Ed King broke into a smile as he crossed the Tijuana border and steered onto the main highway. Good riddance to his misspent youth. Goodbye to his disapproving father. Goodbye to his smothering mother. And a fervent fuck-off to the unwanted and undeserved diagnoses of all the headshrinkers he had been forced to go to since he was a boy.
Such bullshit. A little stubbornness they called “pathological.” Not taking any shit from anyone, they called “violent tendencies.” The constant fighting with his dad and his mother’s fawning over him — her “miracle baby” — they called “a complex.”
They were all quacks, Ed was convinced. Ed’s smile broadened as he thought of his last shrink. A prissy forty-year-old, Delphina Eisenberg, Ph.D. She was always pushing that “complex” idea. Fucking Freudians were all the same. As far as she was concerned he was “a danger to his father and overly close with his mother.” But what did she say, over and over, once he’d seduced her? What did she babble when she was bent over the arm of her office sofa? “Oh fuck me, daddy! Give me that big dick, daddy. Spank me, daddy. Yes, daddy.” Ed was pretty certain it was Doctor Delphina that had a daddy complex.
But he was past all that now. Ed’s maternal grandfather, Nicholas Sopho, the only one in the family who ever really seemed to understand him, had left him a tidy sum of money as well as a plot of land in a tiny fishing village in Mexico. So at twenty, he kissed his mother goodbye, flipped his dad the bird, and headed out to build his own life. He’d show them.
His grandfather Nick had talked about this spot to Ed for years. After a few whiskeys, he’d pull out a map to point it out and tell the same story over and over, about how in the late fifties, he and his buddies had taken an old sailboat along much of the Mexican Pacific coast, stalking good fishing, good surfing, and good pussy. This particular spot, Xebes, was the one he was most crazy about. He went down there with his buddies year after year, until they died off, and then alone until his legs gave out on him. He said the locals were friendly, the fishing was amazing, and there was a point break on a little island at the edge of the small harbor that he usually had all to himself. At some point, he bought 10 hectares from the local caudillo who had come to favor the gringo, and he had built a cabana on the water’s edge.
That cabana in Xebes was Ed’s destination. He planned to build a boutique hotel for the surf tourists and live happily ever after, free of Mom and Dad. He turned south along the main highway, then turned west to join the rugged road that hugged the coastline. He took his time, stopping at every hamlet, every potential surf break, spending nights in cantinas or in a tent on the beach. His Spanish was passable, and his large physical stature and his generous gratuities to any authorities he ran into made his passage relatively uneventful. Until his fourth day of traveling.
Ed was happily following the curves of the mountainous road in his refurbished mustard-colored 1967 Bronco when he came up behind an old white Chevy pick-up spewing smelly blue exhaust. He passed the old truck and gave the guy behind the wheel a look of dismissal as he did so. Soon the Chevy was on his bumper, and the guy passed him with his own irritated look. But then he slowed down immediately after, once again bathing Ed in a cloud of blue smoke. Now Ed was pissed. It was rare that Ed ran into someone who was as big a stubborn prick as he was, but he seemed to have met his match. The two went back and forth, increasingly recklessly, for several miles.
As the hostile pair of old vehicles approached a hill, Ed moved to pass again. A farm truck appeared at the crest of the hill but Ed had plenty of time. Or, he did until the Chevy gunned it, preventing Ed from having enough room to tuck in. Not wanting to give in, Ed pressed the throttle to the firewall. But then so did the Chevy. In the end, Ed just barely got enough in front to sneak over the center line as the fruit truck laid on the horn and whizzed past. Ed was now fully enraged. He could have easily been killed. On an especially sharp turn, Ed overtook the old pick-up and let the Bronco drift, rubbing the Chevy and pushing it to the shoulder. The pick-up driver shouted “Hijo de puta!” and shook his fist at Ed. Big mistake. With only one hand on the wheel, the Chevy driver lost control and careened forty or fifty feet into a ravine. Ed never even stopped. Serves him right, Ed thought to himself.
Ed continued on as he had, taking his time and eventually arriving in Xebes after more than a month of wandering the coast. It was as quaint and beautiful and perfect as his grandfather had described. When he explained to the locals that he was Old Man Sopho’s nieto (grandson), they welcomed him with open arms. When he mentioned he was thinking of building a little hotel, things got decidedly colder. Whether he owned the land or not, it was clear he would get no cooperation unless he had approval from the matriarch of the village, the daughter of the old caudillo, Jocasta.
Jocasta was described to him as a “stern widow” and that formed a certain picture in his mind as he walked up the hill to the large manor house that overlooked the marina and village. That mental picture vanished when Jocasta walked into the large salon to greet him. Her widow status must have been fairly recent as she was still dressed in a black lace dress. But she was certainly a young widow. He guessed she was thirty, though he would learn later that she was actually thirty-six. She had long shiny, jet black hair and her body, despite the modest mourning dress, called for attention. Ed would have described her more as sad than stern. Her huge deep brown eyes had neither the sparkle of joy or the fire of anger. Her bee-stung full lips rarely opened wide enough to reveal her smile. But, despite her sad countenance, Ed thought she might be among the most beautiful women he had ever met.
Jocasta indicated no excitement over Ed’s hotel idea. She said that she was uncertain whether this project fit with the interest of the town or herself, but she was open to “more conversation.” As Ed left and walked back to his tiny cottage he wondered why he wasn’t more disappointed in the outcome. He realized that he was as excited about “more conversation” with the beautiful young widow as he was about his hotel.
Ed and Jocasta had dinner the following night. And the night after that. Jocasta was still fairly cold to the hotel idea, but she was clearly warming up to Ed. The sad eyes came alive, as did a brilliant smile. There was something about the young man — fifteen or sixteen years her junior — that she found mesmerizing. Like her, he had large, intoxicating brown eyes, and a thick mane of black hair. He was strapping, at least six feet two, with the strong wide shoulders of a surfer. He didn’t look much like the short, bald Old Gringo. “Muy, muy guapo,” her maid had said under her breath as the young man left one evening, and Jocasta had to agree.
The sexual tension between them grew quickly over the next few weeks. It made no sense. It would be a scandal that would do them no good, and they both knew it. And yet, with each meeting, they stepped closer to what felt like the inevitable. One evening, Jocasta arrived for dinner, still in black as usual, but not in a stark, shapeless mourning dress. Rather it was a sundress which showed off her legs, back and generous cleavage. Ed’s eyes wandered over the beauty’s body and he was hard through much of the meal. As Ed left, Jocasta offered him a kiss on the cheek rather than a formal hand. Ed realized it was an invitation, but the obvious danger of what this could do to his prospects — the widow to lose interest in him or he in her — was too much. For once in your life, don’t let your dick do your thinking for you, he thought to himself as he walked back to his cabana.
When he reached his cottage, he turned to look back at the manor house. There on the veranda was Jocasta. She was silhouetted by the lights from her bedroom, but a bright waning moon allowed him to see her clearly. She was staring at him. And she continued to stare at him as she slipped the dress straps from her shoulders, allowing the frock to drop to her feet. She dragged both hands through her luxurious, long hair as she arched and looked toward the moon, before giving Ed one last glance and turning to re-enter her bedroom.
Later, Ed was uncertain exactly how he made his way up the hill. He could only remember suddenly entering her bedroom, sweat on his brow and his heart beating wildly. Jocasta had dimmed her bedroom lights but the moonlight showed through, illuminating her naked form. Her hands were above her, grasping the ornate hand-carved headboard, and as Ed stood there, frozen with the view, she opened her legs wide. With that, Ed was frozen no more. He shed his clothes within the four or five strides it took to get to Jocasta’s bed. He crawled between her gorgeous legs and inhaled the intoxicating scent of her pussy. She pulled him up to her to kiss him with her pillowed lips and fed him her full breasts.
The truth was that Jocasta was love-starved. Her husband of twenty years had been the product of a shotgun wedding. Older, strong and powerful, he had taken advantage of the naive Jocasta when she was just sixteen, and when the tryst was discovered her father had forced them to be married. It was quickly a passionless union. When her husband disappeared and was assumed to have been killed a couple of months prior, she had a glimmer of hope that her loveless life could change. The arrival of the handsome Norte Americano seemed like fate.
She and Ed made love vigorously and fluidly. Ironically, the young gringo had more experience than she, and Jocasta followed his lead without inhibition. Ed had been with well more than his share of women. From a very young age, girls and women easily fell under his spell. Yet for all his experience, no one had ever felt like Jocasta. Everything about her was in perfect synergy with his own desire. She was somehow both wildly exotic and remarkably familiar. Her smell was like an aphrodisiac… lingering in his mind like a distant perfume and sustaining his desire when he wasn’t with her.
Whatever their mutual fear of scandal had been, it was quickly put aside. On any given afternoon, half the village could hear the couple engaged in loud, unbounded sex. Given her inexperience, Jocasta did not know what was “good” or “bad,” she only knew what felt pleasurable to herself and gave pleasure to Ed. She took his big cock into her mouth willingly, excitedly, and eagerly swallowed his thick emissions. Ed was obsessed with her breasts, sucking them at any opportunity, and satisfying himself by sliding his cock between them, to Jocasta’s delight.
Jocasta had been a timid lover with her now-dead husband, Manuel. She was more anxious for him to finish than she was excited as he lay on top of her and awkwardly thrust in and out. But Ed and his talented cock were a revelation. She soon found that she simply loved to fuck. Her young stud could bend her into any position and she would wantonly beg him to fuck her roughly and deeply.
Ed loved her firm round Latin ass, and to Jocasta’s utter surprise but ultimate joy, thought nothing of pressing his face into her cheeks and rimming and probing her asshole with his tongue. She was well aware that priests said sodomy was a sin (unless they did it themselves!), but after a few minutes of Ed’s tongue, she would be desperate for him to fuck her there. “Si Pappy. Si Pappy! Fill my ass!”
In a matter of weeks, the two were a symbiotic sensual being. Each knew what the other wanted at exactly the same time and they would spend their afternoons in wild bliss, entertaining some, and horrifying others, with the moans, groans, smacks and screams that cascaded down from the Caudilla’s bedroom windows.
At exactly a year and a day after the disappearance of her husband, Ed and Jocasta were wed. Despite what began as a scandal, the town had come to readily accept Old Sopho’s grandson as one of their own, and all were pleased that the Caudilla finally seemed happy. And Ed himself was somehow calmed. The innate anger he had always had within him seemed to dissipate. A few months later, construction began on the hotel. All was well. But sadly, the collective bliss of Xedes was short-lived.
One day, Federales arrived at Jocasta’s grand manor. Manuel’s remains had been found at the bottom of a hidden ravine along with his truck.
“An accident?” Jocasta asked. The Federales shook their heads.
“The Cartel? Gangs? Like you said before?” she asked again.
“That is what we assumed at first,” one of the officers answered, “but we have asked our informants. No one seems to have had an issue with your husband or with you. We think this is a vehicular homicide and likely random. There is yellow paint on the door and given the angle that the truck had to have left the road, we think your husband was side-swiped and forced off the shoulder. We have reopened the investigation.”
When Jocasta told Ed about the Federales, he became very agitated. “Wait, what kind of car did your husband drive?” Ed asked.
“A white truck. A Chevy. Why?” she asked. Ed looked ashen.
“What is it, mi amor?” Jocasta asked.
“I… I can’t believe this. I think I may have done this! I had a run-in with a jerk in a white truck early in my trip to Xedes. He was stubborn. I was stubborn. I was reckless. I… drove him off the road. But I didn’t mean to kill anybody! Jocasta, I am so sorry. I should not have kept this from you.”
Jocasta broke down in tears. “I forgive you, mi amor. I have kept things from you as well. Let us share everything now and keep these dark clouds away. I told you that I could not have children but I did not tell you why. I was pregnant as a girl. By the man that I ultimately married. But I kept it secret for as long as I could. When my father found out, he made me marry Manuel. But I did not want that baby. Not by that man. I gave birth to the poor thing in secret. It did not go well. I bled heavily and barely survived. It did not seem that the baby would make it either. And then… then… I had Maria, my maid, take the tiny child into the mountains to leave it on a hillside. I too am a murderer!”
Jocasta fell into Ed’s arms in deep, endless sobs. “It’s OK, it’s OK,” Ed whispered but Jocasta was despondent.
In time, Maria came into the room. “I overheard you, Señora. I am sorry. But I think I can share some good news. I too have had my secrets. I could not bring myself to leave the baby to the coyotes. The Gringo was visiting and I went to him for advice. He took the baby and said he would find it a good home.”
For a few moments, Jocasta was relieved and then she looked at Ed’s face. Tears were running down his cheeks and he suddenly pushed Jocasta away with a look of horror and disgust. Jocasta looked confused until the realization began to dawn on her as well. She did the math. Twenty years. She looked freshly at the eyes of her lover and realized that they were her own, exactly. Her lover was her son.
They found Jocasta hanging from the sash of her dressing gown the next morning. Ed’s body was found a day later in the desert. At first, they thought crows had gotten to him but the coroner determined he had, in fact, scratched out his own eyes.
