Sweet For A SEAL

by Anne Marsh

  “You know someone with breast cancer?”

  There’s no right answer here. I open my mouth, and she shifts the palm on my chest to my lips.

  “I don’t know if I would have had cancer or not,” she tells me, and time slows down the way it does when you realize there’s a missile coming in hot and headed for your bunker. You can’t avoid a hit, and it’s going to be bad, and you’d better pray to whatever you believe in that your fortifications are just enough. “My sister died from Stage Four breast cancer. My Tía Mina died. I wasn’t taking the chance. I told the doctors to cut them both off.”

  She yanks her tank top down, wrestling her arms out of the thin straps. I have seconds to admire her blue satin bra, and then she flicks the front open—God bless front clasp bras—and she shrugs the bra off. This gives me the best ever view of her tattoo, where the vines and the flowers swirl over her skin. She runs her fingers underneath the lush undercurve of her boob, and my tongue immediately volunteers as a replacement.

  “Do you see this?”

  “I’m looking.” I’ll touch, too, just as soon as she lets me.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  The only twenty-question game I want to play right now involves her sexual likes and dislikes.

  I drag the back of my fingers over her skin. “It’s a scar.”

  I have scars, too. It’s not like I’m Ken doll pretty. Uncle Sam plays rough with his soldiers, and I’ve failed to duck on more than one occasion. Still, I’ve got all my working parts—as I’d be more than happy to show her.

  “I told the doctors to cut them off,” she repeats, cupping her boobs. “And they did.”

  Okay. Sometimes, I’m slow. If you told me I had a choice between testicular cancer and shaving my balls off, I’d take my chance with the disease. We men? We’re not fans of anyone—doctor or not—taking a whack at our reproductive gear. I run my fingers over the scar that wraps beneath Vali’s boobs. The skin is puckered and rough, but barely pink. It hides there in plain sight, part of her tattoo, not quite covered by the color and the flowers.

  I’ll bet that’s intentional.

  “The scars are from my augmentation surgery.” She traces the path with me. “They kept my nipples and that’s my skin, but what’s underneath it is one hundred percent implant.”

  Now that I’m paying attention, I can feel the rough ridges beneath the flowers and vines. I mean, I’d noticed them before, but I’d been distracted by other parts. Parts like nipples and nakedness.

  “Okay,” I say like an idiot. She’s clearly sensitive about this, and I want her happy. Whatever’s upsetting her, I need to fix it. But I’m genuinely confused, and she needs to hand me a cue card. Give me a fucking hint.

  “My boobs are fake,” she announces defiantly, as if that’s supposed to make me run screaming in disgust. Not a chance. I mean, most guys love boobs—and we’re not discriminating. Big ones, little ones, and every single size in between—they all work for me if you’ll let me touch. And taste. This is starting to feel like that stupid ass argument about organic vegetables versus the kind that gets raised the old-fashioned way with pesticides.

  Whatever.

  I’m not going to discriminate against fake boobs. They’re generally just as lovely as their more authentic counterparts, and they tend to be big. Big breasts definitely work for me, although I honestly haven’t seen a pair of tits that I couldn’t admire. And Vali’s boobs are just part of her—a spectacular, gorgeous, can’t-wait-to-get-them-in-my-mouth part of her, sure, but I’d still like her just fine if she was an A cup.

  “You’re beautiful,” I say. It’s not like I’m lying.

  “Guavas,” she counters, and now I really have no idea what the fuck we’re talking about.

  Only one thing is clear. Vali’s got some kind of hang up about her tits. She seems to be under the mistaken impression that cutting them off and installing a replacement pair would be a turn off. It just means she’s strong. I’ve had conversations with other SEALs, the kind of shit you talk about when you’re stuck in a foxhole and you’ve run through all the movies and Kim Kardashian hasn’t heated up the Internet lately. We talk about how far we’d go if we were trapped. Would you cut off a finger? An arm? A leg? We’ve never discussed dicks—the odds of getting trapped by your dick are slim—but I’d bet none of us would have the balls to do what Vali did.

  “You’re strong.” I give into the urge to touch. Her skin is so pretty.

  “Fake,” she counters.

  And I honestly don’t know shit about reconstructed boobs, but she’s wrong about one thing.

  “These are your tits. They’re you.” True story.

  She opens her mouth, and I’m betting she either wants to smack me or argue with me. It’s not like I’m a smooth-talker, so I figure I’ll just show her. Demonstrate my sincere affection for her boobs. Most guys love breasts. Sure, we’re looking into your eyes and we’re noticing your great smile or the dimple in your cheek that makes it look like you’re so flirting with us, but really? We’re trying not to stare at your boobs. No pair is exactly like another pair, but that just makes it better.

  Vali’s like the gold medalist in the breast competition. Full and round and her ink… her ink drives me crazy. Plus, they’re her choice. She’s chosen exactly what they look like, and that’s hot. I trace my fingers over the sides, skimming the soft skin, the curve where her boob meets her rib. When I exhale, my breath skates over her skin and her nipples pucker. When I do it again, taking my time, her breath catches.

  “Beautiful,” I growl, but I ignore her nipples for the moment. It takes an act of fucking restraint, because they demand I suck them into my mouth like ripe little cherries, but I do it. I’ll let her thank me later. Instead, I press my mouth against the soft, smooth skin of her breast. I kiss up and then down, learning each sweet inch as she shifts on my lap.

  And when she starts to writhe? I know I’m doing my job right. I grip her hips loosely, helping her to ride my dick through our clothes while I love her with my mouth. Her skin pinkens, her nipples tightening to dark red points. When I finally suck them into my mouth, tonguing them roughly, my reward is an ear-shattering moan. She’s gonna come just like this, her breasts in my mouth, her pussy riding my dick, and I love it.

  The next words out of her mouth are my name in a desperate, keening chant. FinnFinnFinnFinn. She digs her nails into my shoulders and grinds down on me. I shove up, giving her the friction and hardness she craves, and we just about rock the fucking Jeep.

  “You’re a good guy,” she says later. Much, much later, because showing her exactly how much I appreciate her custom-made boobs took time. You can’t rush art—or art appreciation.

  She rolls off me—collapses, really—onto her seat. I kind of want to have this piece of the highway commemorated. Maybe put up a plaque or bronze a palm tree or two. Aren’t most of our state senators guys? I bet they’d understand my need to remember this place.

  “We need to try this in a bed again,” I say. “I do even better in a bed.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You rise to a challenge well.”

  It’s clear I’ll never understand her. I’ve offended her, sucked her titties until she came by the side of the road, and now she’s rediscovered her sense of humor? This is why so many men go for the quick bar pick up and skip the whole relationship business. If I’d spouted compliments and tried to get to know her, would I have ended up parking by the Florida highway with the taste of Vali’s spectacular breasts still in my mouth?

  Not a chance in hell.

  There’s one thing she’s taught me in the last hour. Two things. First, I’ll go to the post office with her anytime she asks. I had no idea the mail delivery business could be so dirty. Two? Vali gets whatever she wants. If there’s even a chance I’m seeing her naked (or holding her, giving her what she needs, or anything else that verges on forbidden relationship territory), she gets it. I’m firmly wrapped around her little finger.
/>   Or possibly some other part of her anatomy.

  T-3 days

  VALI

  For our date tonight, I’ve cooked fried plantains that I’ll pair with lime wedges. Browned and caramelized into a sweet, hard surface, the fruit will rock Finn’s family. In case that’s not enough, I’ve also got deep-fried pork with yellow rice and okra, the sections of okra seeded through the rice like small green flowers, and a crusty loaf of Cuban bread.

  Finn eyes the mountain of food on my kitchen counter. “I wasn’t planning on starving you.”

  I shrug and load the box into his arms. “Mami taught me never to come empty-handed.”

  Besides, I’ve tasted Finn’s attempt at cooking, and I’m better.

  On our way, he stops by the gas-and-go. I follow him inside, because it feels stupid to sit in the Jeep and wait. He promptly puts me to work, dumping eight jumbo-sized bags of chips into my arms.

  “Hold these.” Without waiting for an answer, he lopes towards the beer display and pulls out two twenty-four packs.

  “Just how big is your family?” That question’s safer than the one really ricocheting through my head: holy taquitos, they’re alcoholics! Finn has never mentioned coming from a large family.

  He shrugs and heads for the cash register. “We’re classy. What can I say?”

  A few minutes later, we’re back on the road. We make a quick pit stop at the nearest drive through, and Finn orders twelve kid’s meals in a dizzying combination of no ketchup, no cheese, extra pickles.

  The building we pull up in front of isn’t winning any architecture awards. It’s a low, one-story bungalow that was probably painted peach once upon a time, but now is that indeterminate, faded beach pastel you see all over the Florida Keys. It’s comfortable looking, even if it doesn’t look like any family home I’ve ever visited.

  I don’t realize it’s a veteran’s home until Finn opens the front door and motions for me to precede him. The doors are those double glass doors with the metal handles you find at doctors’ offices and hospitals. A faintly antiseptic smell hits my nose, bleach and cleaner followed by a Lysol chaser. The nurse at the front desk waves us through with a wink for Finn. Naturally. The man’s a magnet for women.

  Finn takes off down a corridor to our right. Clearly he’s been here before, because he doesn’t need directions. Maybe his grandfather is here? Military service runs in families. Maybe he’s stopped off to see Grandpa before taking me home to meet the folks. Not that we need to take our faux engagement that far, but he offered. And now I’m curious.

  He steps into a large common room filled with old men, and a rousing cheer goes up. If these are his relatives, someone he cares about practices polyamory. Or polygamy. I never can keep those two straight.

  I teeter on the threshold, juggling chip bags. “Is there something you should tell me about your family?”

  He flashes me a quick, superficial grin. He’s pulling out the charm now. “They’re loud. And they cheat.”

  The old guys send up a roar that’s practically deafening. The two seated in wheelchairs protest their innocence—for which I don’t blame them—while a nearby neighbor waves his cane, threatening to accidentally decapitate the guys around him. I do a quick headcount. Ten. Finn is claiming ten senior citizens as family?

  Finn wades right in, making introductions by calling out names with military precision. His men salute, and the uproar slowly dies down. Or maybe that’s because the better part of the first box of beer has been passed out and cracked open. I meet a second lieutenant, two first lieutenants, a major, and a colonel. I’m not sure who served where or when—they all talk over each other and most of them are deaf—but I know one thing. These are good guys.

  “You invited me to meet your family,” I say a few minutes later as I pour chips into bowls on the table. The beer has magically disappeared, but I’m certain the men know precisely where each can is located. “I was expecting tías, tíos, maybe your own parents?”

  Finn shakes his head. “This is my family.”

  Without volunteering any more information, he starts passing out the Happy Meals until there are two left—one for me and one for him. Apparently stage two in Finn Family Night involves cards. My card skills don’t go much past Go Fish, but everyone is happy to teach me the finer nuances of poker. The food I brought doesn’t hurt, either—after the guys devour their fast food, they’re more than happy to start in on my contributions. It’s like feeding a bunch of amiable piranhas—the table is stripped bare in no time.

  I’ve never been big on cards. Mami and her relatives love a good game of canasta, and they’ll spend hours parked at the table, eating and talking. These guys are fun. They also cheat—there’s no getting around that. I’m at a disadvantage given my inexperience, but I’m not blind. Or deaf. It’s a good thing we’re playing for the roll of pennies Finn produced, because otherwise they’d take me to the cleaners.

  I almost don’t notice when my phone rings. Finn looks up when I toss my cards in, but I shake him off. I’ve got this, and he’s having fun. I’m not tearing him away from his family to hold my hand while I talk to my mom. I’m a big girl, and I don’t have to have his help.

  “Mami,” I say, stepping outside. It’s warm and dark, the wind stirring up the palm tree fronds. The Gulf of Mexico lies just on the other side of those trees, close enough to wade in. We side step our way through the hellos and how-are-yous, and then she launches into the reason she’s calling.

  “I want to set up times to visit bridal shops.”

  “That might be premature,” I say carefully. Frankly, I’m lucky she hasn’t decided that we should elope to Vegas, because then she’d show up, herd us onto the plane, and things would get really difficult to explain. I should tell her the truth, that Finn isn’t my fiancé. He’s not even really my boyfriend. More of a friend with benefits.

  Really, really awesome benefits.

  Unfortunately, describing the miraculous properties of Finn’s penis isn’t going to slow my mother’s mad dash to the altar. Quite the contrary. She’ll assume he has super sperm and start shopping for baby clothes, too. My Mami is one determined woman, and usually that’s a good thing. Tonight, however, I feel trapped.

  The door opens behind me, spilling light out. I don’t hear Finn approach, but the man’s part ninja. He slides an arm around my waist.

  “Hi, Mom,” he says into my phone, and just like that Mami melts for him. The man’s downright lethal. I have to hold the phone against his ear for the better part of five minutes while she talks at him. He grunts, nods, and makes every possible noise of agreement. I hope to God he’s listening to what he’s promising, because the IRS is less persistent than my mother. I’m pretty certain I catch the words cathedral, twelve-person bridal party, and open bar. By the time he finally hangs up, I figure she’s already picked out our kids’ names and the location of our first house.

  “Your mom likes me,” he says, satisfaction filling his voice. Naturally. He hasn’t figured out the price tag on all that liking yet. I love Mami, but she’s unstoppable. She’s the tornado tearing through the trailer park, the Category Five storm barreling into the Florida Keys. She’s going to knock Finn on his mighty fine ass—he just doesn’t know it yet.

  I lean back and look up at his pretty, pretty face. “Naturally. You agreed to everything she asked.”

  He shrugs. “She wasn’t unreasonable.”

  “Did you listen? Or did you just grunt?”

  He feathers a kiss over my forehead. I know we’ve got a faux engagement to go with my oh-so-fake ring, but that kiss feels real.

  “She’s happy,” he says, like that’s all that matters.

  “She’s already picking out baby names,” I counter. This is the part where a player like Finn sprints for the hills. Hot, mindless sex is his thing—not babies and happily-ever-afters. He surprises me, though, with another shrug. He stays firmly pressed up against my butt, and it’s clear part of him is really, really onb
oard with the baby-making plans.

  I wonder if he’s ever lost a battle. He’s the kind of guy who wins every confrontation, the one who walks away with the medals, the prizes, the girls. I can’t wait to introduce him to my Mami.

  T-1 days

  FINN

  We sit on the sand, out in the open, once a month. Not because we’re working on our tans or admiring the fucking view, but because we’re remembering the guys we lost in another place with different sand. B.B. deserves good memories, so that’s what we make for him. A beer and a beach—those were his two favorite things, next to his wife. They hadn’t had kids yet, but they’d joked around in their emails to each other. B.B. had read out parts, and we’d hung onto every word. She’d picked out a dozen names, and we joked he’d better get busy next time he had leave. I volunteered to show him how it was done, although we both knew I’d never touch his wife. She was sacrosanct, like one of those Catholic saints you light candles for. You don’t fuck with a buddy’s woman. You don’t even think thoughts like that.

  B.B.’s taste in beer, however, was pure crap. He loved light anything in a can, and he didn’t care if the shit was lukewarm. It was a standing joke in the unit that he’d drink anything with a pop-top. It’s Ro’s turn to buy the beer this month, and he’s let the brews roast in the back of his Jeep. The cans alone are practically hot enough to cause second-degree burns.

  We pile out of our rides and head for the beach. Ro tucks the six-pack under his arm and takes point. Vann and I fall in behind him, just like old times. The beach isn’t bad. It’s a sliver of pretty white sand with a half-dozen palm trees—the coconut kind Florida sports instead of the date palms B.B. last saw. I think he’d like it.

  The sun’s going down, and a pack of tourists zip by on Jet Skis, whooping and hollering. There’s a blonde bringing up the rear, tits bouncing in two teeny-tiny pink triangles of fabric, and I hope B.B.’s seeing this from wherever he’s gone on to. It’s a first for me too, appreciating the landscape without wanting to take a hike through it.