Safe Without You (12 page)

Journal Reflection 10

You know, orgasms aren’t something we ordinarily talk about.  Oh, you might read some kind of Cosmo article about “Ten Secrets to Mind-blowing Sex,” or “Eight Ways to Show Your Man What Pleases You.”  With an intimate friend, we might even hint to having had a ‘really great roll in the hay’ or that the new boyfriend ‘knows his way around’ your lady parts, but typically, we don’t chat about orgasms over coffee with casual friends.  Try imagining talking about orgasms the way we talk about trying out a new restaurant.

              “Hey Jane!  Did you come last night?”

              “Yeah, yeah I did.  But it wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

              “Really?  How’s that?  It sounded like it would be nice.”

              “Yeah…I mean, you know, it was
pretty
good.  But given all the hype, I guess I was expecting something really out of the ordinary.”

              “So not a five star?”

              “Nah, maybe three stars.  It might get better, though, with a little time.”

              “I was going to try it Friday night…do you think I should?  Maybe it was just your…server.  With someone different, maybe it would be a better experience.”

              “To be honest, I really wanted to go with the cowgirl, but Andy was in the mood for missionary—so I gave in and said I’d have the missionary with him.”             

              “Some guys just pick the first thing on the menu…or they stick with their familiar ruts.”

              “Isn’t that the truth?  Andy needs to…be more adventurous, expand his palette a little.”

              “Well, I’ll let you know how it goes for me on Friday.”

              “I’ll be curious to see how it works out for you.”

              That would be pretty funny, wouldn’t it?  But maybe we
should
be a little more casual about orgasms—and about what pleases us.  It’s clear that never having an orgasm with your partner is probably a bad sign: something is off physically, emotionally, or spiritually.  The problem just might be that we place too much importance on mind-blowing sex and
that’s
what screws stuff up: expectations are too high, people get anxious, and performance suffers.  Likewise, when we can’t verbalize—or at least indicate non-verbally —what we like, that can be a huge problem too.  Everybody…every
body
is different, and it’s not fair to ask your partner to always be a mind reader.  In saying it, you somehow claim it.  I think it’s empowering…and I think it turns a lot of guys on—not to mention the completely practical side of being more likely to get the mind-blowing sex you wanted in the first place.

              So…why is it so hard to do it?  Why does it feel embarrassing to say, “It feels really good when you do x, y, or z?”  Or, could you do that slower/faster/harder/more gently?  It would be nice if our erogenous zones came with instructions that your partner could read while he’s having a beer…but they don’t.  And he doesn’t come with a play-by-play manual either.  I had a friend who thought she gave the greatest hand jobs until her fiancé finally admitted in a moment of penis-preservation that she was rubbing him absolutely raw.  They were able to laugh about it, but apparently he had suffered through a few sessions that felt mostly like rope burn, afraid to hurt her feelings, when all he needed to do was bring a little lube to the party.

              The fact is, we probably approach orgasms the same way we approach a lot of other sensitive subjects in our lives—even with the people we love—maybe, most of all with the people we love.  Look at me and Cal…I won’t admit to my parents that I’m out of a job and living in Panama on Cal’s wings and a prayer.  Cal won’t admit to his mother what he really does for a living despite the fact it’s honorable, even noble.  We hold these things inside ourselves, as if to speak them means some magic spell will be broken.  If I tell my fiancé she’s skinning my snake alive she might leave me; if I tell my lover that I don’t like it when he tries to break in the back door, he’ll think I’m a prude; or if my parents know that I’m in danger, it’s my fault for making them worry. 

              The fundamental problem in all these situations is thinking that we are responsible for the way other people feel.  The only thing we can accept responsibility for is how we experience our lives and relationships.  And perhaps the easiest place to start practicing ‘honesty is the best policy’ is with sexual intimacy—presumably we have already established a certain level of trust with our partner.  Then maybe if we can master that, we can start being honest about the really important stuff.

Chapter 10

La Palma wasn’t exactly what Amber was expecting.  They could walk from the airport’s dusty landing strip to the town’s one main street.  She looked at Cal, suspiciously, after she glanced up and down the street.

              “Why didn’t you mention what a one-horse town this place is?”

              “Then you might not have come.”  Cal pushed back the brim of his baseball cap, his mouth quirking into a smile.

              “Is there anything else I should know?” Amber said with a small sigh.

              “Don’t ever order wild boar.  It’s actually peccary—they’re endangered, and they’re poached.  For some reason, people think it’s a great idea to serve them for dinner.”

              “That’s it?  No poached peccary?”  Amber pushed her sunglasses up on her nose.

                The town sat on the estuary at one end of the Tuira River.  There wasn’t any sign of an ocean or a beach.

              “Here…” Cal gestured up and down the main street, “You will find Darien province’s only bank and only hospital, a couple of good restaurants, a few dubious ones, a couple of hotels, the market, the post office and…well, that’s pretty much it.”

              “And the beach you promised me?  Where’s that exactly?  As we flew in, the river snaking into the jungle was looking a little too much like Heart of Darkness.  The vegetation is unbelievably dense…and frankly, it looks a little crazy out there.”

              “You’re the one that’s been dying to go to Darien, this is Darien.”

              “It’s not the National Park,” she corrected.

              “Close enough.” Cal pointed toward the mountains rising up in the near distance, “You’ll find your capybaras and sloths and lots of other critters right up there.  There are other preserves around, too.  And to answer your question, there’s a beach on the Gulf of San Miguel 2.6 miles that way.”  He made a vague gesture with one hand in the direction opposite the mountains.

              Amber was feeling a bit like she’d been tricked, but she couldn’t figure out why.  She’d agreed to come, and Cal hadn’t lied about anything.  It was more like the sin of
omission
than
commission
.  She sighed.  “So how many people live in this burg?”

              “There’s a little over 4000 in the greater metropolitan area.”

              Amber had to laugh, “Greater metropolitan area?  That’s a joke, right?”

              Cal smiled mischievously, “It’s whatever you want it to be.  Now come on, I want to dump our bags at my place so we can come back to the market and get some fresh food before it closes.”  Cal playfully smacked Amber on the behind, and she picked up her pace, even as she laughed.

              “So if poached peccary isn’t on the menu, what is?”  Amber asked.

              “I was thinking maybe we’d grill something…like a normal couple.” 

              “Normal couples aren’t packing heat and living in a town that you can only get to by boat or plane.  Where is
your
plane, anyway?”

              “In a hangar at the airport.  We’ll check it out tomorrow.”

              “New plane and you didn’t even want to take a peek today?”

              “My partner has the keys to the hangar.  He’s arriving in the morning.  Now, would it be possible to put a cork in the work talk?  I’d like to enjoy my last evening of not thinking about any of that.”  He swooped in and gave Amber a little kiss to distract her.

              Amber returned the kiss for a moment, before pulling away as she processed what Cal had just said.  “Partner?  You never said anything about a partner.  You mean like someone else from the DEA?”

              “Shhh.  Keep your voice down, and never—I mean never—utter those three letters anywhere in this town.  You have to put that tongue in check, Amber McShane.  I am not fooling around about that.”

              Amber’s face reddened.  “Yeah, okay.  I’m sorry.”

              Cal tugged on her hand and they turned down a little lane that went down by the water.  There was a row of small, rustic houses on stilts sporting corrugated tin roofs; all were painted in bright colors.  He pulled her to one that was a reddish coral color.  It had a short flight of steep wooden steps leading up to a balcony.  The railing was made from flat, carved, wooden pickets fitted between two rails.  Wooden shutters covered the windows. 

              “You have mosquito netting, right?” Amber looked at the cottage dubiously, but somehow, it was charming in its simple way.  The paint was fresh, and once on the balcony, there was a lovely view across the water to the mountains.

              “Of course, come on.”  Cal unlocked the door, and pushed it open.  “The whole town has free wireless Internet, by the way.” 

              “Free wifi?  How’s that out here?”

              “The government.  You know, progress.” 

              Inside, there was a kitchen area with a gas stove, a tiny refrigerator, and a sink.  A small sitting area, along with a table with four chairs, occupied the rest of the main floor, but a couple of doorways were visible.  “That’s the bathroom,” Cal pointed to a wooden door, before pushing back a curtain to reveal a small bedroom with a double bed draped with a mosquito net, a dresser, and a small table.  “This is our space.”

              “Our space?  Does someone else live here?”  Amber’s eyes widened a little in surprise.

              Cal tilted his head, “My partner has the room on the other side of the living room.”

              Amber sat heavily on the bed, “Cal, you never told me that we’d be living with someone else.”  She glanced nervously in the direction of the other bedroom, “For Pete’s sake, you don’t even have doors, just curtains.  He’ll be able to hear me fart.”

              “You fart?”  Cal mugged a look of comic shock.

              “It isn’t funny.  You should have told me.”

              Cal sat on the bed and took Amber’s hand.  “It’s okay, he’s a good guy.  You’ll like him.  I trust him with my life, so I trust him to be good to you.”

              “Does he even know about me?”  Amber’s face tensed with the thought.

              Blowing out a sigh, Cal played with Amber’s fingers.  “Not yet, but it’ll be fine.”

              “So he’s going to come back from wherever it is that he’s been, ready to get back to work on your secret mission, and you’re going to just say, ‘Hey, by the way, this girl is moving in with us?’”

              “I—I guess I didn’t think that part through…completely.”  Cal released Amber’s hand, and flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.  A huge mosquito buzzed overhead.

              “You’re Cal Compton, International Man of Mystery, and you didn’t think it through?”  Amber stood up.  “I’ve got to pee.”

              Cal lay on the bed pondering the situation when suddenly a shriek rang out from the bathroom.  He jumped up, and in a few quick steps, stood looking over Amber’s shoulder.  She was frozen in the doorway of the bathroom.  A rather large, furry, spider was cowering in the corner behind the toilet, looking equally terrified.

              Laughing, Cal pushed by Amber and gently picked up the tarantula.  “It’s a Panama blonde.”

              “I don’t care if it’s Marilyn Monroe.  I don’t want it looking at me while I pee.”  Amber jumped back to give Cal and the tarantula a wide berth. 

              “I’ll take it outside.”  Cal disappeared out the front door and reappeared a few minutes later.  “I put her up in the trees on the hillside.”  He looked at Amber, who was standing in the middle of the living room with her arms crossed on her chest.  “I thought you needed to pee?”

              “
You
go check it out first.  Flush out any more creeptastic things that might be in there.”

              “God, you are such a girl.”  Cal smirked at Amber, but he went in to inspect the bathroom.

              Amber called after him, “I thought that’s what you liked about me—you know, the fact that I’m a girl.”

              Cal reemerged, “All clear.”  He kissed her, “You’re entirely right, I do appreciate the fact you’re a girl, but we’re in the jungle now, so occasionally you will see some creepy-crawlers.  The tarantulas are pretty shy and generally only come out at night.”

              “At night?  Like one could crawl in bed with us?”  Unconsciously, Amber brushed at her hair with her hand.

              “Highly unlikely.  The house has been vacant for two weeks, so she probably thought it was safe to squat here.  Typically, they burrow into the ground in the jungle.”

              “Let’s see, you failed to mention your partner, the giant hairy spiders, or the fact that the beach is way over yonder.”  Despite her chiding tone, Amber threaded her arms around Cal’s waste, and rested her head on his shoulder.  “Full disclosure: any more surprises?”

              Cal kissed the top of her head, “Let’s go see what we can find in the market.”  He grabbed some net bags from a basket in the kitchen.

  “Trust me, people are nice here.  You’re going to like it.”

              The trip to the market was the first time that Amber had heard Cal speak much Spanish, he was surprisingly good, and his accent and diction had conformed quite a bit to the local dialect.  In contrast, her Spanish was a cross between Mexican dialect and the formal Spanish of Spain.  Despite her rustiness, though, people seemed to understand her better than she sometimes understood them, but as Cal had indicated, people were friendly, and they didn’t seem surprised to see a foreign girl walking the street next to tattooed, Embera, tribal people who’d come up the river by dugout to buy, sell and trade.