ty spencer vossler
Ty Spencer Vossler (MFA) currently lives in Tlaxcala, Mexico with his BMW (beautiful Mexican wife) and their daughter. Vossler is a prolific writer, and has published over sixty works in the past two years, including novels, many short stories, poems and essays. He attributes his originality to the fact that he shot his television over two decades ago. He recently published, The Eye of Espinoza, (World Castle Books).
moon and sun
I wasn’t looking. My wild times were safely behind. Wyler and I were trying to make a baby, although under the circumstances it was silly to try. My husband taught English in California and I was in Binghamton, New York, finishing a Ph.D. in Algebraic Topology—not exactly optimum baby making conditions. Sometimes we enjoyed phone-sex. Wyler drummed up a fantasy—me fucking someone from the university. I’d lie in bed as he fleshed out the story, and we masturbated, separated by over 2,900 miles. Usually, we climaxed together.
Wyler and I phoned each other nightly and twice on weekends. In addition to a strong love for each other, we’re best friends. Separation was tricky, yet reunions were exhilarating—as if we were meeting for the first time. It’s true, absence makes the heart fonder—and desire stronger.
I’m Mexican. I wasn’t looking, but my Mexican conscience found me. Most married Mexican women have a conservative moral conscience floating around in her head, whispering—steering us clear of infidelity. Mexican men don’t have one, which is the reason I married a North American Anglo. He’s kind, sweet, generous, understanding and loyal.
Just when I’m convinced my traditional Mexican woman has disappeared, she turns up. During my wild days, she did her best to keep me from serious trouble. She counseled me to be wise about the men I chose to sleep with—to remain in control of relationships.
Now, I was focused on my doctoral thesis, and after defending, I’d rejoin my husband, find work, and perhaps start a family. I buried my wild side, knowing that distance relationships confer temptation. Even after my marriage to Wyler, opportunities discovered me. I ignored my Mexican conscience on a few occasions. Yet, when it was finished, I returned to Wyler, and promised to listen to her the next time.
I wasn’t looking, even as a colleague, Jamil, peeked into my university office and smiled. We were taking a baffling topology class together, and his face dripped with confusion.
“I’m completely lost!” He said, holding out his homework.
I laughed, “I think it’s one of those classes we’ll need to repeat in order to understand.”
“Would you help me?”
“Sure,” I took out my finished assignment.
“Where are you from?” He asked.
“Mexico,” I said.
“Mmm, I’ve always wanted to visit.”
Why is our heart beating like a drum, my inner voice wants to know? Because, Jamil is handsome, intelligent, and friendly, I answered.
After finishing our study session, we swapped stories of how we ended up in New York. He talked about life in Uganda, and I explained to him why my husband was still in California. When Jamil left, I stared at the door for several minutes.
That evening, Wyler and I talked by phone about saving to build a house in Mexico, of raising a family there.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” Wyler said. “Should I bring condoms?”
It was a loaded question. “I can’t get pregnant until I finish my studies, darling, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I got up for water and when I returned, my imagination had placed Jamil beneath the covers.
Relax niña, advised my Mexican conscience, it’s perfectly safe to journey with this man in your fantasies. Slip down your pajama bottom and let’s go to him.
I stared at the ceiling above my bed, closed my eyes and brought Jamil’s face into focus. Then I raised my knees.
I was wearing a filmy Indian skirt. I remembered the softness of his hands when we greeted, the feel of his lips on my cheek, the melodious sound of his deep voice and the kind eyes. I carried the image further.
He was kissing me, his tongue slipping over mine, making my nipples stiff. We faced on our sides and his hand slipped beneath my blouse, released my bra and trapped a nipple between his front teeth. My head lolled to the side and sounds of pleasure filled my bedroom. Tenants in the apartment below would think that Wyler was visiting.
I take turns on his nipples. Most women don’t realize how much men enjoy this. Jamil throws his head back and his attenuated cock throbs against my lower belly. I lift a thigh over his hip.
Moisten your fingers, find our tiny pearl drop, says my Mexican conscience. My clitoris is hypersensitive. I imagine Jamil’s bumblebee tongue buzzing at my tiny pearl. Get him inside, my conscience begs.
His shaft is thick, dark and beautiful. He scoots forward until my pussy lips surround his cockhead, and then lifts my ankles. Licking and sucking my toes at the same time, he slowly eases, down, down, in, in.
I wasn’t looking but here it comes—the delightful stirrings of a powerful climax. My body trembles, my voice is raw. I’m roaming the wilds with a thumb on my clit, slipping one, then two fingers inside, and curling them upward. Strong contractions squeeze them as I cum.
Jamil grunts, growls, and I feel his warm seed spitting. I buck my hips, fingers remaining until the final flutter. Then I slip them out slowly, imagining his thick cock slipping out, and slapping against his thigh.
My Mexican woman whispers that it felt nice and didn’t cause any disagreements.
“Yes,” I said, and then fell into a deep, contented sleep.
Next morning, Jamil and I studied together. We were able to solve some problems, yet one, unrelated to math was giving me fits. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him over to my apartment. A familiar ache throbbed between my thighs and I shut my eyes tightly.
Think, think, think! My conscience warned.
“You okay?” Jamil asked.
I snapped my eyes open, “Yes…I’m fine.”
Wyler called that evening and I was bursting with love for him. My traditional Mexican woman smiled as we spoke, using the rhythm of life to create poetry in my heart.