Her hair was like a foreign banner on ancient Mesoamerican soil, waving long and lustrous under the late sun, flaring golden against the rough black stone. Her head lolled back over the edge of the Nohoc Mul pyramid, giving Curtsy a superb upside-down view from atop the 140 foot structure. Although she was distracted to an extent by the series of powerful orgasms blitzing through her inverted skull and glorious, twisting body. Spread wide as an eagle, and soaring as high, she gripped the corners of the stone slab and ground her groin upwards in frenzied response to the ministrations of Puch Pop, who she thought of as “Pooch” and of what he was doing to her as “fucking the brains out of a blonde, for Christ’s sake”.

mayan calendar girls coba

Her legs came up, pointing skyward and quivering alarmingly as hard, smooth athlete’s muscles spasmed. If the tourists had still been down there, some Japanese sariman could have taken home photos of the Cobá ruins featuring a vibrating victory sign on top of the tallest pyramid in the Yucatan. And taped a sudden cry blasting out of her extended, relaxed throat; perhaps interpreting it as territorial monkey cries or the lust call of a jaguar. The sound triggered something very deep in Puch, and he collapsed on her as if shot by an ambusher’s arrow. He lay on top of and between her, feeling the continued vibrations, his head pressed against her strong, lovely breasts. He shuddered in his own darkness, listening to the wild thrum of her heart.

“Some Mayan you are,” she whispered to him in a slightly shaky voice after an indecent interval. “Aren’t you supposed to tear it out while it’s still beating? Offer it to the Gods?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” he mumbled into her hot flesh. “Only fair: it’s what you do to me.”

“Awwww.” She spoke lightly, but was actually as moved as she could allow herself to be under the circumstances. She put her hand behind his head, wrapped her legs around him in a tight nether hug. “You’re the sweetest guy ever, Pooch. But I just can’t… you’re going to have to settle for just a mindless blond fuck machine.”

“I can live with that.” He lifted his head to smile at her, both of them fully aware it wasn’t really true. “But I’d rather live with you.”

“Then come with me.”

And they both knew that wasn’t going to happen. He was bound to the family “homestead” at CroCun, would never go far from it, though couldn’t have said why. It did fine under his parent’s management and his little brothers, sisters, and cousins were much more fetching than he was at tossing food to the gators and selling souvenirs, which freed him up to work around the area, earning outside money by guiding tourists around the stone monuments of Cobá and the underwater tunnels of the cenotes. And meeting attractive foreign women, an important step in developing his manhood and identity. Then he’d met the ultimate foreign blond: beautiful in face and feature, body a fine-tuned racing machine, as agile and delighted underwater as he was. The Maya had been the most resistant people in MesoAmerica to the Spanish conquista but the comely Señorita Kurtz had conquered him utterly without even trying. And now she was leaving. He responded to her invitation with silence, and by tightening his embrace.

“It’s my dream, Pooch. I gotta go. You know that.”

Oh, he knew. But had to give it a shot: would keep trying until he saw her walk off. “Look, I can stop working here at Cobá; we could spend more time in the cenotes…”

“It’s not the same and you know it.”

“And Enrique said he’ll take us out more, do some deeper reefs.” That was where he really saw who she was, he thought, even more so than like this, straining her hard softness as he burrowed into her. She was still seriously interested in trying for freediving depth records: the two of them going 100 meters and deeper, frolicking in the open ocean with their porpoise-tail monfins. Driving down the reef in a scatter of angelfish, blue tang and neon-striped wrasse.

“But I’d be working in tanks and BC’s. You know I hate that whole SCUBA thing. Those assholes are all gear queer, want to be submarines. I don’t want expeditions, I want to live down there.”

“Me, too.”

“I know. That’s why I like you.” She did a quick hip flutter, scrubbing her blonde pubic patch against his thin, black Indian gloss and feeling a little tumescence cranking back up. She smiled at him from inches away: shining glory on him. “But Dolphin Discovery… Come on, Pooch, you know.”

He knew. She’d be working with marine mammals, her greatest passion. A passion he couldn’t hope to supplant, is the way it was looking.

“I apologize for not being a dolphin or sea lion or something.”

She made a sad face and put her hand over his lips, murmured. “You’re the closest thing I’ve met, though.” She ran her other hand into his lush, coarse hair and started to undulate against him. She’d been right about detecting resumed interest down there. And now he was moving, too. Things would be all right for a little while longer. “And you’ve got me right here. In your manly arms and on top of the world.”

He looked around at the stark, brutal architecture of the ruins, the scatter of lakes in the hot green jungle, the slash of road leading north. He kissed her long, deep and hot as he tried once again to move inside her to stay. He moved his lips to her ear and said, “For now.”

“Now’s all we’ve got,” she said, her voice blurring as she responded to his urgency. “What else does anybody have?”

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There are problems with having your consciousness come adrift in time, but also advantages. Or at least novelties. Yaxche had grown a bit jaded from savoring moments standing on high thrones in various centuries and even of presiding, thus enthroned, over the end of all time and works, but she never lacked perspective. And just as she could stare down from the peaks of stone pedestals, she could appreciate the much humbler layout represented by CroCun, even seeing it when it was no more than one more roadside zoo.

With a mere glance, or whatever you would term the ability to cast one’s point of view down through the helical process of time, she could see the site as it will become, as it stands at whatever locus you want to consider “now”, and as it once was. And how it became.

She could see the sinkhole itself over thousands of years, but it didn’t really get interesting until people showed up. With the usual complications and transactions. The temporal point that made her curious was how the scruffy little patch of scrub jungle had remained in the hands of a Mayan family when the highway from Cancun to Tulum went through. The first anomaly: first clue to a miracle. Yaxche could see it happening, but not interpret or understand.

Under the stewardship of the Pop family the sinkhole had become a water source for milpas, providing subsistence corn along with the secondary plants woven among the corn hills in the ancient fashion: beans, chiles, hedges of prickly nopal. The Pops had even managed to grow enough maize to trade. Then came a fortuitous stroke from an alien and catastrophic source: the Europeans who had infiltrated the area would pay money for chicle, and bubble gum created a bubble economy for the Pop clan.

It was at about the same time that the Pop homestead was operating as a chiclero camp that it also became a Rebel Base. The sinkhole, created because an odd concentration of cenotes had eroded into one unstable hollow and collapsed, was close enough to the coast, but deep enough in untracked jungle to avoid scrutiny during the Caste Wars, as the Spaniards called them. A waterhole with food supply owned by a family deeply committed to the rebellion against the Spanish, the Pop property was a major focus of the combat with civilization that the Maya never really lost. And a thorn in the side to colonists frustrated with their inability to put down the last next of resistance in all of the Americas. A period of interest when her gaze popped into those times, borne by a fierce young woman who’d taken the nom du guerre Kisin, a bloody earthquake of violence against the big, pale men who had abused and defiled her. Yaxche sometimes thought that the unquiet spirit of her fiery young avatar might have been responsible for setting her afloat on the circling currents of time.

After the wars were abandoned and the price of chicle reduced to nothing by the introduction of synthetics, time was a low, somnolent eddy at the Pop place, as flat and uneventful as the boring green carpet of jungle that overlays the flat slab of limestone Swiss cheese-riddled with cenotes that is the Yucatan. Then came the highway.

Once again, unpredictable foreign presence forged into the ancient jungles bearing mixed gifts. It became the backbone of a bustling, destructive, construction-addled entity known as the “Riviera Maya” and strewed the stretch with tractors, condominiums, cities, hotels, restaurants, airstrips, churches to foreign non-entities… and tourist traps. And the Pop clan, suddenly located a short distance from the right-of-way, inevitably decided they should trap a few tourists themselves.

Their first venture had, predictably, been a humble restaurant that was ignored by tourists because it looked too shabby to be sanitary yet too modern to be “touristic”, but frequented by locals and drivers because of the merited reputation of Kaax Pop, matriarch of that time slice, and mother of Puch Pop, who would capture more attention in later slices of years.

Señora Kaax supervised a kitchen crowded with Pop children, emitting fragrant steam like a volcano in Eden. And flowing with key lime soup, tamales tinted green from the plantain leaves they steamed in, salbutes and panuchos with flaky tortilla shells, papadzules in spicy pumpkinseed paste, poc chuc with the pork practically dissolving in its sour orange sauce… timeless, lip-smacking feasts laid out daily within a few yards of the plummeting tourism buses and trucks full of spare parts for the re-invention of local civilization.

But not a particularly brilliant use of prime frontage location, thought Puch and his older brother, who went by Juanito because he thought Mayan names were bush and wanted to get his hands on the new world and new wealth that flowed past their little mom and Pop operation. He worked with tourists at the Cobá ruins and saw how money would flow out of people who were offered a reason to stop blasting around and pause a minute in the world they’d come to look at. He was hot to blow the Pop stand.

Puch, as befitted a youngster named after the Diving God, chief deity at the nearby ruins of Tulum, had always worked as a diver; first plunging down the reef on sheer lung power with a cane and re-bar spear powered by inner tube straps, then a guide to the fish and coral for foreign tourists, most recently a certified PADI Cave Diver shepherding goggle-eyed visitors through the underwater caves and rivers that connected the cenotes.

Their exposure to foreigners let them to conclude that the gringos and europeos and japoneses wanted to see wild life in a wild, but controlled, setting. They captured a large portion of the local surviving caiman population and trapped a dozen spider monkeys from deeper jungle remote from the villages and westernization and opened the Mark I version of CrocoCun, a reptile farm with Mayan trappings, idiotic spiels that were absorbed as if valid, a T-shirt and curio shop and, of course, a killer restaurant/bar.

At some point Juanito was feeding the little gators and gazing around the eroded limestone walls of the sinkhole, ticked off that Puch had beaten his time with the cute Barcelona girl on their last tour. As he reflected on the irony that the foreign babes he kissed up to so shamelessly were more interested in his brother because he played that whole Maya thing, an inspired instant fell around him–a concept that would twist the Pop estate into its final manifestation. They wanted Mayan, he would give it to them. He left the little lizards struggling over their grisly feed and jogged up the hundred yards to the main buildings, calculating rapidly. The first thing he’d need would be stucco. And lots of cement.

Eyeing him from her bailiwick of millennia, Yaxche exulted again at having witnessed the Beginning of the End.

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