Honey Flava

by Zane

  Joaquin and I presently stopped at a stall that offered nothing but star lanterns.

  “Do you have some kind of theme in mind?” I asked, carefully regarding an elaborate piece made of colored tissue cut into a delicate lace motif. It reminded me of a psychedelic snowflake.

  “No, I don’t. I just want my house bursting at the seams with these things.” He grinned and held up one that was made entirely of capiz shells, which tinkled lightly in the breeze. “What do you think?”

  “I love it. This will make the perfect nonpartner for yours.” I showed him the lacy one I’d been admiring.

  Joaquin bought just about everything I fancied, almost childlike when we got into the car. He’d stuffed the trunk with newspaper-wrapped lanterns. His eyes, dark and sultry with their almond shape and long, thick lashes, twinkled. His mouth, beautifully thick and pliant, was almost always curved in a smile. I told him that he looked like a kid who’d just feasted on candy, and he merely laughed me off before proving his age with an emphatic squeeze of my crotch.

  He’d grown his hair out a little since I’d last seen him, allowing it to graze his shoulders in thick black waves. Behind closed doors, stripped naked, he looked so primal and raw. His brown skin was firm and lightly dusted with hair, inviting me to drag my tongue over it, tasting and bathing him.

  “You’ll never get tanned, Matteo,” he noted on my third night, when he was assured that I’d gotten over jet lag well enough for a much anticipated fuck. Thank God he only kept one maid, and she slept in a little room on the bottom floor near the kitchen.

  He laid atop me, his cock rigid and hot as he stretched me open. I didn’t have to do anything because he liked being in control. I discovered that quickly enough, too, and was more than happy to bottom for him. He had his methods. He knew my body well enough to know what to do with it. His way of driving me crazy was to move slowly, giving me a taste of his impressive control. Looking up at him as he hovered above me, I took in the sight of Joaquin’s flushed and sweaty features, his hair hanging loose around his face, his eyes darker and stormier as hunger gnawed away at him, and he fought it off. I moved my hands over his damp chest and toyed with his nipples as I struggled with my own excitement in a desperate hope of keeping up with him.

  I sometimes wondered how much of my insides he could feel, with his dick so tightly swaddled by my muscles, squeezed and caressed and, in time, milked dry.

  “I’ve gotten tanned in the summer,” I corrected him. My words were barely a gasp as pleasure arced through me, and I pushed myself against his hips, my body swallowing every inch of his cock.

  “I like you as you are—mestizo. I look at you, and I see history.”

  “You see colonists, you mean.”

  “I see a colonist worth fucking.”

  “Be glad that I’m not too fond of the sun…” My words trailed off in a low moan as he ground himself in me, and my eyes fluttered closed.

  He pressed down and kissed my chin before trailing his lips over my jaw, his tongue flicking against my ear once he reached it. Another wave of heat swept through me, and I was gasping into the night air, his lazy, thorough thrusting picking away at the frayed edges of my control.

  “I want the whole package intact,” he murmured with a mild chuckle against my throat. “I fell in love with an Esperanza, and I aim to keep him untouched.”

  My Spanish heritage again—I never felt comfortable with the attraction I had as one of the lighter-skinned Filipinos. I’d experienced some notoriety back in high school, but it was dispersed, for our old Jesuit academy attracted several boys from old-world families. I wasn’t the only mestizo in school.

  “And what does it feel like to fuck an Esperanza?” I stammered, my damp skin prickling.

  Joaquin’s rhythm increased. “This isn’t a good time for ego-stroking,” he groaned back. His head dropped as he closed his eyes, and all focus, all energy, was directed at his cock as he plowed my ass. The bed’s creaking grew louder and louder, more and more frantic, just as the sounds of skin slapping skin increased in ferocity. Our voices mingled with the rest of the sounds, groans and whimpers dissolving into a spiraling montage till we came, one after the other—Joaquin’s outburst a guttural series of curses while I cried out into the dim light, my stomach tensing as my cock spurted in my fist.

  He never liked to pull out right away and kept his dick in me even after he’d emptied himself. I always thought it a damned sexy thing—that thorough claiming of someone else, ensuring that every second of every moment would be stretched out to its limits, whether by that lazy rhythm of thrusts or that long wait inside my body, cocooned in spunk-drenched warmth. In the meantime, Joaquin would be kissing me with an energy that never diminished even after his orgasm. He’d force my mouth wide-open with his, our tongues slick, restless, and sometimes semen-flavored. The demanding attention with which he showered me guaranteed a renewal of my energy and a stirring of my cock within moments of our orgasm.

  We visited our respective families a week after my arrival. My cousins, aunts, and uncles simply treated Joaquin like a dear (yet less privileged) childhood friend of mine. His parents and siblings were welcoming, though without the stiffness and ostentation that had always been the mark of Esperanza pride.

  “You live in California now?” Mrs. Madrid asked, ignoring her son as he took her hand and pressed her knuckles against his forehead. It was almost odd watching that gesture of respect again after so many months of casual, egalitarian interactions with my mother, who’d also moved to the United States.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “You like it there?”

  “I do—the diversity, especially. The culture…”

  She nodded in a vague sort of way as she beckoned me over to the dining room, where a veritable feast likely awaited me as their guest. “Not in San Francisco? Your home, I mean.”

  “I live in the East Bay—Albany, near the Berkeley border.”

  Joaquin nudged me with his elbow. “She won’t know where that is.”

  “Ah, good then,” Mrs. Madrid called back over her shoulder as she stepped through the dining room door, her voice rising in volume as though she were attempting to talk to a deaf man. “San Francisco’s diseased—too many drugs and too many gays.” She stood by a large narra table that nearly sagged under the weight of so much food. “Come, eat! These are good! All ingredients were bought at the market this morning.” She pressed a plump hand against her chest in emphasis, her chin lifted. “I chose them myself. Never the maids. They always get the wrong things and—how do you say it in America?—fuck up the cooking.”

  And she was right. The meal was fantastic.

  The frenzied blur of the next several days was a thrill ride. Little by little, as though thick cobwebs were slowly being blown off my memories, ghosts from the past emerged—dulled and faded by time but potent in their effects. The smell of freshly baked bibingka, pervasive and defining as one of those scents of Christmas, dogged me day after day from sidewalk stalls or a corner eatery, luring me back from my American path to weed-choked trails of childhood. Without fail, I’d pull out my wallet and spend more money on a little stack of those sweet rice cakes to take home and to gorge myself sick with, much to Joaquin’s disgust.

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asked, watching me with a look both horrified and sickened.

  “It’s been too long,” I said between mouthfuls. “I can’t help it. Want some?”

  He shook his head and pointedly turned away, raising his coffee mug to his lips. “That’s okay. I think I’ll be off that stuff for a while.”

  I tried a few times to get up at three in the morning to experience misa de gallo at least once, but I’d never been a morning person, and it proved to be a nightmare in the end. Joaquin didn’t care, though he made sure to call me a “shaggable atheist” for the hundredth time since I arrived. Not that I minded, either.

  Fresh from Mass, confidence and spirits raised as they always wer
e when he returned home from church, Joaquin took care to wake me up for breakfast. There were no words to describe such an erotic transition. That shift from dreams of childhood and my youth, of long-forgotten faces and voices, all rising from the ashes of my past to swaddle me in familiarity and comfort—to the very real, very visceral experience of Joaquin settled between my spread legs, one brown hand rough and firm against my thigh, the other fucking me with two oiled fingers, his mouth soft and wet around my cock. Dreams would fade as they inevitably did under his handling, and I’d become an adult in a breath—naked and aroused, helpless under my lover’s weight, my senses drowning under the sights, sounds, and smells of smog, star lanterns, rice cakes, beggars, crowded churches, and indefatigable hope.

  I made it to church once—for misa de aguinaldo on Christmas Eve. We didn’t drive to either of our families for Noche buena afterward. Arriving home after midnight Mass on Christmas Day allowed us another opportunity to celebrate our rare time together. With Joaquin’s maid gone home to her parents for Christmas, we had the house to ourselves. Like a Wildean decadent, Joaquin ate naked on his back in the living room before the Christmas tree while I sat astride his hips. His dick fixed me against him as I alternately fed him and sampled dessert off his chest, demonstrating my approbation by grinding my hips, groaning at the luxurious feel of being owned yet again. I hoped that he felt every inch of my body around him, and that he listened to it—the pliant heat a wordless reassurance that, yes, I’d always been his.

  Samaya

  FRANCES JONES

  JUST AFTER THE SUN crested the pines, Chokyi took six withered walnuts from beneath the tree in the monastery garden. He peeled back the dried flesh and set them on the stone wall, tapping their shells lightly, beckoningly. Soon a squirrel drifted down on its fleshy wings, chittering as it landed. Chokyi held the nuts in his hand, teasing the squirrel, which sat on its woolly haunches, scolding him and swishing its tail.

  They played this game each morning; always it was a struggle for Chokyi to stay quiet, to resist the laughter that gathered in his belly and tickled up his chest. Just when he was ready to burst, he would open his hand and let the squirrel have its pick of the nuts. It would clutch one in its tiny paws and bound along the wall, away from the monastery and into the deep shade of the pine forest.

  The game was one of the only things that entertained Chokyi after so many years living and working in the monastery. When it was full of monks, Chokyi often wished it were empty, as it was now. The others had left a week ago to perform a blessing ceremony in the village of Yangpachen. Chokyi’s task was to stay behind and look after the temple and grounds, a task they rotated once each season.

  But when he was alone, Chokyi found himself longing for the slap of the monks’ bare feet in the halls, the drone of their chants drifting from the temple windows, the clatter of their chopsticks when they ate. Even a monk can only contemplate so much silence, so much emptiness. Now, it would be some days before they returned, dusty and solemn-faced and ready for tea.

  By noon dark clouds had stormed the landscape. Chokyi paused from his bowl of rice to watch the rain pour through the canopy of conifers outside the window. The steel-gray water fell in sheets, soaking the hillsides and drumming against the walls.

  Its music was a welcome change from the silence of the Himalayan foothills, but with guilt Chokyi dreaded the tasks it brought: finding and patching leaks in the roof, placing bowls under the dripping ceiling, clearing leaf litter from the gutters. He longed to sit in the sun, to drowse, to feel the Buddha’s hand brush the top of his head with invisible fingertips. He reminded himself to stop longing.

  Chokyi finished his midday meal and retrieved a large basin of rainwater from the porch, using it to rinse his empty clay bowl. He set handfuls of richly flavored vegetable rinds to simmer in a deep pan of water over the hearth. From the kitchen he gathered a handful of bowls, knowing that as the rain pounded the temple, water would breach the roof.

  He dashed from the main building across the deck to the temple, feeling the cold rain sluice across his bare head and sneak its way beneath the folds of his saffron robe. He paused at the entrance to the temple, bowing low to the large golden Buddha who sat in the center of the room. The Buddha’s expression never changed; he gazed serenely down at Chokyi, one hand raised and the other touching the floor, unperturbed by the storm that had settled over the land.

  Chokyi tracked the sound of dripping water and placed bowls in four locations in the temple chamber to catch the drips. He then returned to his place before the Buddha to make sure the offerings of blossoms, oranges, and water were still adequate, though he had checked them that morning. Bowing low once more, he lit several sticks of incense, folded his legs into lotus position, and let his mind drift into stillness.

  The sound of water drips almost merged with the constant susurrus of the rain as it fell everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Although Chokyi had had plenty of practice with his meditations, he still struggled to find that empty place. Today, the water dripping into those wooden bowls crowded his ears, distracting him.

  He imagined himself as a silver fish, thrashing with all his might against the current, just to reach the stillness of a mountain pond. With a sudden and deep breath he plunged into it, his thoughts as dark and sheer as a mirror reflecting midnight.

  In the dream he was seven years old again, sitting with his mother as she read to him from a book about the railways of China. Trains, those massive steel structures clattering down miles of track at exhilirating speeds. As she read, he closed his eyes and imagined he was riding on the caboose, watching the landscape vanish rapidly into the distance, feeling the wind across his scalp. There were no trains in Tibet when he was a boy, so he had to dream them.

  He longed to do the simplest thing: to purchase a paper ticket and step up onto the car, to feel the jolt as the train pulled loose and boosted its speed. He could go anywhere, become anybody. But in the dream, just as he stepped up to the ticket counter, everything was lost in mists and darkness and the dripping of the leaky roof into brimming bowls of water.

  When Chokyi opened his eyes, dusk had fallen over the hills. The rain was unceasing. He returned to the main building and took up a broom to sweep the floors before the light vanished completely. With each sweep of the bristles he chanted, forcing himself to stay present within the words and their rhythm as he cleaned: “Om amoga-shila sambara sambara, bara bara maha shuddha sattva pema, bibu shitabuntsa, dhara dhara samanta avalokite, hung pe soha.”

  As the rain thundered in the growing darkness, his chanting grew louder. Both sounds competed for the Buddha’s ears. But as he paused to take breath, he heard the sound of bells chiming at the gate. Someone was asking for shelter.

  Chokyi tucked the broom away and quickly lit a lantern, raising it above his head as he went to the doorway of the monastery. There, standing on the footpath in the downpour, was a small figure whose face was obscured by the darkness. Chokyi waved his hand, beckoning the stranger inside.

  As the pilgrim came closer, he saw it was a girl—no, a woman, small and slender, her clothes and travel pack drenched and dripping. “Bhikshu,” she said softly to him as she stepped onto the porch, bowing low in greeting. “Many blessings. I was caught in the storm and have been searching for shelter.”

  “Please, come inside,” Chokyi said. He led her into the kitchen and gestured her to a large stone bench by the hearth, where a small fire continued to burn. “Warm yourself. I am Chokyi.”

  When she set down her pack, Chokyi noticed that a long, sheathed dagger jutted out the top. A ragged hank of fringe tied to its handle caught the firelight, shimmering dully. Looking away from the weapon, he bowed to the woman and gestured for her to sit by the hearth. Then he fetched a bowl and filled it from the kettle of broth that was stewing over the fire. He offered this to her.

  The woman pushed her long hair away from her face and took the bowl into her small, perfectly formed hands. “Bhikshu. I am
Pasang,” she said, blowing air across the surface of the salty, hot broth so that she could drink it.

  Chokyi returned to his sweeping, not wanting to intrude on the stranger’s meal. It had been months—no, more than a year—since he had seen a woman, and never one within the monastery grounds. This high in the foothills, the monks rarely received travelers.

  When he looked up to check on her, he found that she had emptied the bowl and removed her rough jacket and tunic, which she was spreading on the hearthstone to dry. When Pasang saw that he was watching her, she covered her small breasts with her arms. But just as she lowered her eyes modestly, she raised them again, looking directly at the monk, letting the edges of her full mouth curl into the hint of a smile.

  “Forgive me. Do you have any dry clothes I could wear?” she said.

  Chokyi smiled apologetically. “Only monk’s robes, and we do not keep many spares. But come, let me see what I can find.” He led Pasang to the cabinet where they kept the linens, across from his sleeping quarters.

  As he selected a russet-colored shawl from among the textiles, Pasang peered into the darkness of his room, turning back quickly when he handed her the garment. Pasang wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and breasts. Chokyi scolded himself for lingering over the way the deep red of the fabric lay against the milky brown of Pasang’s arms, over which her black hair hung like a fringe.

  “Have the others already gone to sleep?” Pasang nodded toward the row of sleeping quarters.

  “No, they are away, in Yangpachen.”

  “So you are alone?” Mirth played in her eyes. “It must be peaceful to have the monastery all to yourself. How long have you lived here?”

  “Seventeen summers, since I reached manhood. And it is peaceful. It’s also dull, but do not tell the Buddha I said that.” He chuckled. “Where did you come from?”