Looking at the stage, twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov felt the need to penetrate.

It had been some time, four days to be exact, since the overwhelming desire to take a woman had struck him with such force.  But standing there, gazing upon a stage of teenage thoroughbreds, he could do nothing to control himself. He tried biting his hand and closing his eyes, hoping it would take him away from such a place, to a library perhaps, with books and shelves and dust; but with the turning of each page appeared another girl and another bust, and he had to open his eyes before his bitten hand began working away at things less than acceptable for public display. Still, he thought, those thoroughbreds were doing nothing to ease the tension growing below his linen slacks, and he cursed himself over and over for having ever thought silk boxers were stylish.

The saleslady was a tall number with thick glasses. Her hair, a ponytail.  Her shoulders, slender. Vladimir Karlov was never one for thick glasses, but the way she took them off when she approached him, he couldn't help but assume she screwed on instinct alone -- a Himalayan monster, a Moorish beast.  Sight was nothing but a hindrance. He let her speak. He let her sell. Under her blouse was an interesting movement that occurred when she laughed, so Vladimir Karlov made her laugh and laugh. She laughed until Vladimir could hide his smile no more and had to be escorted from the property. Though unhappy with the purchase, he couldn't help but respect the woman for processing his credit card while his hands were held behind his back and his pants at his ankles.   

“Wool underwear and wool pants from here on out, Vladimir, no matter the heat, this bulge must be stifled,” he yelled aloud to the shock of a Mexican husband and wife who stared the same as Vladimir did at the stage, but without any protruding members below either of their waists.

The girls of Sacred Heart Catholic High School were on stage pulsating sexual with every scream of every horn and every slam of every drum. The music was louder than ever and so were those hips. Sure the husband and wife were watching without arousal, their daughter was probably on stage now, puffing out her chest in her Spanish dress, cut just low enough to see a birthmark at the beginning of her breast. Oh how Vladimir wished to kiss that mark, but not without permission of course, no, never without permission. She was a traditional girl, raised in a traditional house and those were traditional breasts and traditional hips. Of course he'll ask first. He'll say to the man holding his wife, “Senor, I know I am but a stranger, just another in a long line of men with the desire to court your daughter; but believe me when I say that only I, Vladimir Karlov, will pleasure your daughter the way such a daughter should be pleasured. Yes Senor, only I have the everlasting desire to kiss that mark, that dark brown mark, just atop her still blossoming breasts, and forever satisfy her every need. I know she is young, but Senor, is not the world also young?  Is not the world also blossoming? Do not hold back what is meant to be, Senor, do not hold back what is meant to be for Vladimir Karlov.”

He will curse.

He will yell.

He will stomp and strut and stare, but in the end he will calm. He, Senor, father of the girl with the mark atop her breast, will finally calm and understand, knowing all to well the truth that is spoken when Vladimir Karlov speaks.

“Thank you, Senor, your daughter Olvera Maria Marquez will bleed happy forever more.”

Vladimir Karlov stares as the dancing speeds up.

Looking at his wardrobe, Vladimir feels amiss, for nothing about him projects his love for the Mexican people, and nothing is further from the truth, with their dark eyes and dark hair, their wide hips and full lips, their skin as soft as skin, their ankles and wrists and necks, so slender so guided so pure.

Near the stage, Vladimir spots a vendor, so he races to him and purchases what he can. Money is exchanged in haste and Vladimir soon has a red, white, and green shirt, a large sombrero, a votive candle of the Virgin Mary, and a mini Mexican flag. He tears his shirt off and throws it to the ground, replacing it with the much larger colored cotton, then, with a slight adjustment of his hair; places the sombrero atop his head before racing back to his place below the stage. There, waving his flag and holding his un-lit Virgin, he watches the Mexican high school girls dance and dance, forgetting completely about his bulge that grows and grows. 

Steps he doesn't know. Steps he could never know. Seduction he can only hope to witness one on one, for in a group, it was alluring, but equally heartbreaking. There before him are the Sacred Heart Catholic High School girls. There before him is all he could ever desire. There before him is Olvera, and Grisela, and Gabriela, pounding and pushing, but not for him, never for him. They are doing it for their parents, for their prom dates, for their Jesus, while Vladimir stands there doing it for no one.

Vladimir drinks from his flask, but the taste of scotch makes him ill.

“No Vladimir Karlov, you will drink scotch no more!”

He runs back to the vendor and purchases a bottle of tequila, pouring out the scotch and cleansing the flask with its newest denizen. Never before had any other form of alcohol crossed Vladimir Karlov's lips, but he drinks it down all the same. What was left in the bottle he gives to the vendor and they drink swig after swig together.

“I don't drink tequila, Henry.”

“I know you don't, Vlad.”

“I just don't drink tequila, Henry.”

“I know you don't, Vlad.”

“So when will the girls love me, Henry, when will the girls care?”

“Soon enough, Vlad, soon enough.”

“And what of my shirt and hat, Henry, what of my candle and flag?”

“The girl's will love it all, Vlad, the girl's will love it all.”

And the two drink down the alcohol while Vladimir suppresses it from coming up.

“It goes down smooth, Henry, smoother than I'd like.”

“It goes down nice, Vlad, it goes down just right.”

Another and another.

“You're the expert, Henry, and I'm just a man, a man in love with your people. Now for Olvera Maria Marquez, which one is she?”

“The one in the Spanish dress, Vlad."

“Oh, but perhaps she's much too young, Henry. Perhaps I should let her grow. Her body is ready, but her mind's of a child, who am I to corrupt it with such pleasure.”

Vladimir is yelling and Henry is smiling.   

“She's not too young, Vlad, her age is just right.”

“This drink is too smooth, Henry, smoother than I'd like.”

“The drink is just right, Vlad, just like I like.” Vladimir drinks until the flask is empty and wipes his mouth with his arm.

“I'm moving in on her, Henry.”

“Let me light your candle, Vlad, and then she's all yours.”

Vladimir walks back to the stage, the Virgin Mary on fire. 

“Look to me, Olvera, look to me down here. I can not dance, I can not spin, but boy can I kiss, boy oh boy can I kiss.”

The Mexican husband and wife watch as Vladimir speaks aloud to the girls on the stage, waving his candle and waving his flag, waving his bulge around. 

“I'm here, Olvera, I'm here. I'm here to kiss your mark.”

Their dresses spin and swirl, a rainbow of red calves, white wrists, and green necks.  Mexico is alive and all the world needs to know. The girls stomp with the power only a high school girl can know, only a high school girl can yield. So much to care about, so much to cry about, and Vladimir wants them to cry no more.

“You there, all of you. All of you can be with me and never again will you cry. I will take you and pleasure you and never again will you cry, for I am Vladimir Karlov, I am Vladimir Karlov.”

But they stomped into the night and spun into the day and Vladimir watched alone, holding a flag that finally went still and a candle that finally went dark.

© 2006 Tyke Johnson