For the first few days, their Mexican vacation had been so much fun. Behind the wheel of the Oldsmobile, Gene had loosened up, even singing along with the radio, "Que sera, sera," until they lost the signal.
The mistake, Angie kept telling him, was pushing south on these bone-jarring roads. Gene wanted to find that little fishing village, Puerto Juarez. On first glance, as Angie had admitted, the harbor was pretty enough. Turquoise waves lapped the powdery white sand. Ancient fishing boats bobbed in front of a handful of quaintly dilapidated shacks. This coast was really a great place for a resort town. Then Angie realized those shacks were the town.
That night in the restaurant, which was also the general store, post office and telephone exchange, Gene had been droning on about deep sea fishing and tequila. Well, Angie didn't mind hearing about tequila as long as she could also drink it. That was mainly what the few customers were doing anyway. The place was hardly more than a cantina, and Angie had drawn some funny looks _ not those kind of looks, the kind that said women should not be allowed inside.
But Gene's money was good, and there she was, bored half to sleep, when that guy at the corner table heard her husband say something about football and perked up. Boys and their obsessions; the guy _ Tony was his name _ was an American, and he was dutifully impressed to meet Gene Dickinson. Thank God, Tony could talk about something other than sports. It turned out he was a real Harvard professor, here studying the "ethnography" of the area. Funny word, it was kind of the anthropology, the history and the culture and the people all rolled into one, but mainly he seemed to care about religious practices.
It wasn't as dry a subject as it sounded, especially when Professor Russo bought another bottle of tequila. He even added some of his special mushrooms to Angie's caldo de mariscos. That was right about the time the lights died along with the generator, but everything tasted even better by candlelight.
"I'll be guide your guide to Chich'en Itza," Tony promised, and Angie's smile glowed through the dark. After all, she probably wouldn't get much information from Gene, who kept referring to the place as Chicken Itsa. When Angie finally stood up, the entire room began pinwheeling, and it took her a few moments to regain her bearings. Once back in the room, she dove for the bed. But her sleep was not sound. Angie distinctly remembered, sometime in the middle of the night, that the bathroom was lit up like a carnival midway. What the_ she thought, and that was the last thing she remembered.
By now, everyone knows what happened next.
True enough, Angie has been back to Hollywood, home in Burbank, even at her folks' place in Santa Barbara. A good thing, since UA needed her back to reshoot a scene with Jim Arness on "Gun the Man Down," and she couldn't afford to blow the opportunity.
But many days are like this one, when she awakes to chirping birds, the sweet smoke of a wood fire, perhaps the tang of sliced naranjas agrias. And of course, her view through the open window across the great plaza to the pyramid of Kukulkan, with workmen swarming ever closer to the heavens. It is, as far as Angie can determine, Yax, the Month of the Green Storm. That's lucky, far off from the end of the year, when bad things are known to happen.
At least, that's what Tony Russo told her, the day he suddenly stumbled through the curtain and into her quarters, looking like he'd just come out of the jungle: clothes ragged, eyes red, five days of stubble on his face.
"You, Angie," he said, pointing a bony finger at her, "you've got to get out of here. We all do."
"Well, Professor," she snapped, "you should have considered that before you brought us here. I keep thinking I'm home, but then I'm back here again. And why is that? Every time I ask myself, I think of you."
"Really?" he stopped short. "I'm flattered."
"Not that way," Angie said. "I mean I blame you."
"Listen, there'll be plenty of time for recriminations later, at least I hope so, but the important thing is that it's ten-fifty," he said.
"Oh, I don't think it's that late, look at the sundial out front."
"Not the time, the year," Russo insisted, "As far as I can determine, it's about 1050 A.D. They're working on the sanctuary at the top of the pyramid. And when they finish...," he blanched.
Angie rolled her eyes, "Tell me what happens, oh great man of mystery."
"There will be a great festival," he said, trembling.
"Good, a party," Angie said. "If they ever expect to attract tourists, this place needs to have a real blast."
"No, no, you don't understand Mayan festivals," Tony said, shaking his head vigorously enough to sprain his neck. "Heads will roll. Why do you think your catfight contest came here with us?"
So as Angie finds herself in a headlock, trying to get a grip on that black-haired girl's left thigh _ you know, the one who does the naughty pictures _ she has much to consider. Her hands slides along the fair flesh, feeling the bands of muscle underneath, sartorius, gracilis, for some reason she remembered the names from the diagram in that health textbook. What the books don't tell you is that in tropical heat, even thighs as smooth and white as Bettie Page's get moist fast. After a few minutes, rivulets start to stream down them. Panting and grunting, Angie realizes Bettie's pussy is beyond wet. Her own head is rubbing against this feminine jungle through Bettie's thin shift. Lingerie seems unheard of here, and in this heat, who needs it except for that time of the month? Angie can feel every bit of hair, wet plastered over Bettie's well-defined labia. For a moment, Angie has the odd impression that her left ear is what all this pushing and pulling is about. It's rubbing against Bettie's labia now as though trying for the way in. Bettie leans closer _ possibly, she is concerned that Angie will power out of the grip. Again, Bettie's thigh slips tantalizingly away as she flexes for a better stance. Panting and grunting, Angie gets the idea to go with the downward pressure. Angie goes limp, and as she drops and Bettie falls forward, she aims for her opponent's ankles.
The action isn't pleasant as her neck is wrenched and her forehead and right cheek scratched by Bettie's nails or knuckles. But Angie comes up with both hands around Bettie's left ankle, holding on with all she's got as the pin-up girl thrashes. Angie gives a twist and hears a satisfying wail, but she can't hold on for long. As the blonde lets go, Bettie begins to scramble up. But her shapely ass rises first and Angie welcomes it with a solid kick, sending Bettie nose first into the thin soil. Angie springs onto Bettie's back, plunging her fingers into the model's raven hair and yanking it hard. Again, she wails, but she also kicks out and Angie loses her grip. The two women roll away, and flecks of dirt and bits of leaves stick to them as they rise. As they did at the start, the two antagonists eye each other warily and circle. Bettie is limping slightly, but this time it's unmistakable: there's a certain come hither glint in those surprisingly blue eyes. And it dawns on Angie that she's been enjoying this, too. Of course, she might enjoy a bottle of tequila and Frank Sinatra more, but under the circumstances...
