AmericasDarlings (6 page)

The audience groans in empathy.

Cold mountain water! The pain of it!

The siren fairly swoons with desire. Such courage! Perhaps he is the one!

Again he circles her. He allows his erection to graze her butt. His fingers trace lines across her back, her shoulders, her breasts. His erection presses against her thigh as a finger lingers on her nipple. She gasps. She shivers.

She can wait no longer.

The music rises to a crescendo.

“Hey, babe,” whispers the woodsman.

“Hey,” replies the siren.

His erection presses at her private place, presses and pushes and begs for entry…and then in one lovely, athletic movement that is captured on the big screen, he’s in her. He’s in her and she’s moaning her pleasure and she’s meeting his thrusts as he moves in and out, in and out. They cling to each other and it’s beautiful. The audience follows right along.

It’s so good! Simply wonderful!

He’s showing the lonely siren what a woodsman can do and the siren, at long last, is fulfilled.

The crowd roars with approval.

The chanting begins again. “Lee-ah! Ben-son!”

But the lovers do not notice the rising noise level. Passion consumes the woodsman and the siren. Their lovemaking fills the arena, their wild ecstasy offered to one and all. And, like the gift it is, their passion is gladly accepted, treasured, cherished even, by their adoring audience. Just as it should be.

Except for one person.

Marion Lewis sits on the highest possible level, hands clenched in her lap, lips pressed together in a thin white line. A tremor runs through her. To her horror, she’s just experienced her first VO, and worse, it was wonderful beyond words. She staggers from her seat, her hands clutching her middle, her nipples erect, her undies drenched, and, crying, she flees the arena.

She will not return.

She will slink back to where she came from, and, hating herself, she will not be able to stop dreaming of having wild, glorious sex with that sinful, hateful pornographer, Leah Collins.

But the siren knows nothing of this.

The music changes, becomes bouncy and playful. The lovers assume impossible positions, still moving as one, their bodies never separating. Eight times they pose in lovemaking positions that titillate and shock the audience by their very improbability. Eight times the audience roars their appreciation. Eight times the lovers force themselves to hold on, to wait for it, to put off their release until the time is right.

Eight times. And the audience follows right along.

Then the music booms. Trumpets play a fanfare.

It’s time! The audience holds its breath.

The lovers—oh those brave, brave lovers. They let their bodies have what they so yearn for. Their lovemaking gets quicker, noisier. Their bodies slap together. They writhe as one, in a frenzy of delirious thrusts. They sway, they moan, they kiss.

The audience sways too.

Cymbals crash! The lights flicker!

Orgasm!

The lovers leap apart in a series of acrobatic flips, ending up on opposite sides of the mat.

The audience is on its feet, stomping.

Thump! Thump!

Thump! Thump!

The cheering, which never stopped—not really—rises in volume.

“Lee-ah! Ben-son!” Clap-clap!

Thump!

“Lee-ah! Ben-son!” Clap-clap!

Thump!

It was over.

The siren and the woodsman were gone. It was just me and Benson again. But we weren’t quite finished yet. I turned toward the judges, still in sync with Benson. We bowed. We bowed to our coaches. We waved to the stands. Then, holding hands, we made our way off the mat, met Coach Bob and Coach Debbie for a quick hug and retreated to our bench. We slid our weary bodies into our white plastic seats and allowed ourselves to be groomed.

Panting, I gazed at the turbulent crowd.

Benson squeezed my hand.

“And that there,” bellowed Coach Bob, “was the single best performance I have ever seen!” He planted himself in front of us. “Holy shit, you two fucking burned
up
the place!”

I smiled wanly up at him. “Thanks.”

“What score do you think it’ll get?” asked Benson.

“A damn good one or I’m fucking boycotting the rest of the games!”

“Me too,” said Coach Debbie.

Remembering that she’d written and choreographed the thing, I forced myself to my feet and hugged her, hard. “Thank you,” I whispered, “it was
wonderful
. We totally got what you were doing.”

She blushed. “You did. You absolutely did.”

I felt for her breast, gave it a quick squeeze. “Did you get a VO?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you did!”

She laughed. “Benson! Come join us!”

He did. We clung to Coach Debbie, breathing hard. The three of us were still arm in arm when the judges’ verdict was announced. We’d earned an almost perfect score.

An Olympic record.

Of course, it was the first time the event had even been at the Olympics, but who cared?

It had been
almost perfect
.

Soraya and Jim performed an hour or so later.

I perched on the edge of my seat, holding my breath throughout their routine, willing them to be as good as I knew they were. Was Jim sick, like Soraya feared? He didn’t seem ill. He moved as gracefully as always—“my shadow gazelle”, Soraya always called him. I thought him more coltish than gazelle-like, with his dark skin, his wiry legs and his narrow chest, his long, elegant neck, his well-shaped, hairless head.

Jim seemed fine to me…in more ways than one.

They completed the mount.

Oh
my
.

I bit my lip and blinked. He
couldn’t
be sick, the way they were coupling! The energy! The abandon! Was that what people saw when they watched Benson and me? I twisted around in my chair and gazed up at the audience behind me. To a person they watched with rapt attention. I decided there was something different about sexual gymnastics in an Olympic stadium. Just like the venue itself, the performances were more
everything
. Bigger. Better. More sexual than sex itself.

Did the rate of audience VOs go up in the Olympics?

Probably.

I turned around again.

Of course they’d made it through to the next round.

I was congratulating Soraya, kissing her chastely on the cheek, wondering how in hell she always looked so flushed with energy after performing when
I
felt like I would die of exhaustion, when I noticed something. Jim, holding his arms tightly across his stomach. Jim, turning away from Coach Bob—but toward Soraya and me—his face a grimace of pain. Jim, following the escort out of the arena.

I frowned. “Soraya. What’s going on? I thought you said he was better.”

“He told me he was. He
is
.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t look that good.”

“Nerves. It makes his gut spasm sometimes.”

“You think so?”

She didn’t answer.

We stared after him. I hoped she was right.

All of us made it through to the next round.

All of us!

Even Naomi the contortionist and her partner William, who’d been long shots in their event. Giddy with happiness, not wanting to leave even though our events were done for the day, we hung around the arena with our escorts in seats set aside for athletes and watched the Israelis. Soraya was right. They were brilliant.

But we were better.

When we finally left the arena an hour later I thought we were done for the day, but no. We weren’t. Coach Bob called a team meeting and an extra practice session at the Oostif. An
emergency
meeting and practice session. Mandatory. As soon as the team was splayed out on the practice mat, stretching legs and backs and arms, he began to pace. We knew what was coming. We watched Coach Bob, waiting, holding our collective breath. He was always overwrought after a competition—why would the Olympics be any different?

“William!” he yelled. “You made it through!”

“Yes, Coach,” said William, wary.

“But your
cock fell out of Naomi
during the
Walking Dragon
! Sexual malfunction! You lost
ten points
! No excuse for that. None!”

William seemed to shrink. He hung his head. “Sorry, Coach.”

”Naomi!”

She looked like she wanted to run and hide.

“You’re not blameless. Have you been doing your Kegels?”

White-faced, she nodded. “Of course, Coach.”

“Then do more of them. Soraya!”

Soraya jerked. She sat up. “Yes, Coach?”

“You and Jim didn’t finish the dismount at the same time! Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“No, Coach.”

“I
did
. And so did the judges. Leah!”

Had I thought I would be exempt? Well, I wasn’t.

He stood over me, hollering. “You let your elbow drop, Leah! You lost points! You screwed yourself out of a perfect score! I told you yesterday but you didn’t listen. Why don’t you
listen
?”

I mumbled an apology.

So much for our performance being the single best he had ever seen
.

Benson shot me a look of commiseration.

Coach stood over me. “Maybe I need to couple with you again. Maybe I need to teach you what to do? Is that what you need?”

“No, Coach.”

“Now, all of you!” said Coach, stepping away from me. “I want to see a damn good workout! I want to personally sign off on each of you. And once I let you go—and only then—you’ll be free for the rest of the afternoon. Got it?”

We got it.

We spent the next hour and a half getting personally signed off by Coach Bob.

Several hours later, at dusk, I went to dinner with Mom.

She found a secluded thatch-covered patio restaurant decorated with sprays of magenta bougainvillea. A large TV flickered in the background, showing Olympic coverage with my good friend Ryan Markham the asshole—thank goodness the sound was off or I would have rejected the place out of hand. As it was I made sure to sit with my back to the screen. It was the first time I’d been able to slow down all day and I was knitting. At the table. I didn’t care if I got strange looks for being rude, for knitting while waiting for our meal to arrive. I really needed to relax and Mom certainly didn’t mind.

No wonder I was all wound up. What a day. It was still spinning through my head.

“He’s only doing his job,” said Mom when I told her how Coach Bob had yelled at us. She wasn’t sorry for me in the least. I suppose I was complaining. A little. “He has to be tough so none of you develops a big head.”

Right.

“But he’s kind of cute when he yells, isn’t he?”

Sure, Mom.

“And he’s got that funny thing where he slaps people on the butt. Guess what? He slapped
me
last night after dinner!”

Okay, Mom.

Coach Bob slaps all of us. And Benson and I like it. It seriously turns us on.

How about that?

Her eyes were bright. “I saw an interview with Bob right before I came to Mexico City. Did you know when he was younger he had two wives at once? A ménage a trois?” She giggled.

My Mom
giggled
.

“Yes.” I knitted my way furiously across baby Luke’s tiny sleeve. “I knew that. It’s legal now, you know.”

“Hey. What’s
marisco
mean?” Mom asked, oblivious. “Marisco Palace Restaurant. Is it a name? Do you suppose Marisco is the head chef?”

“No, Mom.
Marisco
means seafood.”

“Seafood? In Mexico City? Is that a good idea?”

She took a fried tortilla chip from the basket and reached to dip it into salsa. The silver bangles on her wrist—two of them, one for each of her children—caught the light as they dangled over the salsa. Would she add a bangle for baby Luke? Would Constance wear one for him? Maybe
I
ought to, after all this Olympics stuff was over. It was a family tradition. Aunts, cousins, grandmothers—all the female members of our family wore them in honor of their children.

I turned Luke’s sleeve over and started knitting my way back again.

A woman waved from across the room. She made her way toward us, winding around tables and chairs.

“That’s Naomi’s mother,” I said.

“I know,” said my mom, narrowing her eyes and looking suddenly wary. She sipped her strawberry margarita. “A bunch of us parents went out last night. She was there.”

Naomi’s mother embraced me then turned to Mom. “I hear congratulations are in order?”

Mom took a napkin and dabbed at her lips. She blinked and looked away.

“You had fun last night, I hear?”

Mom frowned, made odd jerking motions with her chin, seemed to shrink in her chair. She didn’t answer.

“You and Coach Bob?” Naomi’s mother prodded. “Remember?”

“Let’s not talk about it, okay?” Mom slapped the napkin onto the table.

I looked back and forth between them. “Mom? What’s she saying?”

“Your mom bagged Coach Bob last night!” said Naomi’s mother. “And they have big plans for tonight too, according to the grapevine!”

Mom went white.

I stopped knitting. “Mom?”

Naomi’s mother looked at her then at me. She put her hands out, waving them, as if to wipe away what she’d just said. She backed up a step. “You didn’t know? Oh God, I’m sorry, Leah.” She hovered over us, fluttering, but I didn’t notice her, not anymore.

“Mom? Is this true?”

Mom nodded ever so slightly. “I went home with him last night.”

I threw down the sleeve. “
Jesus
, Mom!”

“Don’t yell, honey.”

“You’re
sleeping
with him?”

“I was going to tell you myself, after the Olympics. When you could handle it better.”

“He’s my coach! You can’t sleep with my coach!”

Naomi’s mother scooted away, retreating as fast as she could.

“Mom!”

Mom grabbed a napkin and blotted Luke’s sleeve. “You got a drop of salsa on it. And yes, I can. I can fuck your coach if I want to.” She gazed at me. “
You
do.”

I stood up.

The people at the next table tried not to stare and failed. I was, after all, famous.