Love Trips: Declaration of Like

I've imagined various scenarios in which a man would declare his like or love for me. Scenario #1 takes place in an elevator. Doors slam and button pushed. Up, up, up me and my hot boo go then "crash!” The steel cries. The metal box bobs and weaves. Our lives hang by a thread, literally. A sweat bead travels from my temple to cheekbone to neck, and my even hotter now boo wipes my perspiration away with a lick of his tongue. His intense, small eyes meet mine; his plump, kissable lips part and he screams: "We're going to die! Oh God, mami!" My hot boo jumps into my arms. He breathes into my neck and I sing him a lullaby. In the middle of, "Cuca, cucita, asi se llama, la muchachita" my hot boo lifts his head, finds my gaze and utters: "I like you so much!" Then the elevator jolts back to life. Cool artificial air is released from metal vents, and once again, up, up, up me and my hot boo go. Go to Love Trips: Declaration of Like to read the rest!

Love Trips: The End!

Every love story has an ending. Some end amicably, like my ending with Alex, my Patron (sin limon) tossing, “woosah”-minded Mexican. Our "relationship" ceased to exit after I picked up my cell and gave him my bendicion to go fuck with the Myspace, teta-flashing hoochies he friended and ogled. He could also add the medical assistants he flirted with while at work to that list. And I'm not sure if it was the intoxicating smell of tacos reminding him of the motherland or that he hadn't grabbed a big chunk of ass since we began dating (my nargas are lumpy not chunky), but Alex often drooled when we passed the voluptuous girl poster that was plastered over the front door of Olmeca Restaurant. Go to Love Trips: The End! to read the rest!