An excerpt from an upcoming novel.

I leaned over to Marty and whispered,” I need a nap, I think I’ll mosey on down to the homestead and do just that.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said, and then turned to Wes to let him know we were heading out and asked for the bill.

I got up and felt a might wobbly from the beer I had drunk. I turned to look back at the table to see how much of the brew I had consumed. There was only one bottle in front of my plate, whereas, there were several parked in front of Marty’s and Wes’s spaces.

Must have been extra potent, I muttered while shaking my head to get it back to the clear stage from a few minutes ago.

I started to walk toward the door but felt too woozy to go it alone, so I just stood still to wait for Marty to pay and join me.

When I felt his hand on my elbow, I said, “That beer sure had a kick. I feel like I’ve been drinking all afternoon.”

Marty looked at me, “What do you mean? I don’t feel anything and I had three.”

“Maybe it affected me more cause of my empty stomach,” I slurred.

“Maybe, but Wes said the one he gave you was hardly alcoholic. They brew their own here.”

I looked up at him and said, “Huh? What do ya mean they brew their own?” That seemed just a bit over-the-top of things to do in a trailer park, I thought. Especially in Mexico.

“That’s one of their little enterprises. That’s what Wes used to do for a living, make beer at a local brewery back in the states. There’s a natural spring in the jungle at the foot of the hill, which, he claims, makes great beer. There are two different kinds that they brew: one, which is more like a mead made with honey; the other is a red beer, and supposedly low in alcohol, or so says Wes. He gave me the mead to try. And he said he gave you the low alcoholic red one.”

“Well, I think the two kinds are stout and stouter. Take me home, please. I need a nap.” I leaned into Marty’s chest so he could hold me up and drag me back to the trailer if need be.

I was beginning to think that I didn’t feel drunk as much as I felt drugged.

When we approached the trailer, almost like a switch had been turned on, I had a sudden and overwhelming need for sex. It was urgent and primal, nap forgotten. After we got inside I was totally focused on that need, and began undressing Marty.

“Whoa, Sugar Pie. I thought you needed sleep. I’d have thought you’d be too tired to fool around!” Marty exclaimed. Then continued, in a gravelly pant, when I grabbed his genitals and massaged carefully then stroked his penis. “But I’m certainly not complaining!”

It didn’t take him long to feel the same urgency I felt. I slid out of my shorts and pushed Marty back toward the sofa and shoved him down. I straddled him, plunged myself onto him and rode like a wild woman. I felt like a wild woman, like I couldn’t get enough.

I pounded down upon the pinnacle that was going to take me to the summit and back. But I knew the climb would be long. I saw no end in sight.

Marty groaned and then let out a yell of the purest, most base ecstasy known to man. However, I wasn’t through with him yet. I couldn’t let go. Exhausted, Marty was of little help, but let me continue my own quest for euphoria. We’re usually in sync in the ejaculation department. Rarely is one finished before the other, but today I was way off course. I couldn’t satisfy the overpowering need that drove me.

Marty finally came back to my rescue and began to harden again.

“What got into you, my little Hussy?” Marty asked breathlessly, then held me to him, grabbed my legs and in one swift movement stood and swung me around so that I was facing the sofa. He then bent me over and took his turn as battering ram.

At last, it was finally my time to scream out a release.

Marty came, once again, at about the same time, thank goodness, because I had no more strength to continue.

“Gawd! Whatever tripped your trigger with such aggression? I like it!” Marty exclaimed in a pant as we dropped, spent, down to the cushions, coalescing spoon-like and falling instantly asleep.

Two hours later, achy from not having moved and being scrunched on the sofa, I eased myself up to go to the bathroom. Marty hardly noticed.

My head was pounding, and I felt as if I had the mother of all hangovers. But that couldn’t be, of course, after only one brew. Unless the bottle was loaded with something other than beer.

I shook my head at the absurd thought and grabbed the ibuprofen bottle from the medicine cabinet and went to the kitchen. Getting a glass of water, I swallowed three tablets along with taking several gulps of needed liquid then staggered up to the bedroom. I flung myself onto the bed while throwing a cover over me and fell asleep once again.

I felt the bed move and observed that Marty was trying to slip between the sheets without waking me. But I did awaken with an acute need to hit the baño. I eased out of bed to do that chore and glanced into the kitchen at the illuminated clock on the microwave. 12:10.

When I thought about the time, I could see that we’d slept the whole evening away. We’d missed the mole at the restaurant. Damn!

After the bathroom visit, I went to get more water. Marty’s pants and shirt were draped on the chair. They were not the same ones he’d had on earlier. These were his casual-dressy clothes reserved for nights out.

I deduced that he must have gone to the restaurant after all, not being able to wake me.

I looked into the refrigerator. Suspicions confirmed. There was a Styrofoam box, a doggy bag para llevar that I opened to inspect.

The spicy chocolate wafted out and my stomach began to growl. It was still warm since Marty had just gotten home. I pulled out the box, grabbed a fork and sat at the table.

The first bite was an explosion of perfectly balanced bitter chocolate and spices over chicken with rice on the side.

“God! This is fabulous!” I whispered with a mouth full.

I’d had mole in many places around the country in our travels. Some too chocolaty and not to my liking, but this was a combination of the delicious Poblano mole of Puebla, which is where it originated, I’d read, and one of the equally good variations from Oaxaca.

Mole, with its many different ingredients, took a long time to prepare. I could see why there would be a special night for serving this dish, having to cook each of the ingredients alone before blending them together. It’s just not something a cook would whip up at a moment’s notice. I’d have to remember and thank Marty for his thoughtfulness. Or Elena for hers.

As I ate, my thoughts started to percolate about what I’d eaten and drunk that day to cause such a reaction in the passion department of my body and mind. It had to have been the beer, as that was the only thing I had ingested that Marty hadn’t. He was affected only by me and my uncontrollability, not by something fed to him. Therefore, I could only conclude there was something in my beer that made me so insatiably horny. But what could it have been?

Too tired to dwell on a question that may never get answered, I threw away the box, put the fork in the sink and went back to bed.

Sleep came easier, since I’d eaten and, because I’d decided that my best defense to my own combative attitude about the park was to leap into work and lose myself in my own world of fantasy and words, this required plenty of rest for a sharper mind. I’d worry about the beer another day.

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