issue 45: November - December 2004 

 | author bio

Just Don't Take
The Little I Got
Eduardo Antonio Parra


NO SOONER HAD SHE SAID IT THAN the look in the sergeant's eyes changed: The mocking lust welling up from under his eyelids as he stuck his hand down her blouse shifted to a hard stare, filled with suspicion. Idiot. How could she have come up with such a stupid line? They didn't come around for money. They just came by for their little bit of loving, just like any other night, especially in winter, when the cold tightens up the muscles and the body has to move in order to get any heat. The sergeant didn't ask any questions; the smile merely left his face, and since he wasn't talking, the other one no longer had any reason to celebrate his every little joke with loud guffaws. Stupid bitch, fucking was what it was all about, leave them thoroughly drained and happy, and then take off, all proud of yourself, and go hide the money under the mattress. Perhaps she would have had to put up with a little mistreatment, maybe a few slaps, whatever was needed to spice the encounter up a bit. They never did much harm, and anyway that's what cops do. It's like violence is what they need to get ready, it makes them feel like men: a couple of blows and now you'll see, fucking whore, before yanking off her clothes, ripping them noisily, and then the sergeant first, on your feet, bitch, and the painful entry because they're always animals the way they push, like that, he's coming and I'm dry. But right away you adjust, open wide, cunt, your body gets used to it and begins to enjoy the piece of solid flesh inside it. Because why lie, it's not as tight as it used to be, and that's the fault of all those horny guys walking the streets. Sure, it burns, but gradually you begin to enjoy it. It's just that now, since she let her tongue get the best of her, she's not sure what's going to happen. The patrol car moves forward, unhurriedly, leaving the downtown area and its streets crowded with nightcrawlers behind. The traffic lights reveal a few couples and solitary strollers on the corners. Estrella's body is rigid, sitting between the sergeant and the driver, stupefied by the dry silence in the patrol car, not knowing how to react to the squeezes of that clumsy hand moving over her skin.
      Do what you want with me, just don't take the little I got. She'd had to say it. She'd had to let herself get carried away by her tongue that was always tied up in fear, in goddamned greed, in pennies, and never connected to her brain like her coworkers advised her. But what can she do, barely eighteen, and only three months in the street dressed in miniskirt, high heels, and blouse cut above the navel? The woman in her got the upper hand and emotion over money got the better of her. How many times had the others warned her to play it cool with the law, yes sir, whatever you say, you know I'm here to make you feel good? She would even have come out ahead, because after dispatching the sergeant, without giving her a rest, the other stud would have mounted her and found her all oiled up, nice and loose, ready to close her eyes and in the darkness lose herself in the fantasy of being possessed by a centaur. She never enjoyed it so much with her man, or with any of the guys who picked her up in the street. All men are selfish: They're out for their own pleasure and they don't care if they pull out when she's barely getting started. Then they act like guilt or shame has made them bitter—or worse: as if Estrella made them sick. That's why she likes cops. They don't go around all fussy and remorseful, and they always come in a package deal: in twos or threes. And since they're used to fucking one at a time, all she needs to do is grit her teeth, shut her eyes, and let her imagination wander so she can think she's got a long-distance stallion inside her.
      "Sir," her voice sounds strangled, like a murmur, "where are you taking me?"
      "I don't know why you're asking," answers the sergeant, who's now caressing her stomach under her blouse. "Like you don't know."
      To the same place as always, Estrella says to herself when she recognizes their direction. To the park by the river, where other cops have taken her before. At night there's no one there, and the hard part is getting back. Although last time, since she behaved very obediently and catered to the cops' every whim, they agreed to drive her back downtown. However, right now she's not so sure. The look on the sergeant's face isn't that of a man who's hot and bothered, even if he doesn't stop fondling her breasts as if he had never before had such smooth, round, firm ones in his grasp. Then he lowers his hand to her navel, into which he sticks his finger and lets it get entangled in the hair, then moving farther down and toying lightly with the coarseness of the pubis. The cop's behavior sends a confused blend of pleasure and fear to tighten her throat. What sometimes seem to be rough caresses occasionally become a diligent, cold exploration. He's searching her: the sergeant's hand is trying to pretend that his fiddling around with her skin and clothes has something to do with lust.
      Why the hell did I mention that bit about the money? she asks herself again. She had been overflowing with pride at carrying plenty of bills and she couldn't contain herself. She never imagined that a man with a car like that would invite her to get in. Quite the gentleman: elegant, good-looking, well-mannered. Nor had she ever thought that she would ever enter such a luxurious apartment, in a building that looked like a castle tower. Through the windows of that place she was able to see the whole city with its houses like toys and the people all teeny-tiny. Besides, the man never touched her. He just asked her to dance without music next to the window, as she slowly undressed. She got nervous, but the man started directing her with a voice whose authority betrayed keen desire. When the moment came to finish her strip act, she began to tremble, because she didn't want to display that flaccid member that shames her so much and that she always tries to conceal with double-reinforced panties. However, the desperation that vibrated in the man's voice made her realize that that was exactly what he wanted to see. She repressed her scruples and thought about anything at all rather than imagine what she must look like with her silicone breasts and her childish cock, until with a sonorous wheeze the man finished masturbating in a dark corner of the bedroom. Then with great courtesy, he ordered her to get dressed and immediately paid her with the biggest wad of bills Estrella had ever seen, adding a few extra pesos for the taxi.
      I should have gone straight home, she thinks as the sergeant's rough hands move from her back to the place where her buttocks begin. She'd had a full night. And now these bastards are going to take it all away from me. She had decided to open a bank account and put aside a little something for her operation. With a few rich customers like that man.... A tremor interrupted her because a finger was roaming through the narrow cavern between her buttocks. This time it was obvious that there wasn't even a shred of desire in the hand exploring her, and yet with all the ins and outs, thousands of butterflies were getting excited, and her dead member moved once or twice as if ready to rise.
      The patrol car keeps moving forward extremely slowly. Anybody would think it was making its nightly rounds. They leave the last residential areas behind, and neither the sergeant nor the driver has said a word. Around here, the city looks deserted. Gradually, fear intensifies in Estrella's stomach, blending with her desire for a man, turning to impatience. She wants both of them to take her. She doesn't notice what time it is when they get to the park. She's getting impatient because the cops are taking so long. Any other time, by this point one of the cops would have been unable to take it any longer and would have unzipped himself, forcing her to bend down and bring her mouth over to the erect member. Or at least her hand. Or maybe between the two of them they would have stripped her and fondled her at their leisure. She never felt more like a woman than when she was naked in a car, a stud on either side of her, being caressed and holding two erect cocks. But now the only contact was with the sergeant's cold hand exploring her from top to bottom, turning her on, true, but with such mechanical movements that it seemed more routine than enjoyable. I hope he doesn't start grabbing my crotch, she says to herself in agony, because he's going to find the bills. The other cop looks like he thinks this is strange too. He doesn't stop turning toward Estrella and the sergeant as if wondering why they don't get started.
      They finally enter an area where the trees press closely against each other, forming a barrier on each side of the path. The cars parked here and there among the greenery resemble animals at rest, dark and solitary; but through their windows covered with spiderwebs of steam, the occupants, under the protection of night, can be seen coupling. Finally the driver loses patience; he takes his right hand off the steering wheel and buries it in Estrella's cleavage until he gets hold of a breast. She gives a hoarse moan. Now one man is fondling her in front and another one from behind, and her body relaxes, wriggling on the seat of the patrol car, making repeated half-turns to allow them better access. Something racing through her blood compels her to rebel against modesty and fear and renounce passivity. She extends her left hand and boldly wraps the cop's member, now outside his pants, around her fingers, meticulously rubbing it until she feels it grow and harden. The feeling clouds her vision. A multitude of heat-charged needles courses across her skin. Her shyness gone, she finds the sergeant's fly with her other hand. She struggles with the snap for a few seconds, and upon finding that useless, satisfies herself by rubbing the swollen prick through the fabric.
      "The hustler's hot, sergeant," says the cop in a sarcastic tone. "Like she already wants what we're gonna give her."
      "I'm a whore . . ." murmurs Estrella, her eyes shut as she finishes loosening the sergeant's belt.
      "What'd you say?"
      "I'm not a hustler," she sighs. "Call me a whore."
      "Sure, baby, of course. You're the queen of all of them."
      "Look, park over there," the sergeant points.
      The parallel groves change into a kind of deep vegetal cave, crowned by the enormous intertwining boughs. Further on is the river, whose watery sound is a little weak by the time it reaches them. It's the cops' favorite spot for fucking. Estrella's been here; it's where the patrol took her last week. That was a good night: the first time she serviced a whole division of police. Thanks to the headlights she recognizes a tree with a thick, gnarled trunk, with low-hanging branches, on which she supported her body while they penetrated her, until she almost fainted, wrapped up in painful and protracted pleasure. The memory adds more heat to what the policemen's fondlings are arousing in her, to what her own hands are transmitting as she grips the two thick cocks. She moans deeply when one of the sergeant's fingers penetrates her asshole, and her moans increase when the other one begins to tear off her clothes.
      "Get out," orders the sergeant. "Now we're really gonna have fun."
      He violently grabs her hair, since Estrella is already bent over, her lips seeking out the driver's crotch. Half-naked, she goes out into the open air, and only when a blast of cold air brands her skin does she realize that all she has on are her shoes and panties, and she starts to shiver. Her nipples get hard; the cold and excitement are burning them. Before getting out of the car, the cop turns off the headlights, and a thick darkness descends upon them, to the point that their shadows blend in with the trees. The sergeant embraces her from behind, gluing his body to hers and rubbing his member against her buttocks as if sniffing out the path. At the same time, he pinches her nipples, making her cry out. She no longer notices the cold, although she can't stop shivering. She reaches behind her and finds the stiff and greasy wires of the sergeant's brush-cut hair. She pulls at them in order to bring the man closer to her neck. She trembles, first at the touch of his lips and tongue, and then at the teeth immediately sinking into her skin. Through her half-shut eyes, she glimpses a shadowy mass advancing upon her and then curling up at her feet. It's the other cop trying to pull down her panties.
      "I only . . ." she says, but a blow explodes very close to her ear and forces her to shut up.
      Before it can begin to hurt, she receives another blow, and then another. Her cheeks are burning and the cold air sears them like salt on raw flesh. Pain heightens her desire, her urgent need to be possessed, abused, whorifed. Her only wish is that they finish undressing her and open her up and split her in half with that violence of furious macho studs that only policemen have; that they humiliate her and beat her up until they're exhausted while they enjoy her with their pricks until they explode, because that's why she's a whore: to bestow and receive pleasure, to be penetrated and fulfill all the whims and fantasies of the men who pick her up.
      The sergeant turns her around so that he's looking right at her. She still sees only shadows, but she recognizes that bitter, hot breath that was next to her all during the drive. She tries to bring her mouth closer to kiss him, and a shove repels her. While the other one restrains her, the sergeant lowers her panties to her knees. In the open, her childish prick is a worm frightened by the cold. She feels its size diminishing, as if she wanted to hide it within that body it should never have come out of. She decides to ignore it and brings her feet together, while relaxing her knees with undulating movements so that the panties can slide to the ground.
      Completely naked, she bends over, pressing the policeman's body behind hers. With her thighs she brushes the hot glans, and finds it moist, sticky, ready to plunge inside her. Her head is spinning. Her mouth is dry and her legs are weak and shaky. She shuts her eyes tightly, breathes deep, and moves backward in an attempt to focus on the prick, seeking to have it at last, to squeeze it inside her, but an intense glare painfully explodes in her eyes. It takes her a while to understand what's happening, until the flashlight beam moves away from her face, travels down her breasts, lingers a moment on her atrophied member, and lands on the ground, where it lights up the rolled-up panties. Inside them, fastened to the fabric with adhesive tape, a hem of green bills appears.
      "It's for my operation. . ." Estrella stammers in a delayed reaction.
      "Oh shit, don't tell me you're sick?" the driver jeers.
      "Please don't take it. It's for . . ."
      "It was, baby," the sergeant extracts the money and then, with a gesture of disgust, hurls the panties away. "I knew I heard 'sthe little I got.' Not so little, baby. Not so little."
      He puts the bills in the pocket where he wears his badge. Immediately he turns off the flashlight and the glint of his yellowish smile remains suspended in the darkness for a split second. The driver releases her and Estrella falls to the ground. The moisture hidden in the grass prickles her skin. The earth is rough; a few stones are embedded in her behind, hurting her, but she doesn't complain. From there she contemplates the double shadow of the cops, which expands and shrinks as if it were an amorphous two-headed ghost. Although she cannot make out their faces, she is sure that they are also looking at her defeated shadow. They are looking at her and smiling. They are mocking her naïveté, her inability to shut her mouth and hold her tongue, which has always brought her nothing but trouble. Fucking idiot, they're going to take it all. Anger begins to roll in waves through her stomach. For a moment she feels an impulse to get up and react like a man. It would be easy; they'd never expect it. A roundhouse punch in the sergeant's face, right in his goddamned smile, and yank the flashlight out of his hand so that she could crush both their skulls and leave them good and cold among the trees. But it's been so long since she's fought that she probably doesn't know how to do it. Now they've fucked me over good, and that's why they're making fun of me. There they are, their big teeth hanging out, grabbing their erect dicks, just to show me they can. Inside her chest, an attack of weeping starts growing, and she tries to suffocate it by clenching her jaws. And they didn't even come for dollar bills, but for flesh, for a ready piece of ass, for a hole to fill, for a body like mine, willing and able, to relieve the nighttime cold ...
      What was about to be a sob turns into a long, lustful sigh. A tremor knots below her neck, and Estrella focuses on listening to the cops' agitated breathing. In the darkness she can guess at the erection swelling the pants of each. It can't have disappeared, it has to be there, awaiting her caresses, her hands, her mouth, her body. A shudder travels up and down her body and once again she is captive to her need for a man. The sergeant and the driver are snickering. They're celebrating their accomplishment. She can almost see them kneading their pricks, comparing each to the other to see who's got the bigger one, pointing at her with them, as if to announce that it wasn't over, that they were just getting started. That's how she likes men: shameless, abusive, cynical, and horny, always superhorny machos. Then she gets on her knees and stretches her arms out toward them, inviting them to come closer. Her breathing mingles with a barely audible moan. The cops can't see her, but Estrella is offering them her mouth, moist and anxious. Her firm round breasts, complete with a pair of erect nipples pointing directly at their flies. A hand rests on the sergeant's leg. The other finds the bulge distending the driver's pants and she firmly takes it prisoner.
      "Whaddaya say,sergeant?" asks the cop in a very hoarse voice. "Do we stick it in her?"
      "We'd better go."
      "No," pleads Estrella. "Take the money if you want, but ... you can't leave me like this! Why did you bring me here then? Don't go . . ."
      "How do you like that, partner?" the sergeant says. "These hustlers can't get enough."
      "We oughta lock him up for public lewdness."
      "No, it's better to just leave him here. He's had enough. And we'll go find us some real women. My treat. Anyway, I'm ready for some of that action."
       Still on her knees, Estrella watches the amorphous shadow split apart. Then she hears the door to the driver's seat close. Before getting in the patrol car, the sergeant deals her a hard kick in the stomach, doubling her up and leaving her sprawled on the ground. Almost simultaneously, the car lights go on and she sees the luminous pool as if it were a result of the blow. She is winded and begins to cough, spitting up phlegm and curses.
      When the lights of the patrol car vanish as it leaves the grove, the freezing night air on her bare skin gradually numbs the pain in her stomach and all the womanly desires that had set her body on fire.

© Eduardo Antonio Parra
Translation: Christopher Winks

This electronic version of "Just Don’t Take the Little I Got" appears in The Barcelona Review with kind permission of the publisher and author. It appears in the author’s collection No Man’s Land, published by City Lights Books, San Francisco, 2004.

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author bio
Eduardo Antonio Parra (León, Guanajuato, 1965) is the author of two collections of stories, Los límites de la noche and Tierra de nadie. His stories have received numerous national prizes, including Mexico’s National Prize for the Short Story. They have been published, along with his essays, in various journals and magazines in Mexico. No Man’s Land (Tierra de nadie) is his first publication in English. "Just Don’t Take the Little I Got" is taken from the collection, published by City Lights Books.


issue 45: November - December 2004

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