For some reason, people don’t think of Isla Mujeres or Cozumel as “Caribbean Islands”, maybe because they’re in Mexico. So what is that water around them, French Onion Soup? Of course nobody thinks of Cuba as a “Caribbean Island”, either. Much less Haiti.
Seagull, in The Blasé Sojourner.

Okay, so now Aphra had made Doctor Mayflower… Well, “made” in the “target acquired” sense, not in the “had one’s wicked way with” way. Which was looking like an appealing way, no two ways: Ms. MeiMei was truly a beauty. Serene, refined kind of look. Slender and in good working condition, from the look of things. Delicate features and bruiseable lips. Cupcake tits with prominent nips. Got that Kuan Yin thing going. Aphra getting a bit of yen, her own self. Getting sideways, so to speak. Whole new slant on things.

Trouble being, other parties are showing signs of acquisitiveness towards her target. Namely this kind of doughy-looking little cat with prescription Ray-Bans. Trying to look like a chopper pilot instead of Asiatic software nerd or some such. Maybe not so much Asian, kind of semi-Hispanic. Oh, what else…a Flip. Plain brown Manila wrapper. Looks more like a econ prof than a busboy or horn player, though. And sure as hell talks like one, more hand movement than an Italian, you can almost see him pointing to the board with a piece of chalk every other word. Bottom line: not much of a threat to acquiring the target, in whichever sense of the term.

Whoops, spoke too soon: he’s squiring her out of the Zama, where the cutesy white muslin drapes have started billowing and snapping like the New Age Fleet caught in a typhoon. Time for tried and true tradecraft: follow that car.

Definitely not a Mexican ambiance, MeiMei thought as O.B. Tuan led her to the promised Cuban cuisine at El Veradero. Much more “Caribbean” in feel. Like some tidewater shanty in Jamaica. Or, of course, Cuba. When she’d glanced at the rusting wrecks of dinosaur-looking trucks that would have looked at home in a Mad Max sequel, Tuan explained that they were Cuban Army surplus.

“Hard to believe there’s anything surplus in Cuba.”

“Well these people are definitely surplus Cubans. And don’t let you forget it.”

She liked Veradero from the moment she walked over the rickety gangplank to get to the airy shack resting on pilings in the greenish lagoon water. The fuzzy palapa roof, the big plastic net floats and boat bumpers draped around the railings, the corroded bronze portholes and bell, the eaves festooned with frayed old rope of every size, material and condition. The chubby black owner nodding to them absently as if it would be the same to her if they ordered food or jumped over the rail.

Their table was half inside a horseshoe-shaped structure that was obviously a pilothouse taken off some nautical failure or another. The stilthouse shack was hemmed in on the land side by the debris and detritus usual to maintenance of fishing fleets and repair of vessels. And the lagoon side was a jumble of boats ranging from one-motor pangas laden with coolers and nets and lobster traps to billfishermen with high spotting towers to big floating pleasure pits sleek as Ferraris and ponderous as corporate architecture.

Once orders were placed for mojitos, seabass in key lime juice, fried bananas and something called moros y cristianos (which turned out to be black beans and rice, not a rematch of the Crusades) MeiMei led Tuan into a discussion of island residents and visitors. She’d already spotted where she would eventually lead him, and he was willing to follow. “It’s the Last Caribbean Island,” he told her. “Still fairly affordable and no image baggage. Becoming quite the place to have a place or moor your power cruiser out of Galveston or Lauderdale.”

“Well it’s a perfect sheltered lagoon.”

“Exactly. I haul my own boat in here if anything big blows through. It’s kind of like Key West, one of those spots where everybody competes for some sort of obscure status based on how long they’ve been coming here. Back before they paved the streets. Before the ferry service went in. Before all that upheaval back in the Pre-Cambrian.”

“So is it The Caribe, or the Mayan Riviera? Seem like two exclusive concepts.”

“The ‘Riviera’ won hands-down. A Riviera close to home where things aren’t all nailed down yet. And not just the land, you know. Lots of film people lately, buying up expensive places or building monstrosities. Mostly just providing somebody we can look down on from below.”

“You’ve got to be talking about the people who own these yachts.”

“I’m actually a bit of mole in that set. Not the big power squadron types with onboard swimming pools and bowling alleys, but I can hobnob with them at the tournaments. Boats are as great an equalizer as the six-gun ever was.”

“But, you’re a sailor. No stinkpots for you.” She recalled that term from crowd at Leschi and Shilshole when she was dating a Boeing designer otherwise normal, but addicted to Duck Boat racing in a hand-laid Dutch double-ender.

“Exactly. I wouldn’t trade my ‘Boolean’ for any of these sea-going condos.”

And there was her opening. She pointed south, at a fenced swaging yard obviously capable of overhauling some pretty major yachts. And the mini-liner moored across the channel from it. “You mean you don’t secretly crave a helicopter onboard? Be nice for making ice cube runs to shore.”

Tuan rolled his eyes. “That sort of extravagance was put on earth to help the rest of us feel self-righteous and modest by comparison.”

“Who owns it, the Sultan of Brownai? Donald Trump? Airwatch Traffic?”

“Chilango plutocrat… possibly narcocrat… named Ronchel. Not a local. Not even part-time local. Just put in for refitting. Everybody jabbered about it for a week but now we snub it.”

Ronchel. That was the guy. She stared at the yacht: the Nahual, registered out of Mexico City. An area renown for its seaports. “So if it’s refitting, why is across the channel from the yard? Must make it tough on the workers.”

“He’s been moving it every day, two pangas snubbing it over. Snubbing that boat is a cottage industry around here. They’ve got heavy security on it but seem to feel safer over there.”

“Probably pirates with treasure chests and ill-gotten swag below decks.” She looked at the huge blue hull again and said, “But any rival pirates worth their grog could just sneak up on the other side.”

“Not likely,” Tuan said, mashing his sautéed bananas into the heavy cream that MeiMei had avoided. “You’re not seeing an island with trees on it over there. It’s mangrove; a seething pile of woody spaghetti. You can’t walk through it, nothing underfoot if you try to cut a path. It’s about as impassable as any veggie patch on earth. Teeming with wildlife, of course. It’s illegal to clear-cut it now. Probably why there’s no condos on that side.”

“Well, I guess all they have to worry about is submarines and SCUBA divers.”

“Well subs and SEALS worry us all. But I’d be more on the lookout for ninjas.”

“Hard to tell them apart. Don’t they both wear those sinister black hoods?”

Aphra smiled at that. She had moseyed out onto the deck, shared some non-verbal sistah-hood with the proprietor and now nursed a Cuba Libre at a table within earshot, but out of view because of the wheelhouse. Thinking, You can’t tell your sinister black hoods by looking at them, Chinadoll. I got the feeling the girl is steering the Flip towards something here. Well, I got a front row seat. To hear Dr. May push it a hair too far, as it turned out, and get bit right on her curvaceous ass.

Staring at Ronchel’s boat, where she was becoming certain her jade slab was sequestered, she was thinking out loud. “But some sort of skin diver could get over there, come up from the land side where they’re not watching…”

Aphra heard the Flip geek’s fork ring on the plate as he dropped it and stood. And heard him say, “I was just thinking I could hang on your every word, but you made a liar out of me. I definitely didn’t want to hear that.” He came out from behind the wheelhouse under a head of steam. Over his shoulder he said, really pissy, actually, “Or any more of it.”

“What???” The chink chick sounded genuinely surprised at his sudden change in tack. He turned and answered, handing Aphra a big piece of her ongoing puzzle vis-à-vis Missy May.

“You’ve heard about his collection, I gather. And that he keeps the cream of it on board. And come chat me up, beautiful young woman claiming to be a noted archeologist…”

“I don’t know about ‘noted’, but I am who I say I am.” She fumbled for her wallet, held up her license.

“Okay, so you’re a Mayan freak and know he’s got some unique artifacts. Not a state secret, exactly. And can’t stand them being in private hands.”

“Heritage belongs to the people.” She’d been stung by the accusation, flustered because it was true, but was starting to get pissed about his attitude.

“Very good, Indiana. And he’s not people? His guests aren’t? The people’s servants tend to lock things like that up in special collections, don’t they? Where the only people who can examine them are, oh, you know, noted archaeologists.”

“Look, that’s…”

“So you hook me into helping you case the scene. There’s other meanings of ‘accessory” than cute purses, honey. I’m a foreigner in Mexico. Basically I don’t have any legal rights.” He stalked off, tossing a big bill at waitress, but turned. “Something you might keep in mind yourself.”

Aphra was thinking over the implications of all this development, getting down for her move, when she heard MeiMei speak softly to herself. “Damn. I gotta take some courses in not driving men off like an African bush-beater. Maybe there’s some sort of degeeking chamber I can rent.”

I got my own views on that one, Aphra thought as she rose and headed around to intrude on the good doctor’s table.

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Xchab stared as Copper rummaged through her monster pack, agog at the tiny, lustrous, threatening clothes she was pulling out. And the velvet Royal Crown sack of exotic American cosmetics.

Winston, oscillating crossways in his hammock with head hanging over one edge and hair whisking the floor, took in his inverted view of her preparations. “Game face time? Combat-ready?”

“You got it.” She whipped off her clingy sheath, and stood naked in her big black boots. A fairly racy sight even without the fuck-me duds laying around her feet. “I need more cash than I can get spinning fire. This time of year, you know?”

Xchab, never ceasing to find new aspects of the redheaded usurper to stoke her resentment and awe, gazed wide-eyed at the tight-muscled, hourglass body. Smooth, fluid, and pale as milk from a pitcher, speckled with a firmament of strawberry polka-dots, crotch shamelessly shaved into a flaming rooster crest.

Winston watched her pull on a red G-string so minimalist as to be redundant. “Your Einstein’s visible there, Cher. Best tuck in a few strays. Hitting BlackJack tonight?”

“Yep, my standing invitation still stands. Cross my crotch with silver and I’ll tell you a fortune.” She sorted through more of the gladrags, sniffing some suspiciously. “Those Plaza 21 places don’t earn as much as Chilly Willy’s back in the day, though.”

“Nobody can climb a pole like you, Red. Especially upside-down.”

“See there? We don’t all look alike when you stand us on our heads.”

“Don’t start up with that redhead racism, now.”

She dropped onto a stool, the thong barely covered by a sequined black cheerleader-style mini-skirt, and fussed around with some breakaway tops. She chose a red one with glittery gold piping that would reveal the taut bottom portions of her cantaloupe-half breasts with the slightest shrug. Then unlaced her clunky Docs and kicked them off. Nabbing Xchab’s all-condemning eye, she tossed the boots to her. “I think they’re about your size. Find out.”

The complex image conflicts that had been slapping her silly since Copper’s arrival imploded under the seductive beckoning of the ugly footgear. Glancing at Winston, who was staring at the peak of the roof with stoned detachment, and Copper, who was leaning over the multi-purpose hand mirror painting herself in hussy colors, she caressed the boots, smelled the blend of leather, sweat and rancid drugs, then pulled them on. They fit! That single fact was like a flare of new awareness painting the inside of her head. These ultradig shoes fit her rough indita feet! It was her first indication that she actually might actually be able to step into the world that tantalized her from behind the thick, inbred curtains that surrounded her world and bloodlines. She laced them up, each movement as freighted with mythology of cool as any other absurd fetish. She eyed the others furtively before shyly standing up.

She felt taller, wirier, more towering and together. She took a step, marveling at the way the weight didn’t drag down her stride, but seemed to power it into a more assertive, possessive kind of movement. Suddenly, bidden by an impulse she didn’t see coming, much less understand, she jumped as high as she could, her hair flying up to brush the roof fronds. She bent her knees as she fell back to the deck of the island, then slammed them straight, maximizing the impact of her first stomp. Immediately she felt the lash of embarrassment, quickly looking for reproach from the two Americans.

Copper glanced up at the source of the slam-bang and smiled. Turning to catch Winston’s eye she said, “RomperStomper Room.”

Winston nodded sagely, “These boots are made for stalkin’.”

“And that’s what they’re gonna do.” Copper stood up and walked towards Xchab her barefoot height about the same as the Mayan girl’s Doc-augmented stature. For the first time, she didn’t shrink from the redhead’s presence, just eyed her balefully, unconsciously tapping a black, steel-capped toe.

“Now try this on for size.” She held out a slinky black knit sheath that Xchab first saw as a child’s dress before her shocked realization that she was being told to wear the thing. She did her first real comparison of the two female bodies in the room: she was shorter than the gringa bitch, but her build was stronger and more solid than Copper’s whippy frame. Her breasts were larger and plusher. And, unlike Ms. Redpubes, she had an ass on her. But that little thing?

“One size fits all, kiddo,” Copper said as she handed her the tube. She sniffed it before realizing it looked hick to do so: the sleazy, clingy fabric smelled of musk, sex and illicitness. And, for some reason, money.

As she vacillated, Copper rolled her eyes upwards and made “come on, have it off” gestures with both hands. Xchab might resent her, but by no means had enough gumption to say her nay. Fixed in the redhead’s basilisk stare, she pulled her loose Walmart shift off over her head and stood naked in the big boots. Copper sized her up, nodding in what might have been approval. “Not bad,” she mused. “Not too shabby at all.”

“Hands, off, ya damned rustler,” Winston growled ferociously from his swinging dangle. “She’s just a kid.”

“That why you’re jumping her formative bones, old-timer?”

He laughed and motioned at the black dress. “Hate to spoil the Puss In Boots shot, darling’, but slip it on.”

With no idea what either of them was yammering about, she wriggled into the black tube. Copper gave her a hand as she squirmed, Winston growling, “Okay, no grabass, hear? Two hand touch above the waist.”

Copper laughed and gave a light slap on the ass that slid smoothly off one very tight, very nicely molded buttock. Xchab started and shied, but Copper grabbed the hem of the sheath and tugged it down, then back and forth a little to settle everything in.

Before Xchab could even check herself out, Copper took her by the shoulders and spun her to face Winston. “Roll over, ya old goat. This deserves your upright attention.”

He rolled over in the hammock, lifting his head to take in the sight of his little sidewalk aborigine converted into a dark-skinned, tough-assed pillar of tight black gloss. From behind her, Copper reached around and adjusted the top hem downward, grabbed her dangling hands and moved them into fists akimbo at the waist, bumped her knee into a slight flex.

Winston applauded like a seal, whistling. “Incredible. You’ve totally ruined her. Where are the Matrix glasses?”

The center of approval and friendly hilarity for once in her life, Xchab mashed her gears trying to wear it all. She was not used to the feeling that she looked good. She was unused to the whole feel of the jump-up boots and insinuating grasp of lycra, of attention of this kind from another woman. She looked down, craning to see as much as she could of herself. She hooked her thumbs into the top hem and tugged it up a little. Immediately Copper smoothed it back down to reveal the faintest meniscus of her coffee-colored aureoles.

“Winston!” Copper snapped, “Can you get your ass up and be useful? True male role of serving feminine beauty and power?”

Chuckling, he crawled off the hammock and wandered out into the darkness. Xchab, alone with Copper for the first time, not to mention this whole First Time avalanche that was flushing her mind, stiffened. But he was back carrying an aluminum window he’d scored and never figured out how to use on a open-air proposition like the island. He draped a dark brown sarong behind it and set it on the rickety table, carefully leaning it against a bamboo roof support. Copper slid a crate of dishes forward to block the lantern light off the glass and pulled the future-shocked Xchab into a full, if somewhat dim, view of her possible new self.

She stared, transfixed. Some trick of smoke and mirrors had made that ModGod chick look like her! She explored her appearance with a mixture of shock, horror, and a racing, visceral thrill. She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward, from off the pedestal of the clunky boots, and growled like a jaguar at the slick, sheeny, with-it slut in the looking glass. Copper cracked up. “By Jove, I think she’s got it.”

But there was the hair, Xchab realized after some contemplation of her image. It was still long, black, coarse, indita hair. She reached up and grabbed it, bunching it behind her head so she could only see a tight cap around her head. Copper gently pulled her hand away. “Don’t even think about it, girlfriend. You’ve got killer hair. Just needs a more-core attitude.”

If the dress and boots had remodeled Xchab’s self-image, what she saw in the glass after Copper’s do-over stripped her threads, popped her gaskets, and blew her doors. Fast and deft, Copper had gathered most of her anthracite cascade behind her into a single braid as thick as her wrist, but bound with a chrome watchband a foot from the bottom to create a wide fox brush capable of dangerous swishing and brush-offs. But it was the middle two inches on top that held her attention: gelled into punkrocker rigidity, but not the usual vertical crest. Instead, it swept back in a ridge like a cock’s comb, separating into porcupine spikes to the rear as it gradually descended to meet the braid. The obsidian fin of a sea-creature, the cruel wing of a rapine bird, the mane of some equine alien. As she stared at the foreign creature that had clawed its way out of the shell of her old tribal self, Copper shook up a can of spray paint and quickly frosted the needle-sharp tips of her crest with bright gold.

“Gonna knock those dudes at BlackJack on their butts,” Copper told her, critically surveying the results of her trashy rebuild.

So another terrifying/tantalizing jolt rocketed through Xchab’s shell-shocked psyche. She knew what BlackJack was, had worked the lines outside with her bangles and beads until the unwanted male attention had driven her into retreat. It was a place where nasty, illegally-immigrated Brazilian and Columbian putas danced naked on men’s laps and faces. It suddenly dawned on her that Copper wasn’t dressing up for fun, but profit. And was dragging her into it like the sex recruiters the old biddies in the village had always warned her and her sisters about.

She backed away, shaking her head and almost stumbling in the unaccustomed Docs. But Winston was smiling and waving her out the door while Copper showed that not-to-be-denied look. Besides, she was wearing her clothes. Apprehensive and not facing the reaffirmation of the glass, she retreated into her sullen Indian shell and gave a blank half-nod. Copper took it as given, pulled a loose beach shirt over her stripper/hooker getup, and headed for the door.

“You kids have a good time and play nice, now,” Winston murmured from back in his hammock and marijuana stupor.

Suddenly Copper stopped and turned to rummage through her pile of semi-clothes again. She came up holding something that looked like a chrome egg necklace and tossed it to Xchab. Who saw it was a garment for Chaac’s sake; stiff, reflective silver fabric fashioned into a form-defining lid for the female genitalia–complete with a little pre-molded cleft–and connected to a forked loop of woven black cord slim as pencil lead.

“Slip into that, sportster. And we’re on our merry way.”

Xchab stared cowlike again, drawing an exasperated scowl and “get on with it” gesture. She steadied herself against a pillar while slipping the straps over the big boots and tugging up the sub-G-string. Actually there was something wickedly winning in the feel of it rolling up her thighs.

“Nice girls don’t let their pussies out into public view,” Copper chirped as Xchab made the final, uncomfortable adjustments of the shiny new hair up her ass. “Certainly not for free.”

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“A lot of people said a Black man could get elected President of the United States when pigs fly,” the President of the United States said into a sleek, matte metal hand-held microphone. He waited for the reaction to die down and deadpanned, “And check it out. I’m in office less than a hundred days and booyah, swine flew.”

“Already heard that one,” Wiestler said around a mouthful of beer nuts.

“Don’t cry to me,” Monsoon grumbled. “I heard it all, while he was perpetrating it.’

“You know, once you get past the shock of the President doing a talk show,” Wiestler mused, “It starts to get kind of same,same. You stop rating him against Clinton or Jefferson or whatever and start comparing him to Letterman or Conan or Leno.”

“Oh, I didn’t tell him that about a thousand times,” Monsoon roared, his florid chops shaking in justifiable anger. “Barry, you’re just going to cheapen your coin, I’m telling him. And we’re going to need it if you want a sequel to your act in four years. But does he listen to me? Does he listen to fucking anybody?”

On the screen above the dim twilight of the bar where watching the “POTUS Show” had become a weekly ritual for the two flacksters, Obama continued his opening monologue. “Naturally I’m not going to negotiate with terrorists.” He paused and looked around as if counting the house. “I’m an attorney. I represent them and bill them by the hour.”

Wiestler almost spit up some of his Wild Turkey over that and turned to Monsoon, who held up a stifling hand and pointed to the screen.

“Just ask Bill Ayers. He thinks I’m the bomb.”

Wiestler’s laughter turned into an incredulous stare. “Holy shit! I figured you’re just being you usual grump about this show, but that’s just nuts.”

“So glad you’re finally wising up to what I’ve been trying to tell you. How much political capital is going down the drain with this thing?”

Wiestler regarded the screen, where Obama was mugging it up with his music director, Stevie Wonder, and pondered. “Well, I haven’t paid much attention to that end of things, you know. But maybe the Chief has something. You notice none of the other talk shows have been sounding him lately. Starts looking like knocking the competition. So he kind of bought off any nasty cracks from Letterman, et. al.”

“Until A-Rod knocks up his daughter.”

“And there’s something in being a household world. How’d you like to run a campaign for Leno?”

Monsoon’s habitual scowl softened as he thought that one over. His full lips even flirted with a little smile at his inner picture of coaching Leno into the presidency. Then he grunted, back to reality. “Make it Chuck Norris and we’ll talk.”

“How about Will Smith and a draft choice to be named later?” Wiestler shot back. But vooja de, he’d spoken too soon.

“I’m denying rumors that Will Smith has signed on to play me in a biopic,” Obama offhanded into the mike, then straightfaced the expectant pause. “Hey, if Bobby Darin got one…”

There was a smatter of applause and Wiestler gestured at the screen. “That wasn’t even funny.”

“Wait for it,” Monsoon groaned. “It gets unfunnier.”

“Oliver Stone did his little ‘I’m more subtle than Michael Moore’ number on Nixon and Bush. Apparently you have to be a Republican or get shot by half the population of the country.”

Monsoon snorted in disgust. “Go ahead, toss more crap on Camelot, Buckwheat.”

“Nothing on Jimmy Carter. Even with all the drama of the rabbit attack. And how about Bill? He deserves a film about his presidency. I mean other than the ones on Triple X Pay For View.”

“I’d pay,” Wiestler chuckled.

“If they got somebody less skanky than Monica, maybe. But check this out.”

“People have already compared my presidency to Bill’s. I don’t see any similarity between him and me,” again he strung out the wait to perfection. “I never even wanted to be Black.”

He waited out the applause and laugher, then winked. “If you saw any of that bioporn, maybe you can see why Bill does.”

Wiestler laughed out loud. “Hey, now that’s entertainment.”

“Do I look entertained?”

On screen, Obama continued, “Myself, I spent my life working to not be Black. Not as hard as Michael Jackson, maybe…”

Wiestler rolled his eyes and spun his stool to face Monsoon instead of the screen. “Speaking of white boys who can’t keep it in their own pants, how’s Hardley’s kid working out down in Cancun?”

“Not hearing much from our beamish boy,” Monsoon groused. “But I gotta admit, he’s got fuck-all to go on so far. He’s gumshoeing the A.O. but until she uses those cards it’s mostly a waiting game.”

“My guess is, they cancelled them about five minutes after I quit and came over here to the Good Guys.”

“And we’re still thrilled to have you, Jerry. But getting back to Townsend’s adventures in Mexico, I don’t think it’s much of a problem if it’s a long-term thing. He’s not costing us anything, there are those who might feel better with him far, far away, and anything he comes up with will be gravy. It’s a small percentage shot, but we’ve got to play those like we mean them. And since we’re lucky enough to be working for the most powerful entity in the world, we can afford it.”

“You think he got anything he could use from his old man?”

“Does anybody? I mean, not body count or whatever, but a straight answer? He was never a team player. The kid seems a little closer to what we need.”

“Well, if he can get next to her and turn something out, we win. But…”

“Hey, get a load of this,” Monsoon cut in. He waved his rocky scotch at the TV screen in mock horror.

“…everywhere I go,” Obama was saying in a close up from the show’s desk. He held up a Blackberry PDA by his face as he spoke. “They’ll have to tear it from my cold, dead hands, is what I’m saying. But for anybody who isn’t a security risk, it’s the way things are done. It takes one Black Barry to know one.”

“Jesus, he’s doing spots?” Wiestler burst out so loud the bartender actually paid attention to them for a minute before turning back to staring down the pettish waitress’ décolletage. “That’s… Is that legal?”

“Don’t play naïve with me, of all people. Prexies solicit funds for speech all the time…”

“But prime time? A straight out ad buy? This isn’t Dole pitching Dickhardia after he lost, this is… shit it’s like saying the President of the United States can be bought up on the spot market.”

“Been there, done that. So have you.”

“Not this naked. This is…”

Joe Biden’s face, created by nature as the perfect second banana, replaced his boss on the screen, holding a white version of the product beside his beaming grin. “Hey, I got one, too.”

Obama was back on camera. “Yep, Joe’s holding the new “Whiteberry” model. It’s just like mine but much smaller and instead of the internet it connects to the Old Boy network, holds just five minutes of mp3 muzak that repeats over and over, and comes complete with virtual shredder and authentic gold-filled parachute.”

Wiestler turned slowly back to Monsoon, highly sobered. “Next time you talk to young Townsend, tell him to price apartments in Mexico for us.”

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In two weeks she’d learned the ropes, picked up the drill, gotten to know the guys. Who had shown her around extravagantly and indicated their inclinations to extend the show and tell as far as she’d care to follow. Highly hetero, the dudes here at Dolphin Discovery. Probably why she got the job in the first place? But Curtsy didn’t care. Dolphin groupies can’t be picky over how they get to their inner tabernacle: access to living cetaceans.

She also gotten to know the various dolphins in the park, differing from her acquaintanceship with the male “guides” in that she actually gave a shit about the bottlenosed, grinning gray torpedoes that frisked around inside the basin closed off from the Bay by a double chain-link fence. A fence that Curtsy was now inversely “climbing” down in the dark; grabbing the squares of wire and pulling herself towards the dent in the bottom she’d seen her third day on the job and snuck in at night to enlarge and enable.

She come out all the way out from the beach underwater; using her seven minute breath-hold not for depth, but to cruise without surfacing or trailing bubbles, driven by powerful full body flex/ripple pushing water off her Russian-built, carbon fiber Glide Model 1 monofin.

She loved the monofin: not only the fastest way a human can travel in water, but mimicking dolphins in look and function. She felt most like a marine mammal when undulating deep, shivering through the water with the skulling of the rounded black “tail fin”. She was saving up for a Lunocet; less cetacean-looking than than the Glide, but faster, sleeker, more powerful with it’s outer space tex/flex. But for the moment, as she approached her personal grail and obsession, she had slipped her feet out of the twin footcups and secured the fin to outer fence. This situation was not one where she wanted her feet bound together.

She had also peeled the sleek black rubber cap off and leaned back to shake out her hair, a blonde eddy around her head as she scanned the catwalks and landings of the delfinario. She’d tugged the strings on her black bikini and stuffed both piece into the foot cups, then taken her careful, measured “packet breaths” and slid silently down the wall.

She found the hole quickly, groping in the total black of underwater night; too narrow for even the smallest female to slip out, but enough to squirm her slim torso through. She patted down the sand beneath the bulge in the fence and checked for any shifting or filling, feeling for traces of monofilament fishline, the true nightmare of a gunkholing freediver like herself and the real point of her ominpresent quick-release, hook-bladed knife. She kipped under and in, twisting and tucking her tight tummy to turn the corner up from the silt towards her goal. And oxygen. She was actually trapped beneath the fence for a few seconds, wriggling her butt in the oozy sand. Nothing to alarm a tuned athlete with her kind of downtime. She surfaced slowly and cautiously, sipping air as she scanned the walkways and buildings for night watchmen she was pretty sure would be in Alfredo’s office watching the Toluca game. She looked up to make sure her chalk mark was where she’d surreptiously placed it to mark her exit, on the catwalk on the catwalk where tourists stood to gawk at marine mammals peforming in what they no doubt thought of as a natural habitat.

She’d felt them even before she came under the inside fence, “felt” their sonic scans with her skin. She’d felt an alpha male brush her as she paddled up towards the surface. But as soon as she moved away from the fence, they were all around her. Twenty three healthy bottle-nosed dophins. Already her friends. Over half of them males that she knew by name, sight and touch. Already her lovers. But now she’d come to make that a reality.

She felt more bodies sliding against hers, smooth muscles under skin as taut and slick as a wet watermelon. She heard their short, fluty breathing, reached out to stroke them their moving forms. The beauty of it, the power, the sensual overload. Her breathing quickened, fluttered.

She felt stubby noses nudging the soles of her bare feet. The signal for her to spread her legs and let them bear her up and “noseride” her across the pool. Not tonight: she’d have to be quiet. One more love that dare not show its face in sunlight. But she kept her legs spread anyway, keeping her face above water with helical movements of her hands. She felt Bruto brush by in front of her and threw her arms around his torso, thrilling in his sleek, wet glide through her embrace. This was the way to discover dolphins, by God.

A flank slid under her left foot, slick and insinutating. Something about the way it flexed told her it was Mayab, her favorite female. Then Caruso cruised between her legs, a smooth force on her inner thighs. She clamped onto him and he waggled salciously. At the last moment of his transit her flipped on his side and the tip of his right fluke brushed her pubic hairs. She caught her breath, felt a hot flush in the cool water. No wet suit needed, she thought, I can get plenty wet with no suit.

Then she felt a blunt nose, the size of soup can, smooth as a wet dildo, bumping against her mons. Tap, tap, tap. Sniff, sniff. Yes, Chito, you can come in. Her pherenomes must be sifting through the water by now, browsed by the entire clan. She reached down to place her hands on Chito’s head and hunched against his nose. He drove up in a powerful lunge, hoisting her upper body out of the water and tailwalking her twenty feet before letting her slip back down into the water. She dove, heading all the way to to the bottom, handstanding in the sand, legs spread like a “Y”. And Cisco surged down and slid between them, pushing her downward, his big thick body thundering across her widening slit. She came to the surface with a gasp that was not all about accessing air.

And Pinoccio moved up under her from behind, bearing her up on his back like a bronco queen, sliding under her, rippling more than necessary. She leaned forward, leaning on his back as it slid under her, then his dorsal fin slipped between her butt cheeks, dragged along her trough, and bore up against her until the last second, when it slipped out, kissing her slit with a little fillip. She was crying now, lost in sensation and emotion, beloved union at long last acheived.

Two of the males moved along side her hips, mimicking a move from the show. She laid her hands on them, rising up on their support even as they slickered along and vanished into the night water. Then Pinoccio was back, sliding under her again. She spread her legs as wide as she could as he cruised under her saddle, curving upwards as he slowly finned forward. She fell against him, feeling his pale belly skin slipstream along her tight nipples. She shuddered and moaned, getting off on riding their bodies, giving full rein to what she’d always felt around dolphins.

She rolled and dived, grasping Pinoccio to her, lying on top of his belly with her legs moving up and down along his upper body.

Pinoccio was obviously aroused. And so were other males, zipping in to smoothe along her flanks as she slid her lips down the alpha male’s sleek throat. She he fell away, looping downward. She floated face down, shaking. Her heartbeat, normally as slow as any athlete’s, was racing, pumping heat and pinkness all over her. Her eyes fluttered and she turned her head to breathe and moan. Then he was back, a long traverse of her, his fin moving between her legs, then throbbing along her pussy. She coughed, stifled a yell, rolled onto her back as her first orgasm shook her like small craft in a squall. She lay her head back, her hands stoking dreamily below her. And Pinoccio surged up onto her, the way her blasted out of the water onto the platform to splash and delight the damned tourists.

She took a deep inhale as he skidded along her, his flippers caressing her arms, his belly slicking up along her breasts. She almost blacked out as he bore her down under the sea.

She had figured out early on that a dolphin in the throes of sex could easily bear a woman right down to the bottom, even her own exceptional strength and flexibility as nothing compared to his. Could drown her there, maybe thinking her death throes were a faked orgasm. But she felt no risk: dophins know about life and death in humans and have been observed saving our lives, but never taking them. Unlike the way we treat them.

And in fact she did feel her shoulders touch the bottom as he plunged against her. She just threw her arms around him, fondling the tender spots behind his eyes. And had the biggest orgasm of her life: the culmination of a lifetime love, combined with the dangerous rapture of apnea. She was dying, her life shaking itself apart from within, the lights flickering down while colored dazzle wove and flashed across a black expanse of velvet ending. Then he was gone and she floated, rather than swam, to the surface.

She broke the water face first, still rumbling with the orgasm, hot tears trailing off into cold water, her heart stopped, then re-started in a new world, inner muscles tussling and sunfishing, eyes closed to watche the play of light.

Light which suddenly smashed into her eyes, on a wave of raucous noise and squawking. She popped them open and nearly came out of the water in sheer shock. A powerful flashlight was on her face, others playing over her naked body under inches of water. Torches held by the night crew and a dozen of their work buddies, screaming with delight at having caught that stuckup gringa bitch naked and fucking the fish!

Caught flagranti delicto and still dazed from the peak experience of her love/sex life, Curtsy just gaped for a long moment. A moment richly enjoyed by her male fellow employees, swigging their beers and joints. Only Alfredo wasn’t laughing. He was totally pissed off, like supervisors get. Besides, Toluca had lost.

The futbol fans whooped it up over this unexpected double-header treat, howling with laughter as Curtsy finally reacted. She kipped into a racer’s turn took two butterfly strokes towards the chalk mark and went down. Sickness and shame flooding all over the rapture she’d felt just seconds before, she drove down to find the notch, twisted out through it and angled up towards the top of the outer fence with a strong breast stroke, trungeon kick. She drove upwards with hands extended, and when the hit the top of the fence she surged over it in a sort of modified Fosbury flop. Halogen lanterns highlighted her golden puss as she went over; cheers, jeers and catcalls impelled her. She ignored the suit and cap, just crammed her feet into the monofin and powered off, deep enough to block the light and hateful sound. She was at the beach in three minutes, fin already off as her feet found the chalky bottom, running bareassed to the palm copse where she’d left shorts, shirt and shoes in the basket of her rented motorscooter.

Alfredo’s voice echoed over the water, “You are so fired, Kurtz. Don’t even show your ass here again, ever.”

Román yelled, “No, no, come back Güera. I’ll put on a fin and squeak while I bone you. Just feed me some fish.”

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