Posted by Will on September 5, 2005, 9:07 pm, in reply to "Me too — Part 1" I closed the refrigerator door and stood there a moment. Just then the milk frothed up, rose in the pot and began spilling all over the burner and the stove. “Oh, the milk!” I exclaimed. She quickly turned and looked as I began my sprint for it. Now the choreography had to be just right. In the middle of my sprint, I had to plunk my foot right into the olive oil I had spilled. Schwap! went my foot into the gob of olive oil, then leaning backwards, I fell into a slide, my foot slipping out from under me and doing a high kick into the air as I—appearing to lose my balance—went flopping onto my back on the floor, the towel flying completely off and onto the floor beside me. (And if someone had filmed me with a slow-motion camera, it would have revealed, right in the middle of the fall, my hand flipping the towel off.) “Oh, sen-YOR!” she cried, horrified. She came over to me. “You... okay?” She looked at me lying on the floor, then I saw her eyes move to my penis for a second, and she exclaimed “Oh!” and closed her eyes and turned her head away. Contact! “The milk!” I shrieked, pointing at the stove. “Get the milk.” “Oh.” She ran and lifted the pot of boiling milk off the burner and put it on a different one, then turned the burner off. “Ohhhh...” I groaned as if in pain, “I... I think I... I hurt my hip.” (Didn’t really; just faking.) “Oh, no!” she whimpered. She looked at me again. “Oh, sen-YOR!” Then she exclaimed “Oh!” again, turning her head away again (second time she saw it). “I, uhh....” I started to stand up, then fwomp! Down I went again, which made her turn and look again, and exclaim “Oh” again, closing her eyes and turning her head (third time she saw it). I reached over, grabbed the towel and put it over me. I held out my hand to her. “Will you... uhh... help me up?” Cautiously turning to look first, then seeing that I had the towel on me, she reached over, took my hand and started helping me up, while I lifted myself up from off the floor and with my other hand, wrapped the towel around my waist and held it there. I then stood up on both feet, reached my other hand around my back to where I was holding the towel together, as if to switch to holding it in place with my other hand, while she watched. But I didn’t make it. The towel slipped from my other hand and hung down behind me. “Whoops!” I said. “Oh!” She closed her eyes and turned her head again (fourth time she saw it). I put it back and moved it around to hold it on the other side. “Oh... uhh... it’s okay,” I said to her. “I guess... I’m all right. I’m... okay.” She turned around to look at me. “Oh, sen-YOR... I... sorry.” “Oh, don’t worry,” I replied, soothingly. “It’s not your fault.” I reached my hand up to gently pat her on the shoulder. But when I did, the towel slipped off and hung down in front of me again in my other hand. “Oh!” I exclaimed, and groped for it while she turned her head again (fifth time she saw it). Okay, that was enough. Any more and it might start looking like it was being done on purpose. “Uhh... I’ll go... uhh... take my shower now,” I said, nervously. I turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, the milk. I’m going to... drink the milk first.” She nodded. I took out a mug from the cupboard and poured some of the milk into it from the pot, then drank it. (As I said, not that I particularly care for it, but it was part of the maneuver, so I still had to drink it.) “Don’t worry,” I said to her. “It’s not your fault.” I gently patted her on the shoulder (this time without the towel falling off), then took the bottle of olive oil and left to go into the bathroom. While I was showering, I masturbated on the memory of those few quick glances she had gotten (before closing her eyes and turning her head away each time). Ahh, it felt good. But as soon as I was finished, I felt horribly ashamed. I went in my room and got dressed, then put my coat on, ready to leave. I came out into the kitchen where she was still cleaning. She had mopped the floor and cleaned up all the milk from the stove and the burner. I was leaving now. Now I was feeling embarrassed—because she saw me naked. “Well, I have to go now,” I said to her. “It was nice meeting you.” She nodded, just barely putting the words together. “Glad... to... meet... you....” “Very good,” I replied, complimenting her English. “Bueno.” She smiled. “Por favor,” I said to her (that means “please”), “you... no tell... my mah-MAH...? I spill olive oil?” I pointed to the floor where I had spilled it. “And milk?” I pointed to the burner she had cleaned. “My... mah-MAH....” I made a gesture of holding my hand out beside me, fingers straight out, palm flat, while grimacing with my mouth. (I understood that to them that meant “get in trouble.”) “Oh... no...” she replied, fumbling to put the words together in English. “You... no worry, sen-YOR. I... no... say... you mah-MAH... nada.” “Oh, thank you,” I replied. “Gracias.” I leaned toward her, gently reached my arm around her shoulder for a second and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. (In their culture people do that. As long as you keep it just a quick peck, and just on the cheek, then they think nothing of it. Mexican girls don’t get offended by that, the way American girls would. They seem to accept it as just a platonic gesture of affection that everybody does. Maybe if you kissed an American girl’s cheek, she would think you were trying to make a move on her or something (you might even get your face slapped), but I knew that in their culture people just do that and they don’t think a thing of it. (Anyway, in the moment when I kissed her cheek, she kissed mine too, so that tells me she wasn’t offended by it.) “Bye-bye,” I said gently to her. “Adios.” “Bye,” she replied, smiling. It wasn’t really the olive oil having been spilled on the floor that I was worried about her telling my mom about. The part I didn’t want her telling was the part about slipping onto the floor and the towel falling off. I’m not sure if my mom has ever really suspected any such thing about me, but my mom is pretty sharp about figuring out a lot of things. American women are sharper at figuring these things out than you would expect the average Mexican girl to be. I just didn’t want my mom writing in to any columnists with any of this business about “Son involved in incidents that may be intentional....”
Message modified by board administrator September 5, 2005, 9:23 pm
(Originally posted May 15, 2003, 6:08 pm)
[Reposted by board administrator. Name changed from “Bill” to “Will” at poster’s request to distinguish between other “Bill” now posting.]
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