SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet

by ATLANTIC LIBRARY PRESENTS Jackie Christian

As though it were slow motion in Blanca’s K car, February began saying to herself, “January—my sister January. My twin…oh my god…”

  And it stuck. February had the memory of herself and January as students at Overbrook High in her head now. She grabbed the already disoriented Blanca and began shouting, “My name is February! I’m February from Overbrook High!”

  But by then, the scary looking tattoo-covered white guy who called himself Beavis and Butthead was leaning into Blanca’s car window with his gun pointed at February. “You bitches need Jesus. Get out the car right now!”

  Book Four

  He Danced My

  Heart around the Stars

  Beautiful Woman

  Madrid, Spain

  Adam Crown was like a fire seduced by a wink of oxygen.

  Only a few feet away sat January Knuckle-Joy; so unsuspecting and so naturally beautiful that he wanted to charge and ravish her right there on the Galician Café sidewalk at Plaza Mayor. But alas, she was with her mother, May Day. And because her mother had known Adam during his romance with February, it dawned on him that May Day wasn’t likely to be very pleased that he was now enamored of January. In fact, for the first time, he acknowledged to himself that he was chasing “a duplicate” of the woman he had once loved and that his behavior wasn’t quite honorable. But, as well as that, he couldn’t help himself. He was a man and he wanted what he wanted. The wildest, loneliest part of his heart believed that he could bring February back to life through January.

  And it was with that force of delirium burning so irrevocably in his soul that he had dashed out of the Crown family vacation mansion in Cantabria, threw on some sunglasses and sped two hundred and fifty four miles south until he’d reached Madrid.

  Now—staring at the object of his desire as street musicians played a tender “Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady” on violins—he didn’t know how to approach yet he was determined to possess her.

  It was madness, but like any lion, Adam had to quench the hunger and thirst in the madness.

  January and May Day were sitting by a window for two towards the front of Galician Café, their pretty mouths chatting in between bites and sips of Cochinillo (roast suckling pig), bocadillos de tortilla Espanola, short-version porras and frothy glasses of the local Aguila beer.

  Adam walked up and May Day’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She had wanted to say his name, but in shock to see him, had forgotten what it was.

  January turned around and she, too, was speechless.

  “The food looks delicious and I’m very hungry,” Adam said.

  May Day cut her eyes. “Why are you looking at my daughter like that?”

  Images came into May Day’s mind of a lecherous dog fucking one daughter in one bedroom—only to creep that night and drag the other daughter from her bed to fuck her, too.

  Adam expected January to say something—anything—but she couldn’t find words. She was still devastated over the photos of Buck in the tabloid papers sexing a blonde bombshell on a German dance floor. Friends from all over the world had been ringing her, each call enhancing her humiliation that much more.

  “Go on and sit down and eat,” May Day nodded to the towering Adam. “I for one would like to hear all about what you’re doing in Spain.”

  Adam wasn’t about to play games. He sat down and immediately said to May Day, “February’s dead. Now I want January. I love her.”

  “What?”

  Of course this all shocked January far more than it did her mother. May Day looked at January as though there should be some explanation, some comment. But after so many nights of writhing beneath cool sheets to fantasies of Adam entering and reshaping her body with his passionate lovemaking, January continued to be speechless.

  Nervously, she reached for her glass of beer. But like a klutz, she knocked it over, spilling it into Adam’s lap.

  And like a fire seduced by the winking oxygen’s dance—the flames that flickered between their hearts were like burning prayers begging the lord have mercy for what was about to start.

  ~*~

  “He’s a married man,” May Day intoned.

  January rose naked from the sea green waters of her bathing pool and stood between the salt-colored columns of her villa balcony tying on a silk robe as her maid, Florencia, handed her a glass of chilled sangria. May Day remained in the bath.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, mama.”

  “And your fast behind is married, too!”

  January ignored her mother and continued trying to be open to the spiritual energy she felt she was getting from the brass python bracelet she’d been wearing since Paris. Anyone would have thought her crazy had she talked about it. But something wild and forceful was sloshing in her blood like what she imagined a person falling from a bungee-jump must feel. It was more feverish and death defying than any mere lust or love she’d ever felt before.

  “I told Adam to fetch me this afternoon, mama.”

  “Florencia, roll me a joint—and make it fat this time!”

  ~*~

  They held handsand walked in silence a full hour before one of them finally spoke. Adam asking, “Shall we go to Alcampo?”

  “I’m a snob. I don’t shop there,” January smiled. “It’s as though Mostoles has grown all the way into Madrid and they’re one city now—I blame the mall of Alcampo for that.”

  “My, my…you know Spain pretty well for a ghetto girl.”

  They took the Yellow line Metro to the Puerta del Sol and walked to Retiro Park. Woodpeckers serenaded them through the Forest of the Departed and doves more ivory than white ash swirled above as they made it to January’s favorite piece of architecture, the Palacio de Cristal (Palace of Glass). An old Spanish couple snapped their picture standing next to the equestrian statue of Alfonso XII and from there they moved along to the Space Needle Observer Tower (El Farode Monchoa) where they took the elevator up to the top and stood in awe, looking out over all of Madrid. And it’s there that Adam first attempted to kiss her—holding her chin up, his mouth softly brushing against hers.

  With a tear in her eye, January pushed him away.

  “I don’t have control over how I feel about you, January.”

  “That’s what I don’t like about men—their lack of control.”

  ~*~

  “Your mother took a cab to Alcampo for shopping,” Florencia reported. “She said she might be back a little after dark.”

  “Thanks. Would you get some blankets and pillows for my guest? He’ll be sleeping in the guard’s room. For dinner, I’m grilling some swordfish, tomatoes and piquillo peppers—would you like some, Florencia?”

  The maid was shy but nodded yes.

  “Good. After you get the blankets, consider yourself off duty and have a glass of wine.”

  January put on a mid-tempo CD featuring “think-deep” cuts by artists like Erykuh Badu, Maxwell, Jill Scott and the Roots. She poured Adam a glass of apple wine and asked him to take his feet off her hand carved ebony muskrat table.

  “So how pregnant is she?”

  “Not far along—she did it because I told her I was leaving her to pursue you.”

  “What makes you think I’m available to you of all people?”

  Adam answered honestly, “I don’t think that.”

  “Why don’t you want Bliss anymore?”

  January watched his mouth as it moved. “I never loved Bliss and she never loved me. Our parents arranged it. She’s only become interested in me now that I want you.”

  “Why do I get the feeling this is more about you rebelling against your family than it is about us?”

  Adam was stunned. Not because of her remark, but because of what he saw by watching her eyes closely. He blurted out, “No man’s ever loved you before.”

  “Don’t be slick. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “That’s because I don’t care what my feelings are about.”

  “My first husband, Pa
pa Sinatra, loved me.”

  Me’shell Ndegeocello was just singing January’s favorite love song of all time, “This is love…this is how I love you (Love Song #1)” when January thought about the fact that Madrid no longer gets the blistering hot summers it was once famous for. Many blamed it on global warming, but all January knew was that Papa Sinatra had stolen some part of heaven by having the windows and balconies of this flat that had been his wedding gift, Villa January Mujer Bella, face to the north.

  Sensually intoxicating breezes slowly entered Madrid’s cityscape from wind pockets as far back as the bull stadiums in Malaga creating a tranquil air-swirl throughout the rooms of Villa January Mujer Bella; cooling the day’s heat in such a way that the breeze actually took on a silky feeling against ones flesh.

  Adam said, “Papa Sinatra never loved you. Not like a man loves a woman. He loved you like an elderly rich person loves a ward. He bought you, spoiled you, raised you, tutored and helped invent who you are—you made him feel young and important—but it wasn’t true love, January. It was about his money, how he flexed his money for power and you…like any smart woman…loving that money.”

  Son-of-a-bitch!

  January hauled off to slap him!

  But Adam caught her hand and bended her arm backwards. He pulled her close, ignoring the torrent of rage that struggled to strike him. She let him wrestle her down; she let him kiss her—hot, deep and forcefully.

  Bursting into tears of shame and guilt, January allowed it because it was what she had dreamed of for so long.

  Their tongues danced and their hearts pounded as the kiss lingered for what seemed the better part of a day on a merry-go-round. Finally, January pulled away in exasperation. Adam Crown vowed, “I want your real heart, January. I want to love you. Please let me love you.”

  “You mean my sister don’t you? Isn’t it February’s face you see when you’re looking at me? Isn’t it really her that you just can’t let go of?”

  Adam stared into her eyes speechless. Of course, in some ways it was February’s face he saw. But in another way, the line was beginning to blur for him. By the emotions in their first kiss alone, Adam couldn’t help but be introduced this spirited new soul he had fallen for so easily. It had been different from kissing February, because January was such a wilder, more calculating and fiery version.

  “Tell me Adam…who do you see?”

  His cell phone began to ring. In his anxiousness to escape January’s tough questions, he flipped it open without looking at it.

  “Adam Crown.”

  “Adam, its Bliss—I’m here in Spain. I’ve just arrived at your family’s mansion in Cantabria but there’s no sight of you.”

  “I’m with January Crown.”

  Bliss gasped in shock. “Did you just call that bitch ‘Crown’?”

  “I’m sorry—I meant—I meant January Knuckle-Joy. I’m here with January Knuckle-Joy at her Villa in Madrid.”

  Bliss could scarcely contain her rage. “We need to talk…and I mean now Adam!”

  Now I Remember

  San Clemente, California

  February Foster was trembling tearfully. Not because Bobby Joe a.k.a. Beavis and Butthead was forcing them to enter the dirty screen door of the little gray house at gunpoint, but because for the first time in nearly five years—she remembered who she was.

  Blanca Castillo, on the other hand, was shaking because she just knew she was about to have a crucifix carved into her forehead.

  A ghastly mural of serial killer Charles Manson and Jesus Christ side by side was painted on the living room wall and Beavis was shouting through the house for the apparent leader of this little psycho religious group to emerge.

  “Hey Critter!” the tattoo covered beer-breathed white guy called out like a child calling its mother before an intense looking older black woman wearing a t-shirt that said “Ex-Con from Sybil Brand and Proud of It!” appeared out of one of the doorways. She apparently was the leader and didn’t mind them calling her Critter. She sure as hell looked to be one, thought February.

  “Put that gun away Beavis!” Critter commanded. “You’re scaring these poor children. Cindy you get these kids some cookies and milk and turn on Cartoon Network for them in the den.”

  Cindy with the black nail polish did as she was told.

  “What’s you all’s names?” Critter asked Blanca and February as she trained an ugly gravy-brown face on them. She had bath teeth and a scar on the side of her left eye, probably from a prison fight. Her body was frail and shrunk, yet still conveyed the language of someone who was a violence-prone scrapper. Her eyes, though, were dark and soft. At times, her voice seemed motherly.

  Blanca grimaced in confusion as Ashanti answered with conviction, “I’m February Foster—from Philadelphia.”

  Critter pulled out her pocket knife and flicked it open revealing the sharp silvery blade. With a kind face, she said, “You girls are going to look so good with the anointment of the revolution on your foreheads. Beavis—get a bucket of ice to numb their skin with, baby, and some towels. I’m so proud of you girls wanting to be sisters of the Manson and Christ White Family Album Divinity.”

  February spoke up, “But we don’t want it, Miss Critter. We’re not religious. We were just trying to get to Pismo Beach and were giving Blanca’s friend Cindy a ride.”

  “Cindy was going to help me save my brother, Julio’s soul.”

  “Don’t talk that shit in front of the saviors,” Critter scowled at the rejection. Moving closer with the knife, it was obvious that she was mentally unbalanced.

  “The money I told Beavis and Cindy about,” Blanca offered in a nervous rush of words. “It’s up there in Pismo Beach at this resort called Warm Leatherette. I can take you to it—lots of money!”

  Critter narrowed her eyes. “Who in the hell told you we were about money? We’re about the revolution—the start of it being at Mardi Gras.”

  “Mardi Gras?”

  “That’s right. The big fire-night cook-out when we burn all those rich sinners alive for disrespecting Manson and Christ.”

  February suddenly noticed a stack of explosives through a nearby closet door. Critter hollered to Beavis and Cindy, “These girls aren’t ready to be carved with the crucifix! They need guidance! They need to live here for a few good months!”

  And that was how a trip up the coast that should have taken a mere few hours turned into months of brain washing.

  Cindy shaved the heads of Blanca and February until they were bald and crying. She put their hair in a salad bowl and set it on fire. She said, “Critter is going to make this the hottest Mardi Gras those sinners at Warm Leatherette have ever felt. They’re going to literally…feel the fire!”

  Gunshots

  Madrid, Spain

  POP! POP!

  Pedestrians screamed jumping out of the way and scrambling for cover as the gunman’s shots put blue smoke in the air.

  January and May Day had just come out of Princi’s boutique when a car swerved around the corner and a gunman opened fire targeting the daughter.

  Luckily, the Fosters being so called “ghetto” women, they both knew how to dodge direct fire. They simply ran in a zig-zag motion very fast, the percentage of aim precision drastically reduced as there was at best the shooter’s chance of hitting an arm, leg or fatty area—but in most cases; like this one—no area at all.

  January ran in a zig-zag pattern between cars as she dashed across the street in front of the shooter’s car. May Day, meanwhile, dodged behind a parked taxi where she pulled out her own gun. Once the assassin and driver, obviously untrained street-level shooters from a local gang, had the nerve to come down the street protruding their heads in looking motions for January—May Day jumped up and opened fire on their asses.

  She hit the teenaged-looking shooter on the passenger’s side in the shoulder right away, her teeth clenching with delight as he screamed like a girl, ducking down miserably. Then as the tires broke into burni
ng rubber, skidding with the car’s sudden acceleration; she hopped on the taxi hood and shot holes in the door, skillfully blowing out the back right tire and red break light.

  “Goddamn son-of-a-bitch motherfuckers!” she shouted in the narrow Spanish street as the shot up tires caused the car to limp and the two men jumped out to make a run for it.

  January, who wasn’t armed, came running out of nowhere. She kicked off her shoes, double-bolting like an Olympic relay runner and was soon followed closely by May Day as the two women caught up to the one holding his wounded arm and tackled him.

  “Punk bitch motherfucker!” May Day shouted as she kicked him in the groin and then socked him in the face as he bent over.

  “Who sent you?” January demanded. “Was it the Sinatra family? Ha?” Soulfully, she slapped the shit out of him!

  Soon the police were there, but the kid wouldn’t talk.

  ~*~

  Adam Crown immediately suspected that his family was the one behind it.

  He stood towering over January and May Day with intense eyes in the villa living room as they told him and a local police detective over and over what had happened.

  Notoriously ineffective, the police official gave them a card, a copy of the report and was on his way. May Day rolled her eyes, having just spent hours in handcuffs until pedestrian witnesses told a local Judge what had transpired. She opened one of the hutch drawers and handed her daughter a silver semi-automatic hand gun that January immediately strapped to her calf.

  May Day was mostly pissed that some passerby had stolen her shopping bag from Princi’s while she was chasing the gunmen in the street. She had Florencia roll her a fat joint.

  “I don’t trust my father,” Adam said.

  “Your family’s not behind this,” January told him. She went to her room and returned with a strange looking garment. It looked like a hollowed out condom with razor sharp teeth inside.