La Historia De Mi Puta Triste - HITTER
>Author: kitty69lover
Rating: R
Category: drama
Characters: Fernando Torres & the woman
Length: hitter
Originally posted on: 03.12.2009
Summary: Fernando meets a woman whom he may or may not have known before. their interaction is going to be unique
Disclaimer: I do not own Fernando Torres or his family, or any of the other footballers mentioned in my story. This is just fiction, not the reality.
Authors Notes: this is not an original idea. I was inspired by the similar episode in Javier Marías' book Tomorrow in the Battle, Think On Me
I was driving slowly, into the warm Madrid night. It was a day before my wedding and having incredible wedding nerves, I had decided to set sail on a drive in the city I had grown in, to calm my nerves. It was too much for me to handle, my bride to be was relentless in reminding me how much she loves me for doing this, how much she loves me period.
But the truth is, I wasn’t so sure of her love anymore. We have had some rough months lately and the signs of our imbalanced affections had finally popped out for me to clearly see. But there was a baby on the way and after a relationship of eight years, only a coward or a dickhead would run away.
I was neither, so I did the right thing. I took her back to my family home to marry in almost secrecy. I knew it’d make everyone swoon at the fact that the beloved child of the city and top footballer married his childhood sweetheart. That I married the only woman I loved.
Well, with all these nerves and doubts and almost second thoughts, with all the mass hysteria in my parents’ home, I began to think, while driving carefully on the streets I could never forget, about how true this only love thing really was.
And thus, summoned by the lovely May night and by the flutter in my heart, she came to mind - Alia. Ah, because before Olalla, there had been someone else. We were just 16 and it only lasted a few months before she left my life just as unexpected as she had come in it. And I had not thought of her for so many years, but I suppose there was no better time for recollection than now.
I, like now, loved to roam the streets of the city. Whenever I wasn’t on the football pitch, whether with friends or with Atletico, I was riding my bike across the city, careless of everything surrounding me. I loved the freedom a bike ride brought and the new and exciting discoveries it allowed.
But one time, I had gotten a bit carried away and I had ended up in a rather unknown part of the city. It was getting dark and it was getting chilly and for the first time ever, I wanted my mummy. Of course, I was not going to admit that to anyone, but there was a chill going up my spine realizing I had no clue how to get back home.
And that’s when she appeared. In the waning light of the late May afternoon, her golden hair shone magically, waist long river of honey. She was guiding her bicycle towards me, dressed in tattered jeans and a too large green shirt. She looked straight at me and I felt mute although she could’ve been my way out, my way home.
”Are you lost?” she asked when she was close enough for me to discern her facial features. “You look lost.” She continued confidently seeing that I wasn’t replying.
I couldn’t reply that very moment, I was taking the sight of those chocolate eyes in, I was charmed with her beauty and nonchalance. She looked so sure of herself, surely she lived in the area and felt at home, while I was in a strange place. She was tiny and seemed frail, I could never tell her shape under that large shirt.
“You shouldn’t be here.” She looked at me, her eyes locked with mine.
“Why not?” I finally spoke up, getting up from the bike and towering her smaller figure.
“You don’t belong here.” She gave me a sarcastic look.
And with that, she dismissed all my apparent courage. She then took her time to check me out and I felt naked under her gaze, I felt like I was catching fire.
“Where do you live?” she said, after a while.
I told her and she took me home. She insisted to walk with me all the way to my home, in a reverse of the usual tradition of boy walking girl home and it could’ve all remained just a vibrant encounter had she not told me that I should never return to where we met. That it was too dangerous.
And of course, I had to go back. I had to prove her that I’m not a scared little boy. I had to see her again. And of course we initiated a summer romance. And, as summer romances go, I kept it a secret.
For a rather unknown reason at first, then because I had realized Alia resided in a rather ill famed part of the city, I had decided to keep this relationship a secret. It gave it more mystery, it made it more romantic, I suppose.
Since I was gone on my bike or at football for most of the day, the parents never suspected anything. And because Alia never seemed to have anyone to answer to, for all I know, the only people in the whole wide world that know of that summer’s romance were her and I. This had always warmed my heart, a passion so deep, yet so intimate, that ended up killing me and I locked the memories for good.
It was intense and we lived through each other, those months of blissful carelessness and hype. I gave her my virginity and she gave me hers, it all came natural. To this day, Olalla believes she was my first, but oh, how she is mistaken. But since she takes so much pride in this, in being the destined one, I allowed her to keep thinking that. For my peace of mind, most of the time. Out of fear of reviving the past, some other times.
And as most summer romances go, it ended once the rains of September started. She just disappeared. One day I went to the meeting place, but she never came. And as much as I looked for her, as much as I searched every possible location, she was simply nowhere to be found.
I moped around and went to our main meeting place every day for a couple of months, unable to let go, unable to understand that she had vanished, unable to get it why she would do that. My parents were worried for me, especially that I refused to talk, I knew I would have to tell them everything and I could not reveal that secret, especially now, now that Alia was gone.
And then, one day, as I was returning from my Alia quest, I met a girl, sitting head in hands next to her bike. It was indeed, Olalla. Her bike had broken down. This was the reverse of how I met Alia, it was my turn to be the hero, to walk the girl home.
Olalla saved me from my state of depression. The rest is known, she was my first official girlfriend, turned fiancee and by tomorrow, my wife.
My walk on memory lane had only mildly affected my driving, as I found myself in that ill famed part of Madrid where I had met Alia. I stopped at a newly installed light, on the same corner I had stopped on my bike all those years ago...the coincidences amazed me, and I was about to leave when I saw a woman on the other side of the street.
My heart skipped a beat. The short woman with bleached blond hair in a tight mini skirt, brassier and platform sandals, obviously a prostitute, was Alia.
No, it couldn't have been. I knew I could not recognize her after so many years. She was just a hooker, her white body that was on display, with sagged breasts and clay-like skin could not be hers. I realised it was just my nostalgic recollection that was making me think it's her. Yet, I could not stop staring.
The light turned green, but I didn't leave, I couldn't. The possibility that the street woman was the girl I had first loved in this life was lodged in my head and I could not leave without being sure. I looked at her, trying to disguise my interest, her face was still pretty, in a very worn out kind of way. Like my English teammates would say, she was rough.
But the big brown eyes, mirroring mine, were the same. Identical chocolate brown, deep and soulful. Yet, the light my 16 year old Alia had in them was gone, extinguished. Her once radiant eyes were matted, as if time had wiped out their luster.
The woman I was now staring at was meatier than my lean Alia. Yet, if time had consumed her eyes, it could have very well added those pounds. Her breasts were heavy and sagged, nothing like the budding bosom my beloved had.
But all those changes were normal, almost mandatory. She was still a girl when she left me. If it was her now, before my eyes, she was a woman, and the transformation would have happened anyway. More or less.
She caught my eye with her experienced one, she could smell men's interest from afar, as any prostitute. She pushed her chest forward. She smacked her tongue against the lips and her hand caressed her hip. She was offering herself, offering me a good view of her best parts.
I was shocked. The obscenity of the gestures arrested my movements and even if I had intended to leave, I now couldn't. I didn't want her to come over, as I didn't need a whore nor did I want to reconnect with an old flame this way.
Yet. She moved a foot across the pavement. Her eyes locked with mine for a second and she stopped. If it was her, she had recognized me. She recollected herself quickly and she flexed her leg, offering me as much of her bare thigh going under her skirt as possible.
She was just a whore. Even if she had once been my beloved, she had changed, changed in such a way that she was a completely different person. But the more I told myself to drive away and forget I ever saw anything, the more I wanted to call her, to see and know for sure if it was her.
I slowly nodded to her and she approached, prancing towards the car, and I grew scared that it was her, that I would have to face the fact that my first love was now a doomed woman, selling her body to live.
But on the other hand, I would know for sure, and that excited me. Such a discovery would change everything. She was soon in front of the car window, her body real and tangible. The pale complexion was hers.
She lowered herself so we were face to face. It wasn't her. It wasn't her in that conventional way we remember and expect people to be like. Her face was different, her sad, fake smile was different, but her eyes were the same, eyes hardly ever change.
There was something dark and unsettling in them, but those were her eyes, the eyes I had once dreamed to get lost in every morning when I woke up for the rest of my life. It was like those eyes, her eyes, had been transplanted on another face, to another person.
“So, you interested, Mister?” she spoke.
A coarse voice. Not hers. Hers if roughened by smoking and shouting and misery. Hers. I was feeling almost ill, because I was not very sure it was her and she wasn't helping me.
But what did I imagine? That she would jump into my arms and then all time we've been apart would be gone? I felt ridiculous. I wasn't interested in her body, in the body of a whore. I was interested in her soul, the soul of my once best beloved. If she still had it.
“Well....” I stopped.
I didn't know what to say, what to tell her. I didn't want to buy her time, her body. I was afraid of having her so close, I was afraid that once she'd be in my car, sharing the closed space, I would be sure, finally, that is was her, Alia, my first love. I was afraid of the pain I'd feel. Of the shame. Of the anger.
She had left me, why was she invading my personal space now? Now of all the times...
“100 for a session. Normal and oral. 300 for the night and I do what you want.” she said, her professional, cold tone never leaving her voice.
It cut my inner ramblings. I needed to decide if I wanted certainty or doubt for the rest of my life.
“OK. Get in.” I said, as emotionless as I could.
My voice faltered though, and as she departed, I imagined, for a second, that she felt it too and she was leaving, but she only walked round the car, to get in the passenger's seat. I opened the door for her and she got in.
“So, what you want?” she asked, coarsely.
“Let's talk.”
“Money first.” she countered, not looking at me.
I knew it was the rule of the trade, but if the woman next to me was Alia, or had been Alia in her early life, I had expected her to drop her hooker role for a second. She didn't and now I really didn't know what to believe.
I pulled out my wallet and took out two 50 Euro bills and handed the money to her. She looked intently at the bills and rolling them into a tight cylinder, she put it in her tiny purse. I watched that with my heart twitching almost, as this was exactly how Alia used to keep her money.
It was her. I drove off, talking twists and turns, covering a small area.
“So...” I trailed.
My heart was in my throat, I really couldn't continue.
“What you wanna talk bout?” she finally looked at me.
But eye contact lasted less than 2 seconds, her eyes grazing my face, settling on my knee.
“I feel lonely. Tomorrow I'm getting married. And I think I've seen you before.”
I didn't dare say I knew her.
“Wedding is a big thing, do you love her?” she asked, ignoring the rest of what I said.
“Yes...” I blinked the tears out.
How could I tell my Alia that I loved another woman? I kept silent, and she started to check her nails.
“I never seen you before, so where you said you seen me?”
“I didn't say where.”
Finally, she was interested to know more, she was getting into the game.
“You are familiar, that's all.”
“That's cause there's plenty of girls like me around.” she let out a laugh.
It wasn't her laugh.
“There was only one girl like you. A long time ago. 9 years ago. I loved her. She left me. Why?”
I just blurted it all out, all the frustration of that summer's end and of the fall that followed surfacing again. I wanted to expose her, I wanted her to tell me that it was her before me and then maybe have mercy of me and tell me why she bailed....
“Women leave. Maybe she didn't love you.”
But her tone was changed now. There was some warmth, maybe nostalgia, maybe remorse. It was her, I knew it, and I thought that if I tried hard enough, she'd reveal herself to me and her reasons to leave...
“She did, I know she did.”
“Men...men are always so sure of things...” she closed her eyes.
That bitterness in her voice, that wasn't hers. Alia was a sun ray, she'd never be bitter. But then again, if life had changed her so drastically, she would have all the right to be....
“What's your name?” I asked after a while, decided to take another path to revealing her true self.
“Fernanda.” she said with no hesitation.
I flinched. She was cruel. Would Alia be cruel? She had been, certainly, yes, disappearing without a trace....but what was the point of this charade now. Calling herself with my name...was this a way to revive the past while closing all doors to it at the same time?
“That's not your name.” I said, almost hushed, almost tempted to throw her real name in her face.
“It's the name I have for you...” she countered, quickly but softly.
It was almost like it was rehearsed. Like she long knew we would once meet and I would half recognize her and play act that I don't know her and she was going to hint to who she was...but why?
We sat in silence. I had little strength to talk to her. I was afraid. I didn't want this woman to be Alia. Yet was it clear that it was. Although it could be not.
“Look Mister. You pay me only 100 so we need to get to it, or pay me 300 and I can stay with you here as long as you want.”
She was back to her whore tone. That was when I finally decided. There was only one certainty now. The certainty of friction. I pulled into a quiet and dark alley and parked.
“Get in the back seat.” I ordered, almost brutishly.
She did as commanded, without saying a word. I followed her.
“No kissing.” she said.
Profession code. I closed my eyes and tried to hide my tears. She saw that, but her reactions were of her trade. She unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned my trousers as I just hovered above her, too upset and depressed to even touch her.
Her skilled hands lowered my jeans and underwear and she began to stroke my dick while I could barely gather my courage to slip a hand up her thigh and under her dress. Unexpectedly, she wasn't wearing any panties.
I had never picked a whore off the street, so I was shocked and retreated my hand.
She grinned at my reaction and guided my hand back in.
“You can touch it.” she said, slight sarcasm insinuating in her words.
She's just a whore I told myself, as my fingers entered her. Her moist insides reminded me of the times Alia and I had made love in an abandoned warehouse. How she always giggled at my intrusion. At her inexperienced hands when holding my dick, so different from the vigorous and precise hand glides on my shaft now.
Bodies don't lie, I told myself. I lifted her skirt and spread her legs open. She offered me a condom and put it on. I was hard already, as she was excellent with her hands and I penetrated her, sucking the air in, hoping that this final union would break the veil of lies we had just build around us.
She sighed, fake sighs all whores let out, so I fucked her like the whore she was. The only reason why I was doing it now was to wash all the bitterness and grudge I held against Alia off my skin.
Was this woman I was pinning on the backseat her or not, it mattered less now. It was all going to be over and it wouldn't matter who it had been in a few minutes.
I could feel her body trembling below mine, I could feel her hands groping my shirt at the back trying to close the gap between our bodies. Why would she want closeness? Why would the whore she pretended to be want true intimacy?
As her breath got ragged and began catching in her throat, I could imagine she was close to orgasm. It was real, I was going to make her come and suddenly, I wanted that more than anything in the world. It was my way to tell her I forgave her. I paced myself with the rhythm of her breath and looked at her face.
She opened her eyes and her mouth spread open like a flower in the midst of her orgasm and her eyes glittered, like all those years ago, when I would offer her pleasure. The warmth and tenderness my Alia always had in her eyes was back, for a fleeting second I was sure it was her. I knew.
I let out a loud, long kept breath and came, collapsing in her arms, finally, the arms of my long lost lover.
For a few minutes, while we recovered our panting breaths, we were again, Alia and Nando, lovers away from the world, just us, back into the state of bliss we always felt in each other's company.
Then she pulled herself from under me. She sat up and straightened her skirt. Cold, careless actions.
“Mister, could you drive me back to where you picked me up from?”
I felt my heart shatter again. All over again, Alia made me feel happiness and then abandoned me. The change was too soon, too sudden. I now doubted again. This cruel woman could not be the Alia I knew. No. I thought that after our union, she'd drop the act and we'd talk.
“My name is Fernando.” I said, a little louder than I intended.
“I'm in heels, Fernando, could you please take me back?” she said, her voice flat, my name sounding average on her lips.
She was fixing her hair, not even looking at me. I got back in the front and drove off, not saying a word, too annoyed for fooling myself like I had.
I dropped her off. She walked back to her place, where I had first seen her. We hadn't said anything else while I drove her back.
I drove on a nearby street. I could still see her and I wanted to watch her, watch over her. If she was going to pull another client, then it had not been her, just a prostitute that had her eyes.
But if she left after a while, then I'd know. It'd mean she had waited for me and me alone. I sat in expectation when my phone beeped.
I picked it up and checked the message. It was from my mother. She was wondering where the hell I had disappeared, and warning that Olalla was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. That's when I remembered I had family obligations.
I had to go, taking my doubts with me. But in the end, whoever that woman had been, she helped me realise that the past is the past and could not be unchanged, and only the future could be transformed according to our wishes.
I was finally ready for my wedding.