Magdalena had always preferred her men white and massively muscled. The lean ones, even those smart, articulate and rich, never energized the heat, the ache in her groin, those guys from the gym could.
By the time she turned twenty she’d made it with most of the city’s weightlifters, discuss, shot and hammer hurlers as well as the occasional pole vaulter and thick-muscled sprinter. Her favorite was Hank who could bench press four hundred pounds and drove an eighteen-wheeler between Chicago and Miami. She’d sometimes ride along and give him head on the lonely stretches, the rest to come that night at the truck stop.
She cultivated little else. Men and sex were the components that made her life livable. From the time she was initiated by her Uncle Jack to the day dad traded her for a bindle of crystal meth she’d needed protection and what better support than men, big men, men who celebrated power as some might great wine, men who appreciated her attention and competed for it.
That was until the summer of ’07. Something happened that summer that would change her life. That something was a chance encounter, a quick turn in the road, a visit to her cousin’s where she met Sam. Sam was not a big man. Not a weightlifter. Not even a serious athlete. Oh, he jogged occasionally and swam but that was about it. Sam was a Buddhist, a janitor at a jazz club and an aspiring horn player. Sam was also black.
At first ‘M’ was mystified by these feelings of desire that crept up her spine and into her core. Was it a fleeting fancy? Was it safe? How would she know? That last question was answered within the week. By its end she was living at Sam’s, cooking, cleaning and loving every moment. She knew then there was no going back. No matter what happened.
Her life was to change once more. She and Sam were in Salt Lake City. Sam had a gig with musician friends from Denver. They’d checked in at Motel 6 and were walking across the parking lot to an IHop on the corner when the pickup slowed. The blast from the shotgun took Sam down. The second tore through ‘M’s’ shoulder knocking her to the ground.
His death. The circumstance. The convergence of dread and horror set her spinning. She tried to assemble the pieces. Nothing fit. The last I knew was a letter from Santa Cruz in which she outlined her need to breathe fresh air.
Whether she returned to her previous life or tried to move on is still unknown. Her brief time of love and peace was all she had to lean against. With it gone, who can say. She may yet surface. I’ll be here to tell you if she does.
