When Mickey Meets Margarita
Against my will,
I'm here.
Not sure how, but I'm definitely here.
The stench from hours of intermingled cigar and cigarette smoke, humidity and sweat is one indication.
The other are these handcuffs that now accompany my evening attire;
most of which was stripped from me. Jewelry, shoes, cell, clutch bag... but my dignity's still intact...for now.
My head is pounding about as loud and as fast as my heartbeat, but right now I'm feeling too lousy to be scared. It's hurting to even recall it, but margaritas are never that bitter. That was the start from what my muddled thoughts could gather. Many of the main details are sketchy though, so how can I figure out how to get outta here when I can barely understand how I ended up in a Mexican jail from one of the hottest nightclubs in the city?? Here I am, in another country, still having to be fearful of being incarcerated, and more so for my life!
Why won't they let me make my call? Where did they take me anyway? I can't see anything with a name anywhere. My surroundings appear "jail-like" in the traditionally esoteric sense, but I have yet to see anyone official looking. It feels as if I've been here for days with each minute seeming like an hour. My bladder won't hold much longer either. It's still too difficult for me to verbalize any thought since I haven't gained control of my speech yet, nor do I have enough moisture to generate any saliva. I'm in the pot belly stove of Hell's Kitchen expecting to be served up a pitcher of ice cold agua, but neither my captors nor the pitcher of water are coming. So I keep waiting...
Amor for Moi
Though Paris is known worldwide as the city of love, it was hard to feel in1940s France as war was quickly approaching. She escaped her own personal war for civil rights in America only to be in the midst of another inevitable war for basically the exact same thing and just as sinister. It could probably be said that she was almost destined to end up in France soley because of her name, which incidentally means herself... Moi, or me in French. A name given to her by her mother because, as she once told her, “You are a part of me (said in French).”
In Paris for over a year so far, modeling for one of the most prestigious fashion boutiques in its fashion district, Moi had yet to find real love. Most men she encountered were more interested in her centerfold beauty than knowing the true beauty she really posessed. Even women were enamored by her natural beauty, but she spurned their advances. She desired a masculine, equally handsome man with plenty of girth to satisfy her veraciously passionate appetite, but none of her recent conquests sufficed. That all started to change one balmy night at one of her favorite jazz nightclubs where she heard him play saxophone to a standing room only crowd.
His conk hairstyle was as smooth and wavy as the notes he sensally crooned, and each melodic note seemed to waft through the smoky air right to her table just a few feet away. It was as if she could feel his piercing stare through his dark shades, and it almost frightened her. It was a feeling she had never experienced before, and she soon realized the feeling was more intrigue than fright. She didn't have to inquire about him to anyone because he approached her after the song signaling the end of the set.
Everything about him said sophistication from his silk suit, to his newly polished wing-tipped shoes. He started whispering in her ear, and she reciprocated conversation. She then casually slipped her business cart into his palm resting on the table. He lightly kissed her on the cheek and whispered his goodbyes. His name was Blake MacBlayze, another product of America's racial injustce implanted in France.
Weeks went on and they were inseperable since several days after they met until war escalated, and they were making plans to retreat to safety in the French Alps. They had grown to love and respect each other in that time, and the uncertainty brought them closer together. Their bond was so strong, they decided to make love for the first time in peace and relative safety as husband and wife. They found a small chapel with a jovial stout minister en route, and reached their destination by sundown.
Once they were completely safe, Blake told Moi that he was also working as a special secret agent for the Resistance along with several other band musicians. The minister was also aiding the Resistance. Though Moi didn't fully comprehend what was happening, she trusted Blake with her life. They would eventually make their way through the country to flee the war if they had to, but, for now, they would be concentrating on this night they've longed for... their honeymoon.
Moi stood in the mirror of the dressing room in a lightly flowing white chiffon nightgown with matching robe putting the finishing touches on her hair as she prepared to make love to Blake, her now husband. She entered the bedroom as he stood watching her with just his silk pajama pants on and she trembled. She could see the imprint of his penis as it grew. Moi was far from a virgin, but it seemed as if this was her very first time.
Blake was nervous too as he clumsily handled opening the Champagne making her feel more at ease. They toasted, kissed and took several sips then hand in had made their way to the bed that was embellished for royalty.
Blake took their glasses, and Moi disrobed slowly making sure she didn't lose eye contact. Then she untied her nightgown from the shoulders making it also fall immeadiately to the floor. She then reached in her hair and removed a couple of hairpins also releasing her medium brown hair to cascade down her shoulders. Seeing her in the sensual glow of the candlelight flickering, he was in awe of her beauty. Her caramel skin smooth, her breasts readied to be caressed and sucked, her vaginal walls moist with anticipation. She collapsed into his arms and they began to draw on their passion for each other. She begged for him to enter her, as he kissed her body, and began cunninglingus tasting her becoming one with her body. He slowly guided his penis entering her as he heard her sigh a moan of delight. Blake took her left leg to his shoulder and entered further then she gripped onto his chest. They motioned back and forth, slow, fast then back to slow, until he turned her to where she was straddling him kissing pasionately until climaxing as if to leave all of their past hurts, and the war far behind them. See, they had chosen to live their lives unapologetically as Black when many with their complexions and features chose to pass as White. In that moment, they realized they would always have each other... come what may.