Cisco My Lust


by Bambino

Author's disclaimer: The following a work of fiction.All characters are purely fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Although this story describes sexual acts between adults and minors, these descriptions are pure fantasy and bear no relation to real events.The fact that this narrative is told in the auctorial first person in no way suggests that it is autobiographical fact.Free speech is protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America.

The author retains the copyright on this work.Distribution or posting of this work without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright.

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I'm taking my vacation early.I've got to get away from the city, breathe some fresh air, stretch my limbs.I'm sick of walls, concrete, asphalt, smog -- I crave the ocean, sunshine, stars at night, peace and quiet!

Mexico is nearby, affordable, and relatively familiar.Mexico it is.I've consulted my travel agent.She's found me a cabana in Lagunita, fifteen miles south of Puerto Vallarta."A slow-moving fishing village," the guidebook says, "where you can get away from it all -- there's no electricity, paved roads, telephones..."

Ahh, that's the place.The guidebook fails to mention the beautiful young Mexican beach-boys I'll surely find there too, but that's a given.I tell my travel agent to book me three weeks at the time-share -- no, a month.


I've arrived, by motorboat.There is no access to Lagunita by road! It doesn't get more isolated than this, except maybe in the Himalayas....

The cabana is perfect.It's a low bungalow a hundred feet from the shore, nestled in a rocky cove under two tall palm trees.It has two rooms and a porch, a small but workable kitchen, good plumbing and a little garden. There's also a small generator, which makes me the only one in town with power besides the hotel.

I haven't explored the village much yet.I'm still just settling in. Around my cabana the rocky coast melts into a sugar-sand beach.The surf is lovely.I'll probably return to the city black from the sun.

The isolation is fantastic.I wonder if the locals consider it such a blessing.I wouldn't want to be stung by a scorpion here -- it's forty-five minutes to the nearest hospital!


Today I strolled through the village.The hotel -- actually a set of small, comfortable huts along the beach -- is run by a friendly guy named Clemente and his family.He's sort of king of the hill here.He also runs a little palapa-hut restaurant down the shore and serves up what promises to be great seafood, which I plan to investigate soon.

On the beach I passed a group of local women selling fresh-baked pastries filled with pecans, coconut and chocolate.I bought one for ten pesos; it was delicious.

There aren't many tourists here.Just a boatload of day-trippers from Puerto Vallarta each day.They arrive in a triple-decker ferry.From my porch I can see them lurching to and fro, bobbing their heads to the thunka-thunka-thunka of a Mexican disco beat on the boat's stereo system, wearing sunglasses and swimsuits, a red Tequila Sunrise in each hand.I brim with loathing.Hypocritical, of course.But with my dark hair and olive tan I could almost pass for a latino, until I open my mouth.

The local gringo contingency here is very small -- maybe a hundred back-to-nature Americans and Canadians have put down roots since the 1960s. I encountered evidence of their presence in a gift shop on the beach, where "Journey to the Center" meditation CDs were for sale alongside funky batik fashions.

There's a ridge of low mountains surrounding the village, covered with lush jungle.Tomorrow I think I'll go for a hike.I've been told there's a small waterfall up there, at the top of the hill.And the next day I think I'll rent a boat and have a picnic on the blue.But I must stop planning -- I'm still in the wrong mentality.I came here to do nothing! That should be my only plan.

It's not hard to let the peace of the place sink in, if you just stop and breathe.Lagunita has a quiet, Polynesian feel to it.A relaxing, rejuvenating month lies ahead of me.


Clemente's restaurant is delightful.Apart from a young couple in the corner I'm the only customer.I guess it's still early for dinner in Lagunita.

I hope I haven't hurt Clemente's feelings by turning down his recommendation of the house special."Iguanas are delicious, you know," he assures me."Iguana soup.Very good."

My Spanish is serviceable but far from beyond reproach.I ask Clemente instead about the catch of the day.

"Catch of the day: red snapper!" he says, grinning."That's the catch every day!"He laughs with gusto, and I join him.

Clemente's a cute old man, sinewy, bow-legged, still boyish.He has thick mobile eyebrows, dimply cheeks and a proud salt-and-pepper mustache.His zest for life is evident in his dancing black eyes, his lusty gestures, his raucous guffaw.I liked him as soon as I saw him.

He goes back into the kitchen.I hear yelling and squabbling: Clemente's voice and a shrill female one.Wife? Daughter?Hired help? She sounds young and formidable.Clemente comes back out, smiles ruefully at me, puts on his hat, bids me good evening with a clap on my shoulder, and leaves the restaurant. From the kitchen bounces a portly, round-cheeked woman wearing an apron.I figure her for el jefe's daughter.She's got Clemente's flashing dark eyes, but unfortunately also his eyebrows and something of his mustache as well.Her fancy coif of abundant black hair is a tactful distraction from her face.She comes swinging out carrying a sizzling platter over her head, brings it to my table.The fish is appetizingly pan-fried and couldn't be fresher; it was probably caught an hour ago.

The waitress is Clemente's daughter, Lupe.She tells me so.On her recommendation I wash down my supper with a slug of raicilla, the local moonshine made from cactus."It's been around for six hundred years," she says proudly."It's good.Stronger than tequila."

So it is.She beams as I sit there with my insides dissolving, trying not to show it.She asks if I want anything else.Water, I gasp.

Lupe turns her head toward the kitchen."Cisco! Freshen the tables and bring the senor water.With ice."

An adolescent boy, swarthy and already overendowed with virile attributes, emerges from the kitchen and sullenly begins to order the restaurant.

I feel my pulse quicken but show no reaction."Your younger brother?" I ask innocently.

"My son, Francisco," she beams."Look at the little fool -- when will he learn? Cisco, serve from the right, clear from the left!"

"What's the difference?" grumbles the boy, his half-changed voice sending little eddies of lust along my spine.Maybe the raicilla is getting to me, but it's suddenly very hot in here.

"You must practice, mijo! How else will you learn?"Lupe turns back to me. "Poor Cisco! We're a left-handed family: papa, mama, and all the girls, but Cisco also thinks with his left hand."

And no doubt does a few other things with it, too, I can't help thinking. The thought sends a rush of blood to my groin.

"But he's a good boy, even if he's stubborn and unreasonable and sulky now and then."

I smile as Cisco comes to replenish my pitcher of water with an attitude of superb deafness to his mother's comments.The boy smiles at me.It's a wonderful smile -- artless, brilliant and heart-warming.

I drink thankfully, discreetly checking him out over the rim of my glass. He's not too young for me.He's definitely started puberty -- therefore he's old enough.Oh yes, he's coming along nicely.... His apron hides his crotch, but he's got an ass on him that would sell a million butt-firming videos.He's starting to get the family mustache too, but unlike his mother it looks cute on him.He gives the room a once-over and returns to the kitchen.

Only after three glasses of water does it hit me to wonder if it's been boiled.I almost call Cisco back from the kitchen, but it seems rude to ask.Oh well, it's too late now.Down the hatch.


I guess the water was boiled.Either that or I've got good natural resistance to the local microbiology.So far Montezuma hasn't bothered to take his vengeance out on me.

It's a glorious summer day.The salt breeze is mild, the sand glistens like a blanket of crushed pearl.I can almost see the inspiration for the Mayan calendar in this blazing tropical sun.

I've been for a hike in the forest.Saw a few snakes but no iguanas. Didn't find the waterfall -- I only went halfway up.Afterwards I went for a jog down the beach and then a swim.I'm not really an athletic guy, much as I pretend to be.The amount of sweat I've produced today is quite disproportionate to the amount of exertion I've spent.Now I'm hungry again.I had coffee and an elephant-ear pastry for breakfast, and some delicious tiny red bananas.But I don't feel like shopping, cooking or cleaning.I'll go to Clemente's and see what prospects he offers in the way of lunch.

A pleasant vision greets me when I arrive.Cisco's standing on the terrace, washing down the tiles with a hose.He's wearing nothing but a pair of snug shorts and flip-flops -- a costume which makes the most of his supple and god-like young physique.His dark hair glistens bronze-umber in the sunlight, and his sleek, muscular limbs shine with health and vitality. An exquisitely attractive boy!

I wonder about his age.He could be eleven or fifteen.He exhibits that paradox of early-ripening manhood superimposed on childlike freshness that I find so intriguing -- and, if I consider it too earnestly, even maddening!

He looks up and smiles at me.Another clean, ingenuous smile, dazzlingly white.

"Hola, Cisco," I salute, venturing to address him by his abbreviated nickname.

"Buenos dias, senor," he replies politely.

I smile back and hope that he, too, is being swept off his feet by our exchange of pleasantries.Of course when he said "Buenos dias" he meant "Te amo".It must be so, I see it in his eyes!

My own eyes, acting on their own accord, sweep down the boy's adjective-inspiring body and briefly rest on the notable bulge just southwest of his fly.Young Cisco has either a big dick, big balls, or both.I flick my eyes away.But it's too late -- he noticed.He looks down at himself, checks out his own basket, then looks back up at me.His face is a question mark.Ohhh shit, that was dumb of me.I blush and smile awkwardly, step past him into the restaurant.

Lupe is bustling around setting tables.She has a way of seeming to fill the entire place with her presence.Her hair-do is quite magnificent today.It looks like some sort of medusoid deep-sea creature clinging to her head, all tentacle-like loops and coils and twists.There's a rich, heady redolence in the restaurant that apparently emanates from her person, part cheap perfume and part female fecundity.

She notices me and stops short, beaming and bubbling over with effusive greetings of welcome.I come to the unfortunate conclusion that she's the one who's formed a crush on me, rather than her cute son.Her eyes are decidedly googly and coquettish... The thought makes me cringe a little. I'm not bisexual.Furthermore I'm not a misogynist, but Lupe is emphatically unattractive.Amazing that this doughy and uninviting creature could give birth to a sublime little adonis like Cisco.The same flesh and blood, but what a different mold! But then I've known a lot of gorgeous boys who thankfully took after their fathers instead of their sow-like mothers.... This isn't a kind thought; I shouldn't linger on it. After all, what would Lupe think of me if she knew that I was sweet on her son?


I must be hallucinating.It's late afternoon; I'm wandering the beach, worshipping the sun and looking for signs of baby turtles in a cordoned-off nesting site when a local wanders by and taps me on the shoulder.

"Horse ride, amigo?"

My jaw wants to drop, but I hold it firm.It's Cisco.This family must have a monopoly on all the local businesses.

"Cisco, hola!" I say in surprise.My automatic reflex takes over and I'm unable to prevent another gander at his crotch.Luckily I'm wearing sunglasses.

Since lunch he's accessorized his tight shorts with a T-shirt and sneakers, but I can still see the promising lump of boy-flesh packed away in them.

"Horse ride?" he repeats.

" ride?" I parrot, though I understand the words well enough.

"Fifty pesos, senor.One hour."

I do the math while Cisco watches me patiently.It amounts to about six dollars.A pretty good deal for an hour's diversion with Cisco.The horseback ride'll be nice too.


The excursion begins at a tiny corral housing half a dozen sleepy-looking steeds with well-worn saddles.Actually they look more like ponies than horses.And apparently I'm the only customer.Cisco, now carrying a small knapsack on his back, helps me up into the saddle before vaulting up to his own with the ease of a gymnast mounting a pommel horse.The creatures already seem to know where tourists want to go: up the trail to the waterfall.

In order to get there, the horses have to first carry us across a tide pool about two feet deep.

My horse does not seem to enjoy doing that.Halfway across, it evidently has had enough, and slows to a halt.

Cisco, muttering a Spanish epithet under his breath, swings his own horse around and swats the rump of my slowpoke horse.The animal responds with a snort, then slogs a little quicker through the muddy sand engulfing its hoofs.

Leaving the village we pass tiny hovels from whose open doors small children wave and call out, "Hola! Hello!"

We're taking a different trail into the jungle than I'd taken on my hike. The ascent is more circuitous and gradual.The horses are slow but sure-footed on the rocky path.There are no roads at all, just rough and dusty trails to follow.

I balk as the path curves precariously over a steep ravine filled with arborescent ferns and bamboo.A rusty chain-link fence barely clings to the side of the hill.

Finally the path winds deeper into the jungle to a small shady clearing. Sunlight filters through the green canopy of overgrowth and plays on the surface of the pool in dancing glints.Cisco brings our horses to a halt before the waterfall and dismounts without ceremony.

"Is good?"he asks in English, heavily accented.

"Yes, good," I answer with a smile."Very good."

Cisco deposits the horses nearby in the shade, tethers them to a tree. They look relieved.He guides me around the water to a smooth, wide boulder where we can sit and sun ourselves.I marvel at his nimble-footed grace as he easily skirts the narrow edge of the pool.As I join him on the rock he removes his shirt and sneakers.After a moment I decide to follow suit; while I can't compete with his ephebic perfection I'm tan and fairly lean.The rock isn't very wide -- there's just room enough for the two of us on it.The rock is warm but not hot.

Cisco takes off his mysterious knapsack, treats me to a killer grin and mischievous wink as he unzips it.It contains a plastic bag full of ice -- and cerveza! He withdraws two tall bottles and I watch him uncap them with his teeth, praying he won't break those perfect white beauties in the process.His skill at this suggests experience.... I still don't know his age, but I'm certain it's far under the legal drinking age.Come to think of it, what is drinking age is here in Mexico?

"How old are you, Cisco?" I ask, trying not to sound too censorious.


Shit.Now I see it.

He passes me the beer nonchalantly, as if it were a Coke.I thank him and we clink bottles.I'm resigned to contribute to the delinquency of a minor -- or condone it, whatever it is I'm doing.Cisco tilts the bottle vertical and macho-ly downs half its contents.He exhales a satisfied sigh and smiles at me, winks again.

I smile back, slightly giddy.He looks like a young Aztec prince. Finishing his bottle, he sprawls out to sun himself, puts his arms behind his head, dips his toes into the pool.His body is smooth as satin; he doesn't have a single hair under his arms.His nipples are a darker, redder brown than the rest of him -- and this, I know, will also be the color of his cock.The color of a guy's nipples and that of his cock almost always match -- check for yourself and you'll see.

I'm painfully hard, and it's showing.Nevertheless I'm buzzed enough that I don't care, and I settle myself beside him and breathe deeply, trying to relax.I have a pathetically low tolerance for alcohol, worse than that of a hundred-pound girl.Ergo I only drink occasionally.

The sides of our bodies touch, but that can't be helped.He doesn't seem to mind.My skin prickles at the contact.His ribs feel warm; I can feel expand and contract as he breathes.My feet dangle into the water, which feels cool and almost effervescent.The sun is slanting lower, highlighting our bodies.Even my stomach looks fairly defined in this diffuse light.Cisco's body looks as if Michelangelo had sculpted it out of coffee ice cream.

Apart from the soft chuckle of the waterfall, it's very, very quiet.Time passes.I'm not sure how much, but four empty bottles of beer now mark its passage.I don't know if Cisco's got more bottles in the knapsack.We're still lying on the rock.I haven't fallen asleep, I know I'm not dreaming -- but Cisco really is rubbing his crotch, looking at me.He appears to have a hard-on too.I stare -- I can't talk.My lips can only tremble but they can't form words.I can hear my own breathing.

My eyes are riveted on his hands, which are skillfully rubbing and kneading his obscenely bulging crotch with a kind of urgency.His hands aren't especially big, but they're square and strong-looking, all palm with short, capable fingers.They appear quite at home wrapped around the hefty ridge tenting across his hip.As I watch, he slowly unbuttons his shorts, pulls down the zipper.His skimpy sky-blue briefs are ludicrously small and barely contain his oversize genitals, which are now ostensibly swollen.

I hold my breath as Cisco slips his hands under the elastic waistband and draws down his briefs to expose himself.It springs into view, jutting up at a forty-five degree angle to his flat stomach.And Jesus Christ, is it beautiful.Cocoa-brown, banana-curved, wonderfully thick and blunt-headed, with big balls nestled in a smooth, fleshy pouch.The cock of a born breeder just coming into his manhood.There's a compact fringe of soft black hair just at the base of it, like a little mustache.This concise symbol of puberty, this adorable touch of adulthood, drives me rutting mad. But his genitals, despite their size and development, still have that clean, well-scrubbed look of boyhood.

Cisco knows what he's doing to me; I'm transfixed by his youthful exhibitionism.He's proud of what he has, that's obvious.He knows it's big.His brown fingers close around it, squeeze hard to make it swell and show its hardness; he bares his teeth and brandishes it like a machete. With his other hand he reaches toward me and gently pets the back of my neck, sending chills of delight through me.My senses swim.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, pointing his dick at me."You kept looking at it.You want it, senor?"

I feel dizzy, even though I'm not standing up.So he knew all along -- he'd read my glance, summed me up, did the math -- and now, I discover, he wants me too! I'm in love -- hopelessly, desperately, lustfully in love -- I want to leave everything behind and join him in this paradise! My young lover, answer to my dreams, my private Eros -- how easy it would be to give up my old life for you! Nothing else matters or will ever matter.

"Si'!" I croak, my voice catching in my dry throat."I want it -- I need it, Cisco...I need you..."

I crane forward, parting my lips wide to take in this delectable offering. But he reaches out -- and holds me back.

His interposed hand rests on my chest.I look up, confused.

"Fifty pesos," he says.

I blink.I stammer, "Fifty p-pesos...for the horse ride?"

He shakes his head."Another fifty... for this."

He jerks his chin down toward the merchandise, which he wags temptingly, making his balls bounce.

The shrewd, dirty little mercenary!

My vision of eternal love and happiness -- dashed on the rocks! I could cry, gnash my teeth, spit!

"You want it -- or not?"

Hell yeah, I want it... but this way? And I really mind so much, all said and done? Now that he's put it like that, I start to think practically.I come to my senses.Here's a generous serving of tender Mexican chicken being offered up in front of me, and how often do you find that for a mere six bucks?

Seize the moment.The oldest profession has found its newest customer.

"I'll give you a hundred," I tell him.


Cisco's dick tastes faintly of sea salt and fabric softener.There's no trace of muskiness or sweaty odor -- God, but boys are truly amazing things, to remain so pristine and fresh after a horseback ride on a hot summer day!

I'm kneeling on the rock, my toes dipping into the water, crouching between the boy's legs and feasting on the bounty between them.This is quite the most passionate blow-job I think I've ever given, to any boy.Having his fat adolescent boner in my mouth answers some primal and essential need deep within me.It's a need that differs from basic lust, because that can be settled in other ways.It's also a need of which I'm not aware except while it's being satisfied.Such as right now.I'm having an existential epiphany sucking this Mexican boy's cock.There is no more stress or strife in the world; I'm floating in rainbow-colored clouds of pure joy. Suddenly I understand why there are drug addicts; I realize I need to do this way more often.

He's enjoying it too.Anybody would; I'm making magnificent work of it. If blowjobs are works of art, then this is the Sistine Chapel.


In this heightened state of consciousness, I'm calm at the center of my whirlwind of passion.My senses are exquisitely honed and attuned to his every reaction, to every nuance of his every reaction.I exist for his pleasure.He enjoys it most when my lips are either just below the head or way down at the base; I alternate between sucking the head and deep-throating him.Every time I change between the two he gasps, and every muscle in his body goes rigid for a second.His legs are stiff as iron girders, sticking straight off the rock with the toes pointed.He's feeling it, I think wildly, and I'm making him feel it.My thoughts and feelings go off like sparks.I'm stimulating this beautiful thirteen-year-old Mexican boy's penis with my mouth... the wet friction of his sensitive, nerve-packed adolescent boy-penis against my lips and throat is causing him incredible pleasure... the pleasure is building and building, and when it builds so strong that he can't take any more, he'll have an orgasm.I'm going to make this thirteen-year-old boy have an ORGASM.


Cisco's body is writhing and twisting, working alive.There isn't one part of him that isn't flooded with pleasure and straining for release.The sound of his breathing -- erratic, labored, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow -- is music, pure music.If I could record those sounds I'd listen to them every day; they'd make for more inspired masturbating than all the pictures in porndom.

Sometimes his cracking pubescent voice makes little whining groans and gulping sounds; it's a pleading, yearning noise, like a frustrated puppy, and he does it most when I suck hard and fast on the knob of his dick, masturbating the shaft at the same time with one hand, cuddling the balls in the other and gently caressing the silky scrotum.Under his balls I can see the perfect globes of his ass-cheeks, smooth as a baby's.I run my hands down his muscular thighs, back up across the immaculate torso.Every once in a while I glance up and watch the poetry of his face squinching and contorting, a reflection of the turbulent sensations wracking his youthful body.I'm torturing him with pleasure.


Cisco is hardly passive as I suck his dick -- he's as much a participant in this business as I am! The way he strokes my hair, running his fingers through it, sucking in his breath through rounded lips, giving me little breathless phrases of approval and encouragement, suggest that he's been through this before.I'm not the first to have sucked this cock.Who beat me to it, I wonder? I'm already jealous of my imaginary competitor, whoever he -- or she -- might be.

He's going to cum any minute; I can feel it starting to happen.He's lasted a long time already, by thirteen-year-old standards; I've been sucking him for twenty minutes.But I've been artistic about it: controlling his build-up without him realizing it.I love to keep boys on the edge; most of them, used to the quickie method, are mind-blown the first time they learn how powerful an orgasm can be when preceded by a long, steady upsurge.Once, years ago, I edged a fourteen-year-old boy for six hours, alternately masturbating and sucking him, and I must say that my performance was nothing short of virtuosic.The kid gooned like a junky, and his orgasm left him nearly unconscious and my entire bed and headboard covered with sperm.Neither of us knew he'd had it in him, but such is the wonder of puberty.


If Cisco's cock were any harder it would cut a diamond.I stop for air, smack my lips, grin up at him."Se siente bien?" I ask him reverently. Does it feel good?

"Suck it!" he hisses at me, with an urgency that shocks me."I'm about to cum!"

What happens next feels as if it's in slow-motion.Cisco grabs my head in both hands, shoves my face down, impales it on his dick.His legs are kicking out, literally-spread apart, bending at the knees, and kicking hard at the air, as his buttocks writhe and flex.His torso stiffens up, rippling like a washboard.I can hear his breath forcing through flared nostrils, clenched teeth.He's cussing in Spanish.The whole universe is now contained in his dick and he means business.He's fucking my face as fast as I can suck and his balls are slapping my chin.He's serious about getting off.

Then it happens.I hear a shark intake of breath -- then he holds it.The hands tighten on my skull -- he grips my head steady.I suck vigorously, furiously.Tiny, forceful motions just under the head.The chain reaction begins.Orgasm explodes like a fireball through his body.

I can feel it happen -- it's fucking amazing.The urethral contractions start.I've got my thumb and forefinger under his balls, diddling them. Now I stop and grip the hard root of his cock between his legs with my thumb and knuckle.I feel that part rapidly pulsing, squeezing the semen out of his glands and forcing it up through his cock.

The thirteen-year-old sperm starts erupting into my mouth.A sudden, warm gush.They say a young boy's sperm is sweet.As one who's tasted plenty of it, let me assure you that it ain't.The sweetness is figurative.The actual taste is salty, tangy, with a trace of bitterness, just like man-sperm.Cisco's sperm is pungent and earthy, and there's a lot of it. The build-up has paid off; I feel six, seven, eight-nine (!) strong pulses at the cock-root followed by jets of semen into my mouth.Then comes the gushy afterflow.It's a heroic load for any guy, much less a boy of thirteen.I'm swallowing as quickly as I can but there's too much, and some of it dribbles down the corners of my mouth and down his penis, mingled with my saliva and running down the sides of his scrotum over his pumping butt-cheeks.

I start to cum in my pants.Christ, this hasn't happened since eighth grade.I moan deliriously, my eyes glazing over as I fill my boxers with love-juice.I can feel it's a big load but nothing compared to the deluge from Cisco's generous young balls.

The kid's orgasm peaks and he makes a sound like "Hhnnnnffffffffffffff...." A primitive monosyllable more expressive and fraught with significance than the most eloquent novel.His climactic grunts are like sacred Sanskrit mantras, containing whole soliloquies of meaning and self-expression, and more genuine and truthful than anything ever uttered by higher language.I could write volumes of opulent prose exploring the profundity of every "Uhnnhh" and "Uffhhhh", none of which would contain or convey the beauty of these sounds themselves!

At this moment the two of us, boy and man, have surpassed a state of ordinary existence and entered into an transcendental one.A momentary eternity where orgasm is everything, and a merger between both of us caught up in its electrifying embrace.Together we form, for this instant, a true union, in which both parts are indispensable.So this is what it feels like not to need or want anything.


When we return to Clemente's restaurant, Lupe is mopping the floor in preparation for the supper crowd.She sees us and exclaims: "Cisco! Where have you been? It's late!"

"With the senor, mami," he says serenely."I took him for a horse ride. We went up to the waterfall."

"Ohhhh!" sing-songs Lupe, all explained.She beams, and I see dollar signs flashing in her eyes."But next time tell me where you're going, mijo!"

"Okay, mami."

As he passes she swats him affectionately on the ass.He saunters on without reacting.I feel an irrational twinge of jealousy.I don't want anyone else touching that gorgeous little rump -- not even his mother! It's mine now!

I comfort myself with the thought that while the backside might be common ground, it's a safe bet that the front side is still my exclusive territory...

She turns her glittering gaze on me."Buenas tardes, senor -- did you enjoy your ride with Cisco?"

"Oh, yes," I reply wholeheartedly, "he took me for a wonderful ride."


Another wonderful day.It's almost lunchtime and I've done absolutely nothing except lounge on my porch reading a book.Memoirs of Hadrian, by Marguerite Yourcenar.Wonderful book -- about the Roman emperor, written in the form of a letter to his beautiful young lover Antinous.I haven't left my chair since I came out this morning.

It's about time for lunch.For some reason I still don't feel like cooking.I could eat, though -- a nice juicy fat bistec de pollo with cream sauce.I think I know where to get it, too.Yum.


A group of Finns have invited me to join them at their table at Clemente's. They make room for me and Cisco sets out some silverware.I wonder: doesn't he ever go to school? Are there are any schools in Lagunita? Then I remember that it's summertime.I look up and he catches my gaze.He winks.

The eyes say it all.He's letting me know that we've got a good thing going.And I must say that I agree.I appreciate him and he appreciates me.

He's become my houseboy.It was really very simply arranged.I merely expressed to Lupe my need for someone to come help out with the housework several times a week, help out in the garden, sweep off the patio... and Cisco's name came up quite inevitably! I agreed to pay him fifty pesos per visit.I'm not sure how much of a commission Cisco gives his mother but he seems satisfied with the arrangement.And, of course, so am I -- even though the housework never actually gets done....

The head of the Finnish table is an old man who lives in Puerto Vallarta three months of the year, and is visiting Lagunita with friends.

"And how do you like it here?" I ask.

"It's nice for a visit once," he replies a bit sleepily, "but this is my third time and there isn't much to do."

I laugh."That's the point, amigo!"