12 comments/ 13807 views/ 4 favorites Four Nights With Lovice By: DesmondAndromeda So there we were, all five of us back again in the bar at the old Hotel Patagonia, sitting at a table under a really useless, squeaking ceiling fan that turned no more than about one revolution per minute. Since there was no air conditioning, we all usually chose cold beer to drink. That's what one does in the tropics -- drink cold beer. The year was 1983, and we were all young then, in our early 20s, foreign correspondents in South America. It felt like being at the end of the earth. It practically was. But we weren't the kind of reporters whose stories you would read in The New York Times or watch on the nightly news. Those were the celebrity journalists, the A-team. We were free-lancers, since none of the major newspapers thought us experienced enough to hire. If truth be known, we were all fresh out of college and in pursuit of adventure, but with no portfolio to speak of. We were set apart, on the fringe, frantically searching out stories to sell, one at a time, to various publications. We competed against one another. The money was a pittance, and most of it went toward kamikaze bus travel and cheap hotels. We were nomads, outliers in a strange land. And the thermometer reading was 94. Tristan was from Australia, Klaus from the Czech republic, and myself from L.A. We were writers. Of the two women in our group, Lovise was from Denmark. Then there was Hadwigis, whose name none of us could pronounce. So she accepted that we called her "Berlin," which is where she was from. Both women were photographers. One by one, along the way, we had all become friends, as well as rivals. And we always seemed to beat a path back to The Hotel Patagonia. But this isn't about foreign correspondents traipsing the globe. It's about Lovise. And it's about being in the tropics and being in love. For me that is. Admittedly, it's also about Lovise's new friend, the elusive Anastasia, who was a little older than us, maybe in her early 30s. I was beginning to fall in love with Lovise, but thoughts of Anastasia kept me awake at night. This much I know: there's just something about being in the tropics. Sex is in the air. Desire permeates everything. Then there's the heat. And those black, breezy nights. And, to think, this all began because Lovise took a bath with me. * * * Hours before joining everyone in the bar, I had pulled into the hotel after 15 days on the lower Amazon River, 400 dusty miles away by Land Rover, gathering information for a story about river dolphins -- no joke. Most of the others had already checked in. I grabbed a room and desperately needed a bath. I was pungent. My clothes smelled atrocious. Depending on your point of view, The Patagonia was either a decrepit, godforsaken hovel on its last crumbling legs, or a fine example of old-world architecture with its interior archways, high, high ceilings, ornate tile floors and windows that were almost floor-to-ceiling, which one kept open all the time since there was no air conditioning. The rooms seemed cavernous but had little in them other than a bed and a small table and chair or two. And one of those useless, squeaking overhead fans. The Patagonia was in the middle of Montevideo's old section and had a quaint, colonial feel, with vines hanging over the second-floor balcony, dropping down toward a narrow, cobblestone street below. And real shutters on the windows. Very vintage. I loved it. Except for the heat. In the middle of the floor of my room, I unbuttoned, unzipped and peeled all my clothes off, then turned on the faucet to the cast-iron, clawfoot tub in the bathroom. There was no shower. And it was there, while I was soaking, that Lovise walked in. Not even a knock on the door. "You got the last room, Jack. Did you know that?" she said as she walked straight on in to the bathroom. I should have mentioned that some of the doors to the rooms didn't lock. And did I mention that I was naked? "So I'm going to stay with you until a room opens up," she said, looking down at me in the water and very unimpressed, I feared. She wasn't asking permission as she walked back toward the bed to unload bags, photo lenses and camera cases on the mattress. Before this, we had never been more intimate than sharing a beer downstairs in the bar. Nonetheless, it didn't seem to bother her that I was naked. Must not have. Because a few minutes later she was back in the bathroom, stark naked herself, and climbing into the tub with me. She sat at one end, me at the other. The faucet, strangely enough, was on the side rim of the tub. That's South America for you. Upon seeing her for the first time, someone once said of Lovise: "She appears to have won the gene-pool lottery." I could see what they meant. She was undeniably captivating. For some reason, I was drawn to her hair, dirty blond and always tied up at the back of her head, in kind of an up-do, a French braid, exposing her neck, with wisps of hair falling down. It gave her this perpetual wind-blown look that $300-an-hour stylists do nowadays for celebrities. And I'll have to admit a preference for necks and bare shoulders. Lovise had a long, slender neck and perfect shoulders. However, after she sat down in the water, I was caught off guard as she drew her knees up and opened her legs, resting each leg against a side of the tub. She had no pubic hair, which for the 1980s was strange indeed. Actually, she had shaved it, and a blond, barely visible fuzz was just beginning to grow back. "The less hair you have, the less chance of lice," she said, watching me watching. "It's a trick of the trade that women learn in the tropics, especially if you're going to be mucking around the rainforest. You might try it yourself, Jack." I suddenly felt terribly self-conscious as she stared down at my dick, catching its movements as it was becoming engorged. The blood was rushing in, not just because I was looking at my beautiful naked friend, but because I had never seen a woman's vagina so completely visible before. I was transfixed on her gorgeous slit. It made her seem so pink, so vulnerable. And even more breathtaking. "Do you ever cut yourself shaving it?" I asked nervously, immediately wishing I could take back the stupid question. "No, but my last boyfriend cut me accidentally," she said matter-of-factly. "Took two weeks to heal. He laughed about it. Always remember this, Jack. I don't like boyfriends laughing at me. I tossed him. So there you are." I made a mental note. She had an angular face, high cheekbones and somewhat of a German accent, though like I said, she was Danish. Obviously, she wasn't modest. Nor was she fazed at all by my dick, now rising out of the water and which had turned into the hardest erection of my life, so hard that my skin covering it hurt from stretching. She paused and looked at it, all right, but seemed bored, or hopefully just tired. Then she rested her head back against the rim of the tub, closed her eyes and began to talk down the day with me, asking about "my" river dolphins. And telling me of her photos taken up in the very steamy French Guiana. She had just driven back from there. Despite our facing each other naked, and me with an enormous erection, I somehow concluded from the direction of this conversation that no night of wild, sexual abandonment lay ahead for me. Still, I found myself falling for her, but I had been, even before this. She was smart, high IQ smart, quick-witted, and with a great sense of passion to right all wrongs, using photography as her weapon. On that, she was relentless. She was demanding and in charge. Though she spoke Danish, French and English, she could somehow communicate, no matter what language you spoke. And she loved poetry. She was complex, all right. Of the five of us, she also was the one most likely to go places. How could a guy like me resist all of that? We pulled the stopper and emptied the tub about half way, then filled it back up with fresh, hot water and soaked some more. Even in this heat, it felt good. There were no washcloths, so eventually Lovise stood up in the water facing me, soaped up her hands, then slowly began rubbing them over her body, lathering herself from face to foot, all the while telling me about the photos she took on the Tumuc-Humac mountains in Guiana. She was partly washing, partly caressing her now slippery, pure white breasts, tugging on her pink nipples as she described the magnificent natural light on the mountains -- photographers are obsessed with natural light. I almost ejaculated at that point. As we talked back and forth, she lifted her left leg out of the water, resting her foot up on the rim of the bathtub. Then with one soapy hand she bent forward, reached her hand under her bottom and washed her ass, still talking and looking right into my eyes. She moved her soapy hand back and forth between her hips, sliding her middle finger into her anus. I stopped talking. I couldn't remember what I had been saying. Back now to her abdomen, then down to her sex, where she slowed her movement and lingered far too long to be just getting herself clean. And remember, this was all right in front of me. She described the lens settings she used for her photo shoots, and I pretended to be mesmerized by her every word. But she knew. My eyes were on her marvelously shaven pussy. I could see her fingers moving slightly on herself, rubbing tiny circles on her clit. I couldn't believe it -- without all the hair, you could see every small detail. So amazing. She was doing it for me, you know. Lovise relished me seeing her naked. But this wasn't about exhibitionism alone. It was about power. The power she had over me. I wanted to sleep with her. She knew that and was letting me know it wouldn't happen unless she wanted it to happen. It would not be my decision. She didn't come, but she was well on her way when she just stopped and sat back down in the water to rinse off. I guess she got all she needed. Next, she's out of the water, toweling off -- in front of me, of course -- then dressed and heading downstairs where the others were now congregating. I would follow her, after I cooled down -- from the heat, the hot bath and her very deliberate, raw display of nakedness. The First Night: Figs. They were eating figs, of all things. And drinking champagne. Over the past few months the five of us had become fixtures at the Patagonia's bar. We would start with different breads drizzled with olive oil and washed down with cold beer. At least that's what we usually did. As I walked toward them with a questioning look, they all pointed to this new visitor at our table, blaming the figs on her. She was brunette, attractive, slender and wearing a sleeveless linen dress, white and close-fitting, and very stylish, a bit ritzy. The rest of us were in jeans, combat boots and wrinkled khaki shirts. We looked ready to climb Machu Picchu. She was ready for cocktails at the embassy. This was to be my introduction to Lovise's friend -- Anastasia Chase. "But why the figs?" I asked them all. "Lovise is reading poetry to us," said Klaus. "A poem called, what else, Figs." "Darling Jack, it's D.H. Lawrence," Lovise said, holding up a book, with that mild exasperation in her voice at my lack of knowledge about 20th century English literature. I'd heard that tone from her before, more than once. She had little patience with those of us not quite up to her intellect. "Quiet, and let me read to you," she said. We drank champagne and listened. We had no choice. The proper way to eat a fig, in society, Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump, And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled, four-petaled flower. Then you throw away the skin Which is just like a four-sepaled calyx, After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips. But the vulgar way Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite. "Here. You take over," Lovise said as she handed the book to Anastasia so she could try her own hand at a fig. Every fruit has its secret, Anastasia said, though I could tell she wasn't looking at the lines in the book. She knew them by heart. And from her voice, I could tell she was an American. The fig is a very secretive fruit. As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic. And it seems male. But when you come to know it better, you agree with the Romans, it is female. The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig-fruit: The fissure, the yoni, The wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre. "So is he writing about figs or is he writing about women?" asked Tristan. Anastasia spoke again. "Much of what Lawrence wrote was in one way or the other about sex." she said in this quiet, deliberate tone, speaking the words carefully. "Remember 'Lady Chatterley's Lover,' which he wrote and was for its time one of the most sexually explicit books written. It was banned for years in the U.S." Anastasia was the kind of woman who people stop what they are doing to listen to. We were young and wild. She seemed mature and sophisticated. Berlin looked at me. "So, Anastasia ordered the figs as an homage to the poem and to D.H. Lawrence. The figs are from Argentina, the waiter told us." "And she was kind enough to order champagne too," said Tristan. After finishing her fig "the polite way," Lovise said, "You see, Jack, legend has it that eating a fresh fig while naked in front of a woman is one of the world's most erotic acts. And once you split it open, the fruit's pink flesh is said to resemble a woman's inner parts, her pussy, if you will." Even with an audience, Lovise wasn't one to mince words. "The fun of it all," said Anastasia, "is that it's a seemingly innocent poem. Lawrence was absolutely fascinated, you might say obsessed, with ripe fruit and used that to explore the mystery of womanhood, his fascination with vaginas. But then, we're probably all fascinated by that." To that end, Lovise and Anastasia looked at each other, eyes smiling. The rest of us said nothing. So, we all ate figs and drank champagne, with me keeping one eye on Lovise, but the other turned now to our new friend, Anastasia. * * * By 10 p.m., I was back in my room, lying on top of the bed in my boxers, under the useless fan. But fortunately, in Montevideo after sundown, a soothing breeze often slips in from the sea, just blocks from the hotel, cooling down the city for the night. I had left the table shortly after Lovise and Anastasia headed off, without telling us where, strolling arm in arm down the sidewalk, the way European women walk together. They were talking -- no, almost whispering -- to each other as they left. Lovise laughed just as they turned a corner and disappeared. But just after the laugh, and just before vanishing from view, Anastasia looked back at me for a second. Her eyes met mine. Yes. That definitely happened. "So who is this Anastasia?" I had asked the rest of the group. No one had seen her until Lovise brought her to the table. Anastasia had told us she was here to study architecture. They all liked her, especially since she bought the champagne. At midnight, Lovise slowly opened the door to our hotel room, immediately stripping down to her panties and an undershirt, one of those white, thin-strapped singlet undershirts that your grandfather wore in the 1940s. Where she obtained it I haven't a clue. But Lovise would do that, dress kind of funky-sheik if the mood suited her. And this undershirt, it hugged her close, so her nipples poked through and her breasts bulged a little at the sides. But it was dark and I could see little more than that. Without speaking, she lay on the bed next to me on top of the sheets, after a moment turning on her side and pushing her perfect ass up against me, my thigh separating and nudging in between her hips. She pushed her hips in more. I could feel heat radiating from in between the folds. Incredibly warm, so arousing. She was asleep in minutes. I wasn't. With the windows open, the sounds of the street poured in along with the breeze -- a mix of chanting sidewalk vendors and tango tunes wafting up from the small bars and open air cafes below. It was Friday night. I could hear, from someone's radio on the street, the faraway voice of Patsy Cline singing "Walkin' After Midnight." The smell of grilled sausage was in the air too. "Jack, you're not a man if you don't do something," I thought to myself. So I took one deep breath, rolled on my side toward Lovise and, with fingers crossed for good luck, draped my arm around her. Brave actions from a 23-year-old about to make a move on one of the most beautiful women on the continent, at least in my eyes. "Jack, be a good boy," she said, without even opening her eyes. That was it. Just those five words. It was enough. She went back to sleep. I got up, went to the bathroom, and opened the fly of my shorts to jerk off into the toilet. And was totally humiliated by her rebuff. Sometime in the night, I awakened to a heaviness, finding Lovise asleep at my side, her head on my shoulder very close to my face, an arm across my waist, one leg across my legs. The scent of brandy was on her breath, strands of her blonde hair in my mouth. I could feel the cushion of her breasts on my bare chest, her beautiful thigh against mine, and the warmth between her legs pushed against me. A moment of serene happiness. I fell back asleep. When I awoke in the morning, she had already gone out. That's Lovise. No wasting time for her. She lived large. You could see it in her eyes. You just knew, when she got out of bed each morning, she would tell herself to "Live for today. Live. Live. Live." She pushed each day to the max because, to her way of thinking, tomorrow never knows. And that takes courage. Of course, she walked that fine line between recklessness and courage. I know. I saw it. While most of us used buses and rented Land Rovers to get around from country to country, Lovise rented motorcycles, strapping her gear on and riding at breakneck speeds on pot-holed dirt roads. I rode with her once. Never again. The Second Night: Journalists, I'm convinced, love gossip more than most. When not chasing stories, we love to whisper rumors among ourselves. And Montevideo was full of whispered rumors. Berlin and I were hunkered over a small table at the Restaurante Yasy, just across the street from the hotel. We sat outside in the open-air cafe, right at streetside. We were leaning close in to each other. She had something to tell me. "She's stingy about her past," said Berlin, who had been in Montevideo the longest and knew more people than the rest of us, and more about the dark arts that go on around here. She had been doing her homework on Anastasia. "Apparently, she's been in town for several weeks but gives up very little information about herself. More than a few people are curious about her." "Oh, but there's more," she said. "She's been seen on the Plaza Independencia with Jonathan Fillmore heading into a little bistro. Jack, do you have any idea who he is?" I was embarrassed to say no. "He's the CIA station chief up in Rio de Janeiro. He comes all the way down here to have tea with her? Does that make any sense? And some of my street boy contacts say she's been hanging out with some international arms dealer, some bad-to-the-bone guy, a real sleaze that a lot of people around here are afraid of. This is pretty weird shit, don't you think?" "I'll tell you one thing," Berlin said. "She's more than just a scholar who came here to study the architecture." I had to agree. But we had no answers, both of us a little bewildered. CIA? African gun-runners? This was serious stuff. We weren't used to this. We were fresh out of school. Maybe Anastasia was just out of our league. Certainly out of mine. Four Nights With Lovice From the cafe, we split up. I headed to the Mercado del Puerto, the old town's huge, loud and crowded indoor market, just blocks from the harbor. I was strolling through by myself, looking for papaya to satisfy my sweet tooth and pondering what Berlin had told me. Anastasia saw me first. "Jack, what a nice bit of serendipity," she said. We walked among the stalls together, then sat down at a small table-for-two and drank yerba mates, an herbal tea popular in this part of the hemisphere. They serve it in a small gourd. You drink from a straw. "So what makes you so passionate about architecture to travel thousands of miles south to here?" I asked. She began reveling in some of the architectural wonders of the world she had made her way to and photographed, even sketched and written about. "Buildings can be as pleasing to the fingers as they are to the eyes. And the sense of touch means a lot to me," she said, raising her fingers and pretending to trace them on the surface of ancient walls and doorways. You could tell she had finger-traced many times on buildings. "And I do see a passion in them," she said. "It touches my soul. There's a definite sensuality in architecture. Take the Taj Mahal in India. It has rounded edges and a color that says female, but the proportions, the tall phallic dome and the spires are very much male, don't you think." "Just study the photos of the ancient Roman baths," she continued. "They were designed for sex. And all I have to do is walk through the courtyard of the old Franciscan monastery in Lima and feel the sensuality." "You sound like you're here to study sex as much as architecture," I countered, attempting to elicit a smile from her. It did. As she was sitting across the table, regaling me with even more about her love affair with architecture, I began to study her features and realized just how inviting her mouth was. Though she didn't laugh a lot, her eyes smiled. And in those eyes, you could see that she was thinking, always thinking. I caught myself watching her delicate hands hold the gourd as she sipped her mate. When we walked again through the market, side by side, I realized she wasn't wearing a bra. It wasn't that noticeable front on. But I could see just a bit into the arm holes of her sun dress and view the outer edge of her small breasts, so virginally white. It was as if they had never seen the sunshine. My view wasn't enough to be really provocative, just enough to make me weak at seeing this small secret part of her beauty. As we said our goodbyes, I was glad to have on heavy jeans to, hopefully at least, shield my arousal. I was having my first erection for Anastasia Chase, caused by nothing more than her very presence. There would be more. That night, Klaus, Berlin and I made the rounds to a few cabarets we frequented, but I was back at my room before midnight, wondering if Lovise would be there. She was. And not alone. Only one small lamp was on as I opened the door. Anastasia was lying face down on the bed. Lovise was straddling her on her knees, massaging her back and neck. They both were naked in the dim light. Again, the noise was drifting through the wide-open window from the street. I could even hear that same Patsy Cline song again. "It's been a long day," said Lovise. "We're just working out the kinks in our lovely bones." Anastasia turned her head to me and gave a half smile. I really didn't know what to say, so I just stood in the middle of the floor. It was a squirm-inducing moment. "Don't freak out on us, Jack," Lovise said. "You're a big boy. You've seen the female form before, haven't you?" She winked. I wondered if she had told Anastasia about our bath. Anastasia's eyes met mine. She could read my thoughts. "You don't need to leave, Jack. It's okay," she said in that quiet voice of hers. "Be a dear," said Lovise, "And pour us all some champagne. Then come help me if you will." They had brought a bottle with them, presumably from the bar downstairs. I rinsed out the only two glasses in the room. We would have to share. I handed them the glasses and asked, "What now?" Lovise swung herself to one side of Anastasia. In the shadows, I caught a glimpse of her beautiful pink vulva as she spread her legs to move. "You do that side, I'll do this," she said, still on her knees on the bed. "Let's work together." I was falling in love with Lovise, no doubt. I certainly lusted after her, had been for weeks. And there was so much beauty in watching her naked, the curve of her back -- even more so her haunches -- as she leaned in to massage Anastasia's shoulders. Lovise's breasts hung down, slightly jiggling with each move she made. Her pink nipples were hard, long and noticeably swollen. She was my version of the ultimate woman. Yet, my breath was shallow, my heart racing and my fingers shaking, not because of Lovise, but because of Anastasia. As I kneeled on the bed beside her, looking down -- I still had on all my clothes -- she was so slender and delicate, her skin as white and perfect as porcelain, with such a creamy smooth derriere and long silken legs. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. I couldn't take my eyes off of her hips as each side curved perfectly inward into a dark, sensuous recess in the middle. Her skin all over smelled so fresh and clean. Lovise and I began massaging her back, working our way down to her waist. I've given some pretty good massages in my day, real Swedish fist-to-the-bone workouts. But with Anastasia, I was more caressing than massaging, afraid I'd break her tender body if I rubbed too hard. My fingers just seemed to glide over her lovely skin. And, yes, I was getting an erection, in case you wondered. We both began kneading her hips, Lovise doing it aggressively, me softer, more apprehensively. I knew Anastasia could tell the difference. Simultaneously, we massaged her ass, then pulled her hips apart, both of us now looking down directly at the soft opening of her anus. With her middle finger, Lovise gently stroked down between her hips, back and forth, then over her little hole as I watched, my heart pounding even harder now. She stopped, then began massaging in a little circular motion over the brown opening. After a moment, she pulled her hand back, looked at me and gave a nod. It was my turn. So I did the same, using two fingers to massage slowly up and down that dark place between her hips, all the way down to her anus. My heartbeat was now up to breakneck speed. My mouth was dry. I even felt a little faint. But I did as Lovise, rubbing in circular motions over the small aperture. For a second I looked at Anastasia's face, now turned sideways, staring off the bed into some distant horizon. I pushed one finger into her oily opening, but just a fraction and very lightly. She let out a barely audible sigh. "Do you like seeing my body, Jack?" Anastasia asked, without turning her head. "Lovise is so much more beautiful. I really don't even compare." I looked at Lovise, she at me, with a wicked smile, wondering just how I would respond. "Oh, I don't expect you to answer," Anastasia said. "If I were a man, I would already be in love with Lovise. She's quite incomparable. There's just so much life to her." "And would you love me, Anastasia, as passionately as my last boyfriend did?" asked Lovise with a grin. "Like a tiger on the prowl?" "So you want to be devoured like a tiger?" Anastasia asked back. "Isn't that what men are for?" asked Lovise. "Sex, to me, should be different each time," said Anastasia. "Sometimes sweet and gentle, other times playful, sometimes rough and ravaging, sometimes just relaxing. And then sometimes naughty, really really naughty." Anastasia paused and without looking at me, said, "Which of those options do you like best, Jack?" If I could be born over again, I'd give up my looks, relinquish whatever talents I have, if I could just be really, really clever. That eluded me at this moment, kneeling on the bed with two naked women asking me what kind of sex I preferred. I needed a comeback. I was empty-headed. And still feeling faint. "I think right now Jack would take just about any option we offered," said Lovise. "Since you're the only one still dressed, Jack, would you go downstairs for another bottle of champagne?" That bailed me out, for the moment. I headed down to the bar and, though it was now almost 1 a.m., the hotel owner was locking up and sold me the champagne. By the time I got back to the room, both Lovise and Anastasia were gone, with no note left behind. That night I slept by myself, too shaken by the events of the evening to even masturbate. And terribly dejected that they had left me behind. The Third Night: Lovise wanted to play. For her, that usually meant doing something outrageous that would wind up being photographed by her. I was worried. We'd been her subjects before. It was late morning. Berlin and I were downstairs in the bar at the Patagonia having eggs for breakfast when Lovise and Anastasia came back after abandoning me the night before. I was still a bit dazed from the massage. Lovise told us her idea. "We're grabbing a picnic lunch, a bottle of wine and heading to Parque Rodo," Lovise said. "You two must come with us. You simply must. We're going to recreate Edouard Manet's Le dejeuner sur l'herbe. For the more cretin of you, like Jack, it translates into The Luncheon on the Grass." "Isn't that the Manet painting where the woman is naked in the park?" asked Berlin. "Indeed. But for this, we're all going to get nekkid," Lovise said. You could tell she loved drawing the word out -- nekkid. Especially with her Danish accent. You've probably seen the Manet painting at some point. It's 19th century France, in a park, with a young man, dressed to the hilt, sitting on the grass with a picnic lunch. Sitting beside him is a naked woman. Across from him is another man, also completely dressed, talking animatedly and gesturing. If you look at their faces, all of them seem to believe there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary to have one of them nude and the others dressed. That's kind of the point of the painting. And it caused a scandal in its time. Parque Rodo really was a good place to re-create the painting. The park is right at seaside on the edge of downtown, with tons of huge, old palm trees and a few small lakes and ponds. Lovise set up a tripod and activated the camera's timer so she could be in the photo too. I was thinking that she deliberately did not invite Tristan and Klaus, instead wanting this to be three women and one man -- me. So she posed me sitting on the grass with a picnic lunch on the ground, under some thick shade trees. I wouldn't be as dressed as the man in the Manet painting, but Lovise found a dark sport coat for me, I had on a white shirt, and she scrounged to find a "flat" cap for me, one of those round caps with a very small, stiff brim in the front, very British. It was plaid. So, I'm sitting there on the ground and ready, waiting for more directions from Lovise. "Ok, Anastasia. You and Berlin take off your clothes. I want Anastasia beside Jack. Berlin, you stand behind them, about 15 feet away, and kneel down like you're preoccupied with something on the ground. I'll sit opposite Jack and Anastasia." For some unexplainable reason, neither woman complained, nor even hesitated. They began shedding their clothes in unison. Lovise had this very feminine white summer dress on, as did Anastasia. I wondered if they had bought the dresses as a pair at some costume shop. When Anastasia lifted the dress over her head, it left her completely naked. No underwear at all. I must admit to sheepishness, wondering who to look at, or was I being a complete boor to watch any of them. Should I, like the guy in the painting, just act very casual, like this happens every day. I tried that. I slowly turned my head behind me and saw Berlin taking off her panties after throwing down her jeans and shirt. My eyes immediately went to the black hair between her legs. I was beet red in seconds. Though not a showstopper, Berlin was cute, with a nice figure and a fashionable black pixie hair style and Little-Orphan-Annie eyes. I'd pick her up in a bar anytime, if she'd have me. But I can look for only a second or two or it becomes obvious, so I turn back around. Lovise and Anastasia are standing together at the tripod, looking through the camera lense to figure out the proper shutter speed for this photo. Anastasia's nakedness made me instantly weak -- I had seen her only lying face down. Now I saw those soft white breasts that I had glimpsed briefly at the market the day before. Her nipples were large and brown, and there was a soft little fleecy patch of brown pubic hair. Very subtle. Her thighs looked so inviting. Even her feet were beautiful. Her eyes glanced at me for a second, before returning to the camera and Lovise. She knew I was looking at that place between her legs. I realized then that the contrast between Anastasia's delicate features and her confidence and mysterious personality is what drew me to her. I was falling for her, too, maybe even more so than for Lovise. Everyone took their place, Anastasia by me, sitting on her haunches with both feet on the ground, her legs drawn up and bent at the knee. Lovise was more lying down with her legs reaching over and intertwining with Anastasia's and mine. Anastasia, only inches to my right, turns and smiles at me, then kind of leans over and brushes her arm against mine, a kind of unspoken "hello" to me. I get even weaker when she doesn't pull away. I glance down between her legs and see what looks like a small clit protruding ever so slightly. And her vagina's lips are wet and slick. I look back up. The camera shutter opens and shuts. The photo is done. We do a few more. Then Lovise decides to flip the point of the photo. She tells Anastasia and Berlin to get dressed and for me to strip naked. We'll do the same pose as before. I, of course, am frantic. "Lovise, aren't there laws in Montevideo about public indecency," I said. "We could do some jail time being naked like this." "Live a little, Jack," she says. "Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind and live life. Besides, when you're an old man sitting at the bar in your ritzy country club, sipping pricey bourbon, you can astonish your old friends with ribald tales about how you spent a naked day with three of the hottest babes in all of South America. I'm sure you'll be able to give those old men a complete rundown of what each of us looks like in the nude. Be sure you get good descriptions of our cunts. You are committing this to memory, aren't you?" She was right about the last part. I was. So I took off my clothes as Anastasia and Berlin were putting theirs own. And by the time I sat back down, the blood was rushing in and I had a huge erection. Even Anastasia looked at it. "My God, Jack. It doesn't take much to get that little thing excited, does it," said Lovise. By now I was getting used to her humiliations. But Anastasia came to my aid. "Actually," she said, "You have rather nice accoutrements, Jack." Eventually, the women once again were ordered to strip for more photos. Lovise took her dress off too. One picture was with Lovise lying on her back on the grass with her head in Anastasia's lap, both of them naked, of course. I thought it was electrifying -- Lovise's head lying atop Anastasia's thighs and her pussy. Could she smell Anastasia? She was certainly close enough. Then another photo, a close-up of the three women's faces, side by side and all of them leaning in for a group kiss, the photo accentuating their lips coming together and barely touching, each of them wearing bright red lipstick. Lovise was satisfied with her art, so we ate the lunch, downed the bottle of wine and headed back downtown, then went our separate ways. Or, rather, Lovise and Anastasia left us. I spent the afternoon writing, then hit the bars with Berlin, Klaus and Tristan. But by now, I have to admit that I was mostly going through the motions that night, lost in thought about Lovise and Anastasia and all that we had done in the past few days. I loved their nakedness. It was dark and late when I opened the door to our hotel room, but the moonlight coming through the window was illuminating Lovise lying alone on top of the bed. Naked. "I so wanted you here earlier, Jack," she said, practically whining with frustration. "I've been waiting forever. I'm in desperate need for the kind of long massage Anastasia got last night. Every bone in my body aches. I've been thinking about it all afternoon. I just figured that you could do me the honors, but I'm too tired now, just exhausted." She did sound sleepy, almost drugged. She watched as I undressed to my boxers, apologizing for my lateness getting back. I could have kicked myself for missing this opportunity. "Take those off, too," she said. "Come get in bed and sleep with me. I've got some time in the morning. You can do me then, and I'll do you. I promise." So we lay together, naked on top of the sheets, listening as the music and chatter from the streets slowly diminished with the late evening. I could hear Patsy Cline's voice trailing off. Lovise fell asleep against me. Maybe a half hour later, I was still awake and my cock had been hard since I lay down. I think it had been hard most of the day. Quietly, and really without even thinking about it, I encircled it with my hand, gently massaging it, moving up and down on the shaft, holding it straight up, squeezing a little harder at the base as I became more excited. I was pretty good at this. After all, I had been doing it since I was about 11 years old. Lying in the dark, I told myself I would stop before I made a mess. Then I felt Lovise's right hand gently on top of mine. Remaining still and silent, except for her hand, she unclasped mine and took over stroking me. She was so much more adept at it. My excitement took off there in the dark. She stopped for a moment to move her hand down. "You have nice balls. So heavy," she finally said, very sleepily, and barely above a hoarse whisper, as she held them. She caressed them lightly with her fingers, then cupped them with her hand, gently massaging them. "You feel so good, Jack." Then back to my cock, stroking, brushing the head lightly, then stroking more. "Lovise, I'm almost out of control here. You need to stop," I said. "Shhhh. It will be okay, not a problem." She began stroking harder, then squeezing me at the base of my dick, spinning me almost into a delirium. As I was just at that moment of being beyond control -- and she could tell -- she aimed my dick hard to the left and I came, ejaculating streams of my sperm, sending them in a high arc, completely off the bed and onto the floor. God, how I wish I had that kind of power today. "Now sleep well, Jack," she said quietly as she finished stroking. "We'll have our day tomorrow morning. I promise." Of course, when I woke up in the daylight, she was gone again. But at least there was this note: "Heading to Managua tomorrow. Got to get supplies today. But we'll have tonight. I promise. Be here." The Fourth Night: I, too, was heading out in another day, this time to Cuzco in Peru, a hefty 900 miles away. I would have to fly, but it might be worth my while. I had pitched a story to National Geographic and they said it had promise. I couldn't ask for more than that. Lovise had wanted me to go with her to Nicaragua, but I was committed to this assignment. Klaus said he would go with her. Nicaragua was erupting in civil war and they wanted to be there. I didn't like their destination. War frightened me. Tristan, Klaus and I headed over to the Mercado del Puerto where we had lunch on roasted beef and vegetables from wood-smoked ovens. We ate from one of the counters where you sit on stools. Afterward, I headed back toward the hotel in the early afternoon. Four Nights With Lovice Black rain clouds, very low and fast moving, were rolling in from the sea as I walked through the streets. I began hurrying through the fountained plaza where people sit on benches under tall shade trees and listen to old men slowly strumming guitars. On one of the benches, I was surprised to see Anastasia, by herself, in a short, summery dress, her silky legs crossed, eating chocolate ice cream from a cup. "I hear you're heading out tomorrow and won't be back for a week or so," she said. "I'll probably be gone too when you fly back." "So where are you headed?" I asked as I sat down with her. The very thought of her leaving gave me a desolate feeling. "Zimbabwe. I have an aunt there whose health is failing. She needs me for awhile," she said. She was barely believable. African arms merchants . . . Zimbabwe . . . I wanted to confront her about the skullduggery she may be involved in. But I didn't. Too afraid of the truth, I guess. She slowly swirled her tongue around the ice cream on her spoon, then just as slowly licked the chocolate off her lips, looked at me and said, "Are you in love with Lovise?" I wasn't expecting that. I had envied her candidness in these past few days, and her openness about sex, yet was terrified of both at the same time. But I wasn't going to run from this. Not this time. "I suppose I am. Yeah, I am in love with her. But I've also begun to realize that even if she had feelings for me, I don't see her being with any one guy for very long at a time. They come and go easily for her." Anastasia turned her eyes away from me, looking casually up at the incoming storm. The wind picked up. "What did you think about the other night when I was naked on the bed and you were massaging me?" she asked. After hesitating for a long, awkward moment, I finally replied. "Shocked, initially at least. What do you expect me to say? And then afterward I wanted to know who you are. I wanted to run away with you for weeks, maybe months, and just sit side by side and talk, to absorb who you are. Just the two of us." "Why haven't you said anything?" she asked. "I hardly know you, Anastasia. You're just this mysterious person who appeared, and likely will disappear on me just as mysteriously." "You're also older than me," I said. "You're sophisticated and mature. I can only guess what you must think of me and my friends." "And when you wanted to run away with me, did you want to sleep with me, too?" she asked, still searching the sky and finishing off the ice cream. "Anastasia, I doubt there's a man on this planet who wouldn't want to sleep with you. I think I'm coming under some spell of yours. My guess is that a lot of men fall under your spell." She smiled -- her smiles were so slight but said so much -- and raised her hand above my head, wiggling her fingers, sprinkling make-believe pixie dust over me. "Whissssh," she said. I laughed. "Sometimes it's okay to love two women at once," she said. "Or at least to lust after the two of us at once. After all, Jack, we're young and free to love. And if I had to guess, I think you may be like me, not bound for a normal life. You wouldn't be here in Montevideo if you were." "You don't think we're normal?" I asked. "No. I think normal people can find happiness in the daily routines. But you and I, Jack, you and I are destined for a different kind of life. A normal life doesn't suit our kind. Lovise is the same way." Do you ever read D.H. Lawrence?, she asked. "He has this quite beautiful, but rather sad line in his novel, 'Women in Love' -- better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions." "That fits me. And I think it's all three of us," she said. At that point, I did the most daring thing that up to that time I had ever done in my young life. I leaned over on the bench and kissed Anastasia Chase, chocolate and all. She kissed back. Then we kissed again. We were still locked, her lips to mine, when a wave of rain swept over us, really torrential. Coming down in sheets with startling thunder. Just all of the sudden. Neither of us cared. We kept kissing, the sweet taste of her tongue blending with the salt spray of the warm ocean rain on our lips. When we pulled our faces back, we were both laughing. We had been thoroughly soaked in seconds. We were alone in the square. Everyone had already fled, even the old men with their guitars. I pulled Anastasia to her feet, and did the unthinkable. I held her in my arms and started to dance slowly, there in the park with rain pouring and window-rattling thunder overhead. We turned slowly, gliding through puddles in a make-do waltz. "I knew you were like me," she said, as I wiped streams of water off her face. We kept dancing. We then ran through the street which already was starting to flood over our shoes, ducking quickly under a store's awning to wait it out on the sidewalk. We stood close, my arm around her waist, her arm around on my back with her hand holding on to my shoulder. Not a word between us. None needed. We listened as the storm ran its course over the city, washing away the heat and humidity. Her soaked dress clung to her, hugging her thighs and forming perfect contours around her breasts and hips. I wanted to take her right then and there, in the rain under that awning. But Tristan and Berlin were trotting toward us as the rain started to slacken, and we all made a dash for the hotel. Anastasia left for her own hotel, but we all agreed to meet at the restaurant on this last night before heading out on our assignments. * * * Dinner was memorable, a real spread, with both wine and champagne. It took hours. We were in a good mood, as was everyone else sitting outside at the Restaurante Yasy, watching the city go by from our vantage point on the sidewalk. The downpour had cleared away the heat. Gradually, the daylight turned to dusk, then to darkness. Lovise sat next to me but paid little attention, enraptured in an across-the-table conversation. Anastasia sat at the end, every once in a while stealing a glance at me. I did the same to her. Eventually, the crowd thinned out and we split up, Lovise again grabbing Anastasia and disappearing down the street. The others headed to their rooms, as did I. It was an hour before midnight. Lying again on the bed in my boxers, I was unhappy and more than a little befuddled by both Lovise and Anastasia. They were always abandoning me to be together. But the wine got the best of me. I must have slept for more than an hour when I could feel the heat of someone beside me -- and a rhythmic movement of the bed itself. I opened my eyes. Anastasia was lying next to me, on her back, naked in the dark. She was looking up and into the face of Lovise, who was on her knees, straddling Anastasia's waist and leaning over, about to kiss her. She too was naked. As her lips touched Anastasia's, one of Lovise's hands caressed Anastasia's nipples sticking up in the darkness, the other was softly touching her ear. They were making love, with me lying beside them. When I moved my arm, each turned their face to me, but they weren't smiling. Their passions were already building. Their eyes were on me, but weren't really seeing me, instead lost in each other's beauty and their own naked drunkenness. Whether I watched or not was inconsequential to them. Lovise's kisses seemed overpowering, leaving Anastasia subdued, helpless and succumbing to Lovise's hunger. Anastasia's nipples were sucked, pinched and pulled by Lovise's lips and fingers. Lovise then repeatedly licked around and over Anastasia's large brown areolas as I watched less than a foot away. She scraped her fingers down Anastasia's stomach, causing shivers to cascade down her skin. Then Lovise sat back, cross-legged on the bed, opened Anastasia's legs and pulled them to her, lifting them up and over her shoulders so that Lovise's face was at Anastasia's pussy. She gently caressed her vaginal lips, tasting her wetness, circling her tongue 360 degrees, very light and slowly, around Anastasia's vulva. I could hear the constant deep intake of Anastasia's breath as Lovise's lips traveled around and up and down her slit. Though it was cool in the room, their skin was glistening from sweat. Lovise then plunged her tongue deep into her pussy, pulling the moisture back to swallow it herself, doing this repeatedly. Anastasia raised her arms over her head, grabbing the top of her pillow and squeezing it for dear life, letting out little moans as Lovise began sucking on her clitoris, then blowing on it. Sucking. Then blowing. Over and over. Anastasia, her legs wrapped around Lovise's neck, climaxed minutes later, her body jolting, her head moving, turning rapidly, side to side on the pillow, lost in the moment. Anastasia tried to catch her breath. But Lovise wouldn't have it, moving quickly up to her face, on her knees straddling Anastasia's head. She pushed her pussy down onto Anastasia's mouth and waited for Anastasia's tongue to begin returning the favor. Anastasia licked and kissed without stopping until Lovise finally grabbed my arm, then raised her head toward the ceiling and screamed as her body spasmed in an orgasm that seemed almost in anguish. Sweat was rolling down Lovise's arms and between her trembling breasts, which for a half moment shook violently. Lovise sighed deeply a few times, then leaned way over and kissed me lightly on the lips. "Do you like watching, Jack? Do you like watching Anastasia and I eat each other's cunts?" "I've come to think, Lovise, that all three of us are insane," I answered. "Sex, drugs and insanity have always worked for me, Jack, but I wouldn't recommend them for everyone. ... That's Hunter Thompson," she said, then collapsing on the mattress. Within moments they both were asleep. I must have lain there an hour, then fallen asleep myself. Sometime about 3 a.m., I got out of bed, walked to the open window and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it, wanting nothing more than to feel the breeze on my face. The street below was quiet. These two women had done more than any others to capture a place in my heart. And I had just watched them make love to each other. I wasn't quite sure what I should feel or think. I heard the bed squeak. It was Anastasia, making no other noise, who came and sat on her knees beside me, her naked body still warm and glowing. She put her arm around my shoulders, her face close to my ear. She whispered. "Do you smell the rain coming? I can." "Another storm," I answered in my own whisper. "It's moving fast, in from the Atlantic. It'll be here in a few moments." She lifted up a little and moved into my lap, her arms now around my neck. I loved the sight and feel of her nakedness, her soft delicate skin, the clean smell of her hair and her warm breath on my face, so close. Her animal-like breasts were tipping and weaving as she moved, even with every breath she took. And her bare haunches on my lap felt exquisite. "Don't be upset with me," she said lovingly, stroking my face. "With Lovise and me, tonight was just fun, being with a girlfriend, a marvelous young woman full of life. Being with you is different. We have something special. I could sense it when you were caressing my ass. You knew it and I knew it. We knew it when were drinking mates, and when we were dancing in the rain. It's something irreplaceable." "Here, I brought you a flower," she added quickly. "I picked it up in the market on the way back to the hotel tonight. It's from what they call the El Ceibo tree that grows along riverbanks. Don't you just love the nectar." I held it in my hand, took in the sweet smell and the scarlet colors, visible even in the dark. I looked down between her legs, which she then deliberately opened wider for me to see. There was enough dim light coming through the window to illuminate the small silky bit of brown hair covering her mons. The now swollen lips of her vagina were open slightly. Her slit was small and wet. I dropped my hand down and, with one finger, caressed the opening. She shivered at the touch, then lay her head on my shoulder. "From now on, Jack, whenever you see this really delightful flower, do think of me, will you?" she asked. "I want you to always remember me." I pinched off one of the smooth scarlet petals and with my fingers slowly wove it into the soft curly brown hair between her legs, just beside the entrance to her womanhood. She lowered her face to look at it for a moment, then a tear dropped from her face to her pubic hair, landing beside the petal. Anastasia raised her head and, with watery eyes, kissed me with her delicious tongue as the rain arrived, at first with a fine mist blowing in through the open window and onto our bare skin. As the mist covered us, I licked her lips, rubbed my nose against hers, then kissed her ears, ran my tongue down the side of her neck, kissed her shoulders. The mist quickly turned into heavy drops. With one hand still in her slit, I reached down behind her and under her haunches with my other hand, feeling the warmth between her hips, touching that small anal opening again, which sent little flames up my fingers. I wanted to touch the very life inside her. She looked at my face and gave me a knowing smile in the dark. She understood. I moved her down onto the floor, laying each of us on our side, facing each other and holding each other close. She reached down and pulled my boxers off, gently nudging them over my now very hard erection. "Slow and gentle," she whispered. For some of us, there comes a moment, one special moment, in our lives when the one person we want in all the world to be with us, to touch us, actually begins to do so. For me, that moment was now. Anastasia slid her slender fingers onto my dick, alternately caressing and squeezing me lightly, then doing the same with my balls. I was hard and heavy. As the rain picked up through the window, and began really soaking our bare skin, she draped her leg over mine and moved my dick to her slit, pushing it in her small pussy, just slightly. I took over, slowly, slowly pushing in a little more, then just as slowly pulling back, holding for awhile, in no rush, then pushing in farther as her pussy filled with her own liquids. I moved inch by inch, relishing the idea of just being inside of her. There was no desire to come, just this insatiable need to be inside her. Pushing back and forth, back and forth. Over and over. But slowly. Our faces were touching, our breaths intermingling. Finally, I gave one long, slow silky push, sliding deep in, until I could go no more. I moved her on her back, with me on top. She wrapped her legs around my hips and we began a slow rocking motion as the rain began pelting my back and her legs, her face. The smell of the rain, fresh and salty, was almost overpowering. We were in a slow rhythm that began building. I raised up on my elbows to take my weight off of her small breasts and stiff nipples. My hands cupped the back of her head and the wild, soaking tangles of her hair as the storm passed over, now pouring through the window, beating on us, drowning out all noise. We refused to stop, absolutely oblivious to anything but the two of us. As our rhythm continued, slow and steady, we sank into raw sensuality. Her opening was so small I felt like a large beast inside her, totally consuming her. She gave out these inarticulate little cries as she came to a crisis, tightening her legs around me and squeezing her inner muscles around my cock, massaging me from her insides. I had never felt anything remotely like that before during love. We existed only in the now. She came, biting my shoulder to keep from screaming. Unable to hold back any longer, I flooded her with my sperm. But she never took her eyes off mine. We lay together in the rain for perhaps 15 minutes, caressing each other's face, but not speaking. Then we quietly closed the window and went back to bed, her on one side of the still-sleeping Lovise, me on the other. Both of us were drenched. The rain continued. Around 5 a.m., maybe a little later, I felt Anastasia's touch on my face. She was kneeling on the floor at my side of the bed. She whispered close into my ear. "Jack, I want to taste you. Be very, very quiet and very still." She slid her face and hands down to my abdomen, then fondled my cock and balls, put her nose up against them to inhale my smell, or maybe the mixed smell of both of us, the smell of sex. She pursed her lips and moved up and down my cock, kissing and licking my skin from my pubic hair to the tip, where she began sucking gently and slowly. I was worn out from exhaustion, but the very thought of Anastasia doing this aroused me quickly and she had no trouble bringing me to a climax, me fighting not to move or make a sound since Lovise was beside me, so close I could hear her breathe. Anastasia swallowed all of me until I was done. She kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear: "I love your smell and your taste. I'll be back to be with you, Jack. I promise. We'll be together." As I was fading, I sensed her getting dressed, or maybe imagined it, then somehow knowing she left the room. Sometimes exhaustion leaves us incapable of fighting sleep. Then there was Lovise. By 9 a.m. she was shaking me violently to get up. And practically yelling. "I've got a plane to catch, Jack. No time for massages now. We've overslept. I'm sorry. Be a dear and give me a quick fuck, will you? I need it badly and I've been thinking about you all night. Actually for several days. Just a quick one." She leaned over and began sucking violently on my limp cock. All these weeks I would have given anything for this moment, but now I'm so tired, I just want to sleep. And it's Anastasia on my mind. Of course, you don't turn down Lovise. Somehow I managed an erection. There was no playing around. Soon as she finished sucking me, she got on all fours on the mattress, sticking her beautiful ass in my face, I mean right in my face. She wanted me from behind. Her vagina was open and wet, ready for me. She'd obviously been playing with herself beforehand. I couldn't resist and dove my tongue into her, desperately wanting to taste her and make that connection. But she stopped me quickly enough. "No time for that. Fuck me, Jack, now! I've only got about five minutes. No time for niceties," she yelled. So I plunged in and began pumping to save my life, ramming her as hard as I could because I somehow knew that was her mood. She fingered herself all the while and within a few minutes she actually had a pretty violent orgasm that went on for 30 or so seconds. I literally fell backwards and out of her, lying then on the bed in complete exhaustion. "God, Jack, you are so good," she said. "We should have done this long ago. What an incredible dick you have." Did I forget to tell you that, in addition to her many qualities, Lovise when she wanted to could be the mistress of flattery -- mostly to collect IOU's to be paid back somewhere down the road. Nonetheless, I accepted her compliment for what it was. Then she, too, was dressed, bags over her shoulder, cameras in hand, out the door and gone. "I'll be back," she said. "I want more time with you, a lot more time. We'll have that, Jack. I promise." These two women, perhaps the most important in my life, had left me within a few minutes of each other. But they promised to come back. Now I'm getting sleepy again. Can't fight it. But it will be a blissful sleep, thinking of their return. * * * Amanda: I'm sorry I didn't phone you earlier to get an update from the hospital. It's been so busy here at the office with meetings. I got your email. So this email back to you will have to suffice until tomorrow. I'll call then. Sorry. Sorry. You're such a better sister than I am.