Canadian Cocktail

Hutch makes Starsky a cocktail.

It wasn’t that the bar was any cooler inside than outside, it was just that the old board walls kept out the direct heat of the Mexican sun (with the exception of a few stray rays), and it seemed cooler. The place was pretty typical of the kind of dive you find just over the border; dusty and musty and incredibly dirty and you not only don’t drink the water, you don’t even make it.

He was pleased that the place was almost empty when we stepped inside. I told him I’d picked an intimate spot especially for him, even though I was just as surprised as he was there were only a couple of old men up at the bar. But it drives him nuts to think I know all these interesting, exotic, out-of-the-way places everywhere we are. Most of the time I’m just making it up as I go, but I like to keep him guessing.

Just to add to the illusion, I steered us to a rickety old table over in one corner, no windows on either wall, behind a supporting column, and pretty much out of sight of whoever might drop in for an afternoon buzz. It was too dirty for him, of course. I’d told him not to wear those light-colored, dirt-collecting cords, but since when did he ever listen to me about fashion? He set about dusting off his chair first, and then the table, and then the ashtray and moldy candle, and then his hands, only then he was stuck because there was nothing to wipe his hands on except his light-colored, dirt-collecting cords. I told him not to wear those pants.

He settled in, finally, and I called for a couple of Coronas in my best Spanish. I asked him what he thought of my Spanish, but he just kind of sneered and explained to me that since I was in Tijuana, I should be speaking Mexican, not Spanish, and didn’t I know there was a difference. Besides which, he didn’t want a beer anyway.

Well, I know there’s a difference between Spanish and Mexican, but I don’t see why anyone who isn’t sitting in a classroom should care. So I just stuck my nose in the air and scootched my chair around so I was facing out toward the bar instead of facing him across the table. He cancelled one of the beers and ordered a Tequila Shooter, in fluent Mexican, of course. And ignored me ignoring him. It’s sort of this game he plays. I ignore him, which miffs him so he ignores me, then he does something in that I-don’t-really-know-what-I’m-doing-but-if-you-want-to-watch-go-ahead way of his that he thinks will break my concentration and force me to stop ignoring him before he stops ignoring me. Only what he doesn’t know is that the game is really I ignore him so he’ll ignore me, and then he’ll have to think up something cute and clever to get my attention.

Anyway, we were both ignoring each other when the waiter or owner or whoever he was brought over my Corona and his Shooter. I guess he thought the Shooter was going to get my attention, ’cause he set about drinking it with a casual flair that probably would have gotten the whole bar’s attention, if there’d been anybody in the bar. I was pretending to be intrigued with the rustic surroundings and the quaint decor, but I was watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He ran his finger and thumb around his lips, brushed off his moustache, then, very deliberately, stuck his tongue out and lapped at the skin between his thumb and forefinger. He took the salt shaker and coated the slick portion of his hand, then flicked his tongue over the crystals.

I pushed the wedge of lime into my Corona and took a deep swig, happily oblivious to his theatrics.

With his still-wet hand, he reached for his Tequila and lifted it to his lips in one smooth, graceful motion, downing the sharp liquid in one macho gulp. Then he took his lime wedge and pushed it between his lips, sucking on the tangy juice. I could tell he was using his teeth to force his way into the swollen pulp and extract as much juice as possible.

I took another long pull on my beer, then decided to pour the rest down my throat and finish off the bottle. And then I threw in an appreciative belch for good measure.

He removed the wedge from his mouth, wiped his ‘stache, and signaled for another. I did the same.

The waiter/owner/whoever brought us another round, cleaning off the old to make room for the new. I watched the waiter/owner/whoever clear the table with deliberate concentration, just so he didn’t think I was paying any attention at all to his Shooter display. As soon as you-know-who had left us and retreated back behind the bar, I popped that lime into my bottle and had another disinterested drag.

He rose and scraped his chair around ’til he was sitting next to me, sort of facing me, just at the corner that separated our two sides of the table.

I knew he was going to get my attention now.

I saw his eyes flick around the room, judging the number and interest of the other patrons. There were three (other patrons) and they weren’t (interested). So he leaned forward. Toward me. I squared my shoulders, and leaned forward, too. Towards my Corona. Suddenly, his hand flashed out and grabbed my wrist, pinning me in that bent-toward-him position. I sighed like I was really bored with what was going on and rolled my eyes until I was staring at the floor. I could feel the stickiness of his sweat gluing his hand to my wrist.

He leaned further forward, and I don’t know why, but I did, too. I guess it was just a mirror action or something. Our heads ended up side by side, like he was whispering in my ear. I almost thought I could feel the bristles of his moustache tickling my ear. Except that he wasn’t touching my ear, it was just my own skin prickling.

I didn’t move, but he did. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his head move in and down, toward my neck. Damn shocking. His tongue flicked out and tickled that little area right behind my jaw and under my left earlobe in some kind of primitive, staccato rhythm. A white electric shock rushed up my spine and out the top of my head.

Before the electricity had dissipated, I felt something cold scraping against my skin. I couldn’t exactly see what he was doing, but it had to be salt he was rubbing between his thumb and middle finger and plastering against the patch of wet behind my jawline. Then he leaned in again. And I focused my eyes on the neon Bud sign on the wall.

His mouth formed an O against my throat, suctioning at my skin. My hand involuntarily clenched, and I was positive the sudden acceleration of the pulse under his fingers would tip him off that he now had my attention. But that wasn’t the kind of attention he wanted, or maybe not enough attention, so he continued. His tongue laved and lapped between his lips, seeking each individual grain of salt as well as each individual nerve ending. His fingers squeezed my wrist. I couldn’t tell if I was hot or cold. His teeth began nipping at my skin, threatening to puncture, but failing to follow through on their threat. There seemed to be a layer of Saharan heat wrapped around my skin, with an Arctic breeze skimming over my body. His mouth sucked. I couldn’t help but shiver.

That seemed to be a signal to him. Still gripping my wrist, he reached over and took the lime wedge between his fingers. He squeezed it gently, until droplets of liquid oozed from the pale membrane. And then he forced it between my lips.

The juice was tart and icy. I parted my teeth and held it gingerly, as though it were the most fragile thing in the world. I used the tip of my tongue to gather the tiny citrus drops and spread them over the inside of my mouth, until every surface tingled maddeningly. He watched me accept the dark green wedge, and apparently satisfied, blindly reached for the shot glass brimming with Tequila and threw it down his throat.

His eyes blinked as the colorless liquid burned a trail down his gut and sent a flush to his cheeks. I, of course, was now fully entranced by his little play and couldn’t take my eyes off his face. And his face, by the way, was absolutely gorgeous. A bronze glow, brushed with rose about the cheeks and lips; a blue wetness pulling me into his eyes.

Still holding onto my wrist, he reached up and plucked the lime wedge from my mouth. I let it go reluctantly, keeping my lips on it as long as possible. And once again our heads met. Only this time, when his mouth formed an O, it found my lips. His lips met mine, puckering against the spicy wetness. Then his tongue began stroking first my upper, then my lower, lip, lapping up the juice I’d let hang there. I had to close my eyes as icicles shot through my veins; I didn’t even care enough to see if any of the (three, disinterested) patrons were watching us. Then his tongue parted my lips, and I couldn’t resist, I just sucked it in. I wanted to meet his wetness with my juiciness, but first he insisted upon exploring my mouth, probing for every last molecule of lime juice I’d painted my mouth with. I waited until he’d swabbed my insides, then I made sure I got a good taste of him. Tequila and lime, and a hint of salt, slid from his essence to mine, and I thought it had to be the most incredible Tequila Shooter I’d ever had.

When his mouth finally left mine, I told him so. That is, after I’d pried my eyes open and cured the mouth he’d just dried with a blast of beer. He just sat back smugly and corrected me. That wasn’t a Tequila Shooter. It was a Canadian Cocktail. And don’t ask why it’s Canadian, he didn’t know. I said I didn’t care who invented it, as long as he was the one drinking it. That made him blush and release my wrist. He never could take a compliment.

* * * * *

Shit! I’m looking at myself in the rearview mirror while we wait to get back across the border. Nothing to declare, except–

“Shit!”

“What?” he says, bringing his head back inside the car, pushing his sunglasses down to get a better look at me.

“Look what you did to me!” I cry, tugging my shirt collar down dramatically and pulling my luxuriant curls (hey, that’s what he calls ’em!) back from my ear. “You gave me a hickey!”

He pushes his glasses back up on his nose, playing the unconcerned partner. He shrugs. “It’s only a–“

“Spare me,” I sneer, still engrossed in the reddish-purple mark staining my delicate throat (hey, that’s what he calls it!).

“I’ll make it up to you.” His hand reaches out to brush the tender, swollen patch of skin. I don’t want to, but I shiver. I hope he doesn’t notice. He does notice, and he knows I didn’t want him to notice, and he knows I didn’t want him to make me shiver in the first place. And that makes him smile. Smugly. “I’ll take you out for a Norwegian Screw tonight.”

Now I smile. Gotta love a man who can hold his liquor.