I'm here busting his wife's tight pussy. Good provider, no doubt about that. Profit is all Frank lives for, the Anglo motherfucker. As for me, give me ass or give me death, has always been my motto. Gentler, wouldn't you say? And I can tell you this, it's much more civilized than power and wealth, which is all these Yankees care about.

"But when it comes to my spiritual needs, he's totally insensitive," Fay resumes her hair brushing.

"Trouble is," I say, "you're too much of a woman for him."

"I know it."

"And he's not man enough for you..."

"Like yesterday... Remember the ceramics class I'm taking? I finally finished my first project, a candle stick, and I set it right on the living room table. He didn't even notice it. I point it out to him, and you know what he says? 'Hm, looks crooked.' That's all he says, and he goes on watching TV. I know it wasn't perfect, but it was my first project!" Fay tosses her head in a fit of temper. Her eyes flash, her long hair flutters, her buttocks shake.

I look at the overhead mirror. Yes, great body, but I need a tan. Sunday Fay's lending me her new car and I'm going down to the Keys. "Yes, you're too much of a woman," I repeat, my mind only half there, "and Frank's not enough of a man. Geez, not even good for fathering children..."

Fay has finished brushing her hair and now she's leaning over the dresser, outlining her lips. Her buttocks stick out. "That's unfair, you know: it COULD be my fault. A doctor once said I am too narrow," she says brightly, delineating with her hands a hoop around her hips.

"Too narrow! Gimme a break, just look at you! It's his sperm, way too low, and you know it. What kind of man is that..."

Fay sighs. I lie back on the bed, close my eyes and imagine myself cruising down the Keys in the SL500. They'll need police lines to keep ass off my path. One thing worried me, the green card, and now bingo, what an unexpected piece of luck, that problem's solved. Now they won't send me back to Argentina, to join the unemployed or the poor devils blocking the roads asking for roof, bread or jobs. Nice life here, nice money, nice ass. What more could one possibly want? Well, since you ask, I really want to fuck Frank's secretary, Christine. Real boobs that broad, not mere buds like Fay's. And those fleshy lips, eager to close on Latin cock. That bitch is hot. One wonders if Frank and her... Probably not, it's bad for business. One of these days, as we're leaving the office, I'll stand close to her in the crowded elevator, rub her the right way, just to let her know the long and the thick of me, then I'll invite her out for dinner. I'll make her understand, discreetely, that Fay and me... What's good for the boss's wife ought to be even better for his secretary, right? She won't be able to resist that. Then let Fay and Christine fight it out, while I sit at ringside, wielding the victor's trophy. Trouble is, Frank may find out. So who cares? Now that I got my green card, I'll be in an excellent position to get a better job. How many educated Hispanics are out there to fill quotas?

"Time to go, sweetheart..." Fay has put on her slip and is about to don her dress.

"Why so soon?" I ask, gallantly.

"It's five o'clock." "C'mon, don't tell me you've got all your ardent female heart desires... we've only --"

"Darling, I really got to go home and start supper. Frank usually comes home at seven and --"

"You know, I'm jealous. You cook for him every day, you never cook for me."

"Oh, don't be silly."

"No, seriously. Whenever I think of you two having dinner, then going to bed together... When I think of his hands reaching for you at night, like this, my blood boils over! You know, I could kill him!"

"Oh, my love, please..." She holds her dainty foot before the gathered stocking, pushes out her lips in a delicious pout, more flattered than frightened. Then, in a lower, confidential tone of voice, as if she was talking to her stocking, "You have no reason, absolutely no reason to be jealous."

"Why, are you telling me you and Frank never fuck?"

"We do, sometimes," she shrugs.

"Sometimes... how often?"

"Oh, I don't know... Maybe once every ten days?"

"Once every ten days you make love to another guy, and you expect me NOT to be jealous?"

"But darling, when I do it with Frank, I hardly FEEL anything..." She draws the stocking over her thigh, a gesture which never fails to arouse me.

"You hardly feel anything?" "Ever since we started going out together... Ever since you tapped my dormant womanhood and opened me up to love with your --"

"With my what?"

"Your choto," Fay smiles her timid, good-girl-who's-learned-her-lesson smile; "ever since I felt your big poronga inside, I hardly notice Frank's."

I feel my blood rush down, making me huge. "Are you telling me you never come with him?"

"Practically never... Only when..." Fay blushes deeply.

"Only when? C'mon, now you started, finish it! Only when?"

"Only when I imagine myself in your arms," Fay says almost sadly, lowering her eyes.

I jump out of bed and wrench her dress, her slip, her bra off her.

"Wait... wait a second, love..." Fay manages to whisper, "please wait, let me get the jelly..."

"Jelly to hell! I'm gonna soak it to you! I'm gonna flood you till cum comes out of your ears! I'll make a real, pregnant woman out of you yet! I'm gonna make you quintuplets!"

I lift her in my arms and walk to the wall mirror. My biceps bulge, my penis is rock hard. I'm carrying Fay's thighs on my forearm, and below it her labia glisten. More eloquent than words, they seem to speak to me, or rather to my cock, "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Fay nestles her head between my pecs in a lovely gesture of surrender. Her porcelain-white against my brown complexion. I wish Frank could see us right now, such a magnificent couple. Suddenly, I feel Fay's body ripple with laughter.

"Why are you laughing?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing, I was thinking..." she snuggles.

"What were you thinking?" "If I really had a baby, and Frank noticed that it looks like you..."

"So? It would be better off than looking like him." Fay laughs again. "But to think... to think all he did to keep you here..."

"What do you mean?"

"Your green card, all the trouble he went through."

"Trouble? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you? It figures, Frank hates being thanked. He says it makes him feel silly. So he shrugs it off and says, oh shucks. That's the problem with him, he's never learned to say, you're welcome."

I drop Fay on the water bed and I stand there, watching her body bob up and down. "What the hell did Frank have to do with my green card anyway, other than agreeing that he was my employer?"

"He got it for you, sweetheart, the green card. He contacted a number of people at the INS, he even called Senator De Souza. Otherwise you didn't stand a chance, he told me. I thought you knew that. Funny he never told you. What's the matter... Why do you stare at me like that... Come, darling... I need you... I want you... I love you... Oh, what happened to the poor, little choto, all of a sudden..."

Look at her, dumb bitch. Spoiled, clumsy, fucking bitch. Who does she think she is? She can't even give head. What's she doing, beating an omelet or shaking her bottle of nail polish? How could a flat-chested scarecrow like that ever give me, or anybody, a hard-on? Drop dead, you and your businessman husband, and Senator De Souza, and the INS and the whole fucking system! Stick that green card up your Yankee ass, Frank. I can always go back to Argentina, where at least friends are real friends, enemies are real enemies and men are real men. I don't need your fucking favors, Frank. HEY, HOLD IT. Wait a minute. Favors, did I say? Whoever heard of a businessman doing anybody a favor? Sounds fishy, doesn't it? All they care about is the bottom line. What a slavering sucker I am, for a minute I imagined Frank LOVED me. Tell me, where else is he going to get a guy who does spread sheets, accounting, both English and Spanish, knows how to fit a delivery van, and helps him fulfill Federal quotas? If I wasn't here, he'd have to hire four men to do what I'm doing right now. So what does the sonofabitch do? He calls his friends, gets me a green card and makes sure I stay. And here's the pits, he doesn't even tell me. How gracious, how delicate of him, he doesn't want to be thanked. Of course Frank wouldn't tell me! Because if he did, you see, I am not stupid, I would immediately understand how much he needs me, how much more I am worth to the company than what he's paying me, and so, God forbid, I might ask for a raise. He doesn't tell me because he wants to go on exploiting me. The way he figures it, I'm third world, so I'm only there to be exploited. What he doesn't know is that I'm not one of those who takes it in the ass from Uncle Sam --

"Mmm..." I hear Fay coo, then gag. Low and slowly, solemnly as if she was in church, she whispers, "Omigosh."

I pull her stockinged legs apart and let her have it. On the ceiling mirror I watch her pain-contorted face. No mercy, bitch. So, Frank, tell me, of you and me, who's more of a man?


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