by jillian

Antonio! Come here, please. Sit with me here for a few minutes and talk, eh? Yes? Good! Thank you. I want to contribute to the Kiss Page, but I just don't know which one of you to choose. You know... which one of the characters you have played. Imagining the kiss is easy, but to choose a character is a much different matter. ::: sigh ::: The choices are all so wonderful. And do I want the story to be shameless romanticism or raw sex? Do I want to seduce or be seduced?

-- Well, you know you really want it all. You want to have it all and have it be all.

You¹re right. ::: sigh ::: ...you are SO beautiful.

-- So just choose and write. You can always write more if you want.

Sure. Easy for you to say. Do you have any idea how many beautiful words have been written in your honor? How much praise has been directed your way by so many admiring women?

Okay! So I¹m choosing, I¹m choosing. Let¹s see, the first time I saw you, you were Armand. Alluring. Mysterious. Deadly. Weird as hell. I just had to see you again. Next you were Miguel Bain. Sexy. Alluring. Deadly again. Playing second to Stallone? I think NOT. I had to see more. You were Che. From Miguel to Che. That was quite a switch. That is when I discovered the depth of your magic, and knew I was in serious trouble. I was dying to see Desperado, so next you were El Mariachi. I was stunned. Totally seduced. There you were. Deadly again. Sexy again. Mysterious again. Weird as hell again. And oh soooo exotic. I¹ve been completely under your spell ever since. There is no escape. Are you aware that you can do no wrong? That you are a god?

-- No. But thank you. Hey, are you still with me? You seem to be off someplace else.

Oh. Sorry. You see, this is what happens. So... next you were Francisco, then Tony, then Ricky, then Art and Bart. I even watched all of Miami Rhapsody. I started learning Spanish and went to Andalusia. Such an intoxicating place. And there was the ALW gala. Only the fuel of utter infatuation... I was there, you know. And I sat through the whoooole thing.

-- You were there?

Yes. I was a nervous wreck. It was very personal, even though you had not a clue of my presence or that I even exist. That rush I felt when you turned and raised your gorgeous eyes is something I¹ll never forget.

-- Thank you.

Oh yes. And you were Che (but you were really Antonio) and you were the Phantom (but you were really Antonio), and then at the end you were just (JUST!) you. How can I possibly choose a character? I love your Spanish films. And I even endured the pain of Philadelphia just for you. And your Alejandro is so wonderful. But maybe, since you first seduced me so completely in Desperado my kiss should be with El Mariachi. No, no... I know! The answer is to combine characters. Yes... the mystique of El Mariachi, the wildness of Miguel Bain, the seductive power of Tony, Che¹s lust for life, the charm of Art and Bart, the vulnerability of Nestor, the wackiness of Ricky... I think I¹ll go for romantic...

-- Enough! I get it!

-- Let¹s play......................

And there he is, and I am excited just to look at him. He has Miguel¹s wild curls. He¹s wearing clothes that may have come from Bart, I think. European casual, accidentally to die for. It¹s been a long, good day. Outside is darkness punctuated by the occasional flash of lights from a village. We have the compartment to ourselves. The curtains are drawn.

There¹s a bottle of wine on the unstable little table that pulls up from under the window. Only a small amount of the beautiful red of the wine is visible in the bottle. It¹s a fast, quiet train. I hear only the hum of the rails and the occasional click-click of a crossing.

Yes, excited just to look at him. How could I be so fortunate? For some reason this gorgeous, graceful, gracious creature has decided to give himself, for today at least, to me. He is completely relaxed now, leaning into the corner of the train¹s bench sea , long legs stretched across the faded upholstery. His eyes are closed, unruly strands of hair brush his cheek. I am curled comfortably into the corner on the seat across from him, but longing to be closer. My eyes will not close. I cannot miss a moment. I must admire him. I am looking at his hands, certain they possess a gentle touch. When my eyes meander back to his face, I find him watching me. He is a little bit amused and very interested.

I am determined not to let my eyes fall. I remember the lower lip smile from Janessa¹s School of Unabashed Returned Glances. Success. My eyes stay with his just long enough to let him know I approve. In a millisecond I count the buttons of his shirt and raise my lashes to find his eyes again. He knows I am enjoying this. My cheeks redden ever so slightly. I cannot help it. He extends a hand and invites me without saying a word. I hesitate, but only because I am consumed by his presence. Where earlier I have seen playfulness, or power, or annoyance or amusement, I now see sensuality. His eyes are soft and beckoning, his mouth so beautiful that I think I must touch it very soon. My admiration must be coming across as fear. He collects himself, sits leaning toward me, offers his hand again. I think he wants to tell me he won¹t bite (but, oh, please do, I think as I take his hand).

I allow him to arrange us in this awkward space. My back is against his chest. He toys with my hair. We share the last of the wine and talk about it¹s worthiness as compared to the earthy reds from Spain and Italy. Our conversation is a peculiar mix of Spanish and English, breaking to English when I don¹t understand or can¹t think of the right words. Sometimes I pretend to understand just because I want to hear him speak. It¹s obvious he knows, and he plays along. He is so close that when he talks I tingle from the delight of his voice and his breath. I wonder if he feels it. His arms are about me. I have surrendered to this exciting safe place. My hands have found his and are exploring the shape of his fingers and palm. I feel him nuzzle my hair. He likes it. My neck is becoming more and more available. But I am only being teased, I think. Eventually there is no more talk. There is nothing. I turn toward him, my move a little too big for our awkward space. We laugh a little because I find myself with nowhere to go except back to the other side of the compartment... or astride his lap. A nice choice. As I am about to speak his fingers caress my mouth and, yes, it is a gentle touch. I capture one finger with my lips and he lets me play. I feel his mouth on my neck at last. His fingers move away from my lips, over my cheekbone and down my neck, stopping to follow the edge of my blouse and play with the first button that he finds still fastened. But he doesn¹t open it. His hands move to my back and are firm as his lips and tongue travel lovingly up the side of my neck and down the line of my jaw. I have the fleeting thought that my hands may become irrecoverably tangled in his hair. Then there is the gentle pressure of his teeth against my skin. He does bite! I must find his mouth with mine. When I do, my reward is the same ever so brief, ever so gentle pressure of his teeth upon my lower lip (the one that has learned to smile by itself). The little bite is followed by a kiss of urgency and passion and depth, and no subtlety. I am swept away... my response no more subtle than his... hoping the station is very, very far...

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