“Listen to your spirit guides,” she told her phone’s front camera, holding her hand over her heart, “they are always with you. Always.” Her most-viewed video was “Moontime ritual for welcoming bleed”, in which she kneeled on the gleaming tigerwood yoga deck, rhythmically rubbing her Disney Channel stomach, eyes closed.
They were all the same, one after the other, these gringas and their content, these gringas and their $400 backpacks. On a “soul journey” from Minnesota suburbs, where they were the second choice in their friend group (and refused to admit this painful fact to themselves) to sleepy beach towns in Central America, taking the direct air-conditioned shuttle.
This one was prettier than most, like all girls with a secret mean streak. She had the same vacant grey-blue eyes and weak chin as the rest, as if they were all sprung from one great German-Irish mother of the Midwest. But there was a distinctive appeal there – it might have been because she genuinely looked her nineteen years, with round, fresh cheeks. She was also endearingly small for an American woman, her waist and shoulders slight and delicate in an ethically-traded cotton crop top.
There was one time she never told anyone about, her fourth day there. The retreat center was uncharacteristically empty (a big group from Toronto had checked-out), and she felt flat and anxious all day – no amount of positive affirmations seemed to soothe her irritation at the unexpectedly low engagement for her latest video, in which she fed papaya chunks to a toucan from her morning smoothie bowl.
The only reason she found out about the toucan on the grounds to begin with was that there was a crew of laborers working on the property that day, a stocky man in his late fifties and two others who looked barely out of high school. One of the boys saw her hate-scrolling under the guava trees in the sunshine, and beckoned for her to come see.
As she would do to them 4 hours later, feeling sure she was in someone else’s body, praying silently that no one would ever find out.
Her room was very small, with shining wood floors and walls, a full-length sliding window opening to the garden and flimsy curtains at each side. The one in his fifties took her first, while the two boys shyly flattened themselves against the wall, terrified at potentially being seen through the window, though no one was there. He had lived longer than them and knew that luck was hard to come by and easier to squander. He unbuckled his belted jeans quickly, brown belly protruding comically over his hard cock, barely taller than she would be if she weren’t lying down on the white bed, feeling mixed dread that she couldn’t get out of this now, and sick excitement at what was about to happen.
The ridiculous brown belly was close and she finally had to close her eyes for a moment, dizzy in the stillness of the room and throb of cicadas outside in the trees. He wordlessly tugged at her dress, his hands rough, but warm and dry. She looked away from their blinkless gaze and sat up to undo the shoulder ties herself, her organic almond-milk tits tumbling out for the three of them to see, little pink nipples that they would all later suck on. The old man, who looked even older now up close, pushed her back down with gentle finality and lifted the skirt of her dress, where her blond pussy was bare and visibly wet to all three, so much so that a murmur in Spanish escaped them when they saw that tight, wet little pussy in the 3pm light streaming from the garden outside, ready for them. She knew she shouldn’t be so wet for this shamefulness but it couldn’t be helped anymore, and then his thick cock was in her, deep in her while the boys watched from the wall, so close they could have touched her bare feet without moving from where they were, in that hot, tiny room. She found out later that one of them was his nephew, the first high school graduate in the family.
The old man mutely fucked her for a long time, as much as he wanted, and his initial courtesy wore off – deep in her pussy, he knew this gringa was no different or better than his girlfriends who cleaned hotel rooms, and turned her over roughly to thrust even harder right before he came, while she concentrated on the overhead fan to avoid crying out and being heard by Kayla at reception. Her pussy was pink and swollen by now. The old man finally looked over to one of the boys, the less-timid one, and they both had a turn, their young cocks sliding easily in her tight wetness.
“No matter what happened today, remember that you are enough,” she told her 11,000 followers later that evening, smiling serenely below string lights. “I love you.”