Chapter 5: 2009 Miami

And I went right back to work. You have to when you're trying to build your own company. But then I got lucky. Incredibly lucky.

I met a girl. Within a week of getting back to Miami. Right out of the fucking blue. A nineteen year old for crying out loud. A dark haired Latina beauty who spoke with a Cuban accent. Not my type at all. Not even close.

It was 'Salsa Wednesday Night' at a bar on Washington Avenue in South Beach. First time I'd been in a bar in months.

She was stunning. An olive skinned beauty with dark, flashing eyes and thick jet black hair that hung all the way down her back. The second I saw her I wanted to fuck her. My cock jumped in my pants. I hadn't had that feeling in over a year.

"Sorry, you're too white," were the first words this dazzling apparition in red said to me. She spoke in English but with a heavy Cuban accent. I'd just asked her to dance.

I was still trying to figure out if I'd heard right when she added, "It's just that I don't want to make love in English tonight. Or with some tourist."

"Huh?"But she was gone.

For the next hour I watched her dance. A swirling erotic vision. I finally caught up with her as she was exiting the can even later in the evening.

"I told you you're not my type," she said as she tried to squeeze by me. But she didn't move very fast and made sure I felt every inch of her body as she made to pass.

"I'm not a tourist. Besides, if you're not interested why have you been staring at me all night?"

"I've been staring at you?" She pressed herself into me as she spoke.

"Every time I was dancing I felt your eyes on--" I started

"Hah, you call that dancing? You probably make love like you dance," she challenged back. And there was a clear challenge in her shining black eyes. Are you man enough?

"Well, I do have to admit it's been a while since I made love. More than a year in fact," I said without thinking. Great line you idiot I chastised myself silently.

"Whaaaaaat? You haven't had sex in a year? Why? Is something wrong with you?" And as she asked the last question her eyes darted downward, down between our bodies towards the bulging hardness that was poking into her stomach.

"It's a long story," I answered. And I knew instantly that senorita Marisa Isabella Sanchez, for that turned out to be her name, was hooked and was going to want to hear it. But as it turned out she didn't hear it that night. We were far too busy.

We ended up in my bed twenty minutes later. And I quickly learned that I hadn't forgotten what to do during my fourteen month lay-off. In fact, my cock, pussy-less for so long, seemed ready to try to make up for it all in one night.

I'd never been in love before. I'd never had sex like this before. Not like this. I didn't understand any of the words she yelled out as my cock hammered away inside her. As it pumped out a year's worth of sperm.

Marisa made love in Spanish! Noisy, athletic sex. And when I'd finished that first time, after I'd pulled my still hard cock slowly from her still pulsing cunt, she leaned over and taken me between her lips. The she made love to my cock with her mouth in a way I'd never experienced before. I was a whimpering, groaning wreck, my hips arching upward as her head bobbed downwards, when my penis finally spurted a second time. And this from a nineteen year old!

We made love most of the night. I was seemingly tireless. She met every single one of my thrusts with her teenage need. It was brutal, needy, urgent lovemaking. On both our parts.

Marisa Sanchez had not grown up in an American suburb. She hadn't gone to university. She did not think like anyone I'd ever encountered before.

She'd been born in Cuba. Her father, a soldier in the Cuban army, had died fighting in Africa when she'd been five. She'd been raped by two boys when she'd been twelve.

Her little brother had died on the raft she and he had been travelling to America on. She was fourteen at the time. She'd gotten places on the raft for the two of them by sleeping with a sixty-two year old neighbor.

She should have ended up a broken, discarded vessel. A person dead inside. Yet somehow she hadn't.

What allows certain people to overcome every obstacle placed in their way?

It wasn't religious faith that had allowed her to survive. Nor the aunt and uncle and the extended family in America who'd welcomed and embraced her. All that had helped but the main ingredient had been instead a simple, deep, strong ingrained strength and love of life she'd been born with. A love of life she unashamedly welcomed me into. And why me? What did I have that had ignited her love?

I didn't go to work on Thursday morning. Nor did I let Marisa leave. "I'm late, I have to go to work," she insisted after we'd just finished making love at eight-thirty in the morning. I pulled her back down into my arms.

Mike called at eleven, wondering where I was. "I'm in love," I answered. Marisa was sitting astride me, riding me, as I talked to my partner.

"You're with a girl?" Mike was incredulous. "Wait til Angie hears this, she's convinced your gay," my partner answered with a laugh, referring to his girlfriend.

"You've lived in Miami for more than a year and you don't speak one word of Spanish?" She asked me over lunch that day. We were naked. In bed. Munching on pizza.

"Hola?" I said with an embarrassed grin. Can love really happen this quickly and be this simple I wondered as I lost myself in her dark, flashing eyes. I hadn't thought once of Caitlyn or what I'd done to her since I'd met my Cuban beauty.

"If you don't learn some very, very quickly you're not going to marry me," she threatened.

Marriage? We'd just met. I learned twenty Spanish words that afternoon. Mind you most of them weren't the type of words you'd use in polite company! For four days we didn't leave each other's side. We fucked. And ate. And showered together. And talked. And made love...

We learned bits and pieces of each other's prior life even as we planned our future. It was that simple. Like we'd been hit by lightning.

Marisa loved sex. Loved fucking. Loved talking about it. Graphically. You'd think a girl who'd been raped at such a young age would have forever been turned against it. She hadn't been. She loved it. And wasn't shy about letting me know it. And surprisingly, when she told me stories of the men and boys she'd been with, I wasn't jealous. That was then. Before me. I had absolutely no doubt about the now. Neither of us did. It would have been impossible for either of us to hide from the other how we felt about each other.

Love. A simple four letter word. Even in Spanish. Amor. Enamorarse. Estar enamorado. El amor de mi vida. Te quiero. I did love her.

Ten days later she took me to meet her extended family. Her 'abuela' she'd called her, the grandmotherly figure who was the center of the Sanchez family.

"Speak only in Spanish to him, he has to learn," she ordered her family. Of course they spoke English to me. In fact I was questioned closely. Again and again. By family member after family member. Two things became obvious very, very quickly. One, Marisa was beloved by her friends and family. And two, any man, and especially a non Latino man, was going to be examined very closely by every single member of the family before he would be accepted by the clan.

I left that day knowing it would take more than one afternoon to win over her family. I started Spanish lessons the next day.

Dad of course wasn't convinced when he met Marisa for the first time. He and mom had just arrived in Miami for their seven week long winter vacation. He didn't say anything but I saw it in his eyes. 'What the hell's he doing with a Cuban'? Marisa had been with me when I'd met them at the airport.

But Mom was delighted.

"She's just perfect," she gushed when I took my parents out to lunch at an outdoor bistro on Lincoln Road the next day.

"Well--" dad started to grumble but mom cut him off.

"Finally a girl who isn't a pale imitation of Caitlyn."

"What?" dad muttered.

"What?" I echoed.

"David, every girl you've gone out with over the last five years has looked like Caitlyn. Vanessa..." she left the thought hanging.

"They have?" from dad.

"You didn't like Vanessa?" I asked.

"Finally a girl with some spunk, some life, someone who'll give your dad and I grandchildren," mom answered.

Dad, uncomfortable, clearly wasn't sold on the idea. "He just met the girl for crying out loud," he complained. I was smiling in thanks to my mother.

By the time my parents left Florida in early April to go home my father was completely sold on Florida. The man who'd often said he'd never retire was making plans for a longer visit the next year before he even left. The golf, the boating, the fishing had convinced him. He'd turned sixty-three that year and had finally realized that there were other things he wanted to do in life while he still had the chance.

Of course mom's constant gushing about how much she loved Florida echoing around him for the seven weeks hadn't hurt. Although they hadn't bought anything, mom had even got dad out to go out and look at a couple of condos on the beach during their trip.

And my father had also fallen for my girlfriend and the idea that Marisa Sanchez would be the perfect mother for his grandkids. How could he not? She was perfect. Although he never actually told me that before he left. Mom did though.

Mom's last words before they left were that she and dad "we're planning on spending a lot longer down in Florida next year".

"We are?" my old man replied.

"Of course we might also have to come down this summer," mom added.

"This summer?"

"Well, if there's a wedding," mom said to her husband.

"Wedding? Who's getting married?"

Adam of course also met Marisa that winter. In fact, when he'd been down in Miami in late February, and only twenty minutes after meeting her, he'd pulled me aside and said, "If you don't marry that girl you're not smart enough to be my brother."

And Marisa had instantly taken to him. "He's great," she'd enthused later that night as we lay entwined in a post coital embrace.

"Of course he's not as good looking as I am," I answered.

"He dresses better," my future wife threw back.

"My penis is bigger," I countered.

"Pig," she answered as she pushed me onto my back. "And yours doesn't look that big right now," she challenged as her hand slid down onto my sticky, just drained cock. However it didn't take long for it to grow back to a very, very respectable length. Which I then pushed deep inside her.