I was deep into the 3rd chapter of the classic Tom Robbins book, "Still life
with Woodpecker." Chris Issak's "Solitary Man" was blaring form the cheap
Mexican CD player in my Puerto Vallarta condo. I was punch drunk from not
enough sleep. Up all night with visions of him sticking his finger in the
mouth of his other lover while biting the back of her neck, like he had done
to me the night before. It was then that I realized just exactly why I
couldn't get him out of my mind. He's an outlaw. Not your ordinary, running
from the law out law, rather an out law from EI Norte, The United States. He
's here in P. V. for the same reason too many of the Gringos are. They can't
make life work in the States. It's one more thing Anglos hide from the
Mexican people, it's another big secret.

I have been living in the Mexican Rivera for about six months now. 'Escaped
the hard labor of another bad marriage to the same man. I had gone on
vacation and never looked back, many here have done the same. Puerto
Vallarta is truly paradise. Romance and magic hang in the air. Thick as fog,
it hovers over the sparkling azure waters of the Bay of Banderas, where
centuries ago pirates laid in wait for their fellow Spaniard's ships that
were laden with silver and gold to take back to their Queen. Where donkey
hoofs still click upon the cobblestone streets and roosters can be heard
heralding a new day just as it was a hundred years ago. Though Puerto
Vallarta is a modern town, jettisoned into the 20th century by a Hollywood
scandal. Burton and Taylor inhaled the magical mist at the small village of
Mismaloya while the notorious imbiber filmed "Night of the Iguana" and set
the stage for romantic adventures for decades to come. Puerto Vallarta is
now carrying on that tradition with a town full of nightlife that lasts till
dawn, where anything is possible.

I met him in a jazz club; he sat down next to me at the bar where I was
hanging with my new friends. He looks like an outlaw, dangerous and sexy.
Like he belongs on a bar stool drinking straight rum and reading some clever
book. He has a long blond ponytail. I've never been partial to blondes
though I have to admit there has been one or two of them wander through the
ruins of my love life. But, ponytails I am partial to. Something about them
that make my freckles fry, my hair turn redder, my heart stop beating, my
thighs twitch, my . well you get the picture. There are just so many ways to
get all tangled up in them. He has a beard too. Red. Now he's two for two.
This is the reason I have not been able to have a single thought free of him
for five months. Cinco meses. I'm in love with a desperado, a felon from
nothing. The only thing he is guilty of is not loving me back. He knows I
want him. Or a least he knows I think I want him. I told him my grandmother
once told me to be careful about what you want; you just might get it. This
could not be truer about him. What would I do with him if had him? Put him m
my condo cage and watch him. Let him ravage me with his special brand of
pushing the envelope sex. Maybe, but I don't have to cage him for that. I
don't want him around all the time just when I want him, which is all the
time. He wouldn't be the fugitive I so enjoy if he were mine.

It's nearly 8:00 PM and I haven't heard from him. He said I'd see him
tonight or tomorrow night. Looks like it's going to be tomorrow night. Which
is okay since my horoscope says it will be a better day for romance than
today. I'm a Cancer and he is a Gemini. An online astrologer said that it
was a bad coupling, a downhill ride. He could show up at any time, though,
he has a key. The key to my, what does Mr. Robbins call it" peach flesh." No
one else has unlocked that puppy the way this criminal has since my ex
husband ran off with another redhead four months after we were remarried. I
was upset yesterday because he stopped by for 45 minutos and had to leave.
'Told some story about a paper he had to write for an appointment this
morning. Said he'd be up all night, probably was, fingering someone else's
keyboard. Anyway I wasn't happy about being tortured or actually not being
tortured. I was unusually non-compliant. So he'll probably make it up to me.
Manana.

The problem with being obsessed with somebody is that you're never sure what
to do next. Take tonight; obviously calling him now will do no good; he's
not home. He's not supposed to be home. He's supposed to be here or at least
calling here to tell me he's coming here tonight or tomorrow night. And if
do call him and he is home then he'll have to explain why he isn't here or
at the least why he hasn't called here. No better to wait and decide whether
to call him in the morning. Which of course I will after I tell my self-a
hundred times before nine a.m. that I wont. Being in love with someone that
you don't want to love is really difficult. It's like putting on wet jeans
after you get out of the shower. You know they fit it you could just get
them on right. There is just plain nothing you can do about it. Like a
hangover, it has to run its course. The thing that I'm afraid of is that
this one could run a long time. All my feckless could merge into one big
melanoma in this Mexican sun before I get this gorgeous gringo out from
under my skin.

The other night he called me and invited me to his new apartment. I think he
had been living in between, my place, her place and some guy name Mikes, for
the last couple of months, though I'm not positive. But he did keep his
things here for a long time after I got home from my visit to the States. He
had been condo sitting for me. So I gladly threw on some girl clothes and
met him at the bar I first met him at, which was a night of tequila and its
offspring, lust. We drank straight rum over ice and talked about his new
business ventures. He had the current novel he was reading at his side. We
didn't stay long. We could drink alone at his place, which was right around
the corner. His apartment was cozy and nicer than I thought it would be.
This is where I told him the bit of "gramma wisdom." We had a talk about my
wants, and his not wanting. He told me about his cat loving him
unconditionally. I fear the feline and I feel the same way. We had an
unbelievable night together, the kind your mother probably didn't have and
you never want your daughter to have. I've thought about the events of this
night over and over again. We have reached the next level in the game of
sex. But what else is it that keeps me caught in his web I have no idea. Can
one love another without knowing why? Can one love enough for two? Can this
be true love? I doubt it.

It's now twenty minutos to nine. The phone is still - still. It's September,
It's a Monday night I'm probably a football widow. I can live with that. Now
the Allman Brothers are singing "Tie Me to the Whipping Post." Greg, I can
feel the rope burns of love, Honey. My missing lover probably knows Gregg.
He told me he knew Taj Mahal, David Byrne, Crosby, Stills and Young, Joni
Mitchell. He's gone 300 some odd miles per hour on the salt flats, dropped
out of MIT after three and three quarter years. Been a millionaire, Haarahs
is displaying two or three of his cars, owns three boats, has had his
photographs published in Harper's, drove some hundred thousand dollar Benz
down the autobahn to a movie set. This guy has done it all or a real
storyteller. I find it rather fascinating. I think he should write this
bullshit down. Sell it instead of tell it. I guess they are just little
embellishments of life on the run.

My girl pal thinks I should find another ponytail. She doesn't approve of
this one. As a matter of fact she has another one picked out for me. But she
isn't sure yet if she wants to keep this one for herself. I met him this
morning. Very sexy in that construction site framer kind of way. Tempting
very tempting, if I weren't so messed up over the other one.

Its 10:00 PM now, I've drunk at least three iced coffees so sleep is NOT
going to happen. Bonnie Raitt is keeping me company, singing songs of her
particular type of ponytail problems. Seems hers and mine are the same. But
then she is another redhead, we stick together us redheads even if we don't
know each other. She's singing about some man, who doesn't deserve her, how
she is going to get rid of him. Yeah right, as soon as he comes through the
damn door everything will be fine and she'll be singing one about how much
she

loves him. If there is one thing I know, I know the workings inside the head
of a red head. It's the blonde pony tailed ones that are a complete mystery
to me. At times he had me questioning my self-value. You know the "what's
wrong with me he doesn't love me" stuff. I'm over it. It's not me. It's not
the ten pounds I've been trying to loose since the ex's new redhead moved
her perfume into my bathroom. It's him. It's his life. He likes it the way
it is. Good. I like mine the way it is too. I really like it when he visits
it. I like to listen to his stories; I like his laugh, his deep masculine
voice, the things he whispers in my ear when he has me pinned to the
mattress and his big as all outdoors independence. Maybe that's what I
admire the most about him, his fierce independence. Maybe subconsciously I'm
hoping some of it will rub off on me. Maybe I just simply like him. Though
simplicity is not my strong suite. Things have to be complicated for me to
understand them. I have to take thing apart and inspect them. I came from a
family that didn't appreciate ponytails. Alcohol, that was appreciated and
tolerated. The way I tolerate it when he doesn't call when he says he will.

Outlaws don't use phones as much as the rest of us. Perhaps he will just
show up tomorrow night. Put his key in the keyhole and resuscitate me. I'll
take one look at that rugged, way too handsome face and start breathing
again. He'll show me how to use this computer better and I'll make him
dinner. Then we will sit around and drink wine or rum or both. Watch a
little American TV, a big deal here -cable from the States. He will tell me
what he's been up to and I will show him the article I wrote for the local
rag. Then he will take me to bed and take my breath away.

We never go out. I have no idea why and I don't really care. I guess a movie
would be nice. But then that's two hours we could have all to ourselves. I
wonder if that is the way he sees it. Or is it that he doesn't want the
other one to see us together. She doesn't know about me. I don't care about
her. It works. I tolerate that too, I am very tolerant. I learned that at
living with my parents. I even tolerated being the other women for most of
20 years to someone who didn't have a ponytail. Though he did have long
blond hair when I met him. He liked having his cake and eating it too.
Problem is this cake left town and now he is left with an empty plate. There
could be a lesson there for outlaws too.

I guess I could go for a swim. Burn off some of this caffeine and confusion.
He and I went for a swim last week. We were breaking the rules swimming
after hours. Outlaws break rules all the time, then say, "give me a break, I
'm doing the best I can. I'm giving you all I can." That's what my felon
tells me anyway and I believe him, after all he has always comes back. A
little more larceny will probably kill me.

What really scares me is I believe this is the way my mother loved my
father. I didn't realize it until lately when I was rehashing my feelings
for this man for the zillionth time. Mom loved dad in spite of himself or
because of himself. Either way she loved him. Could this be the lesson I am
to learn. To understand how my mother loved my father. For if ever there was
a lawbreaker, reprobate, miscreant, shitheel it is my father. Some of her
last words she ever spoke were "where is my husband?" I was amazed. She had
told me for years how much she hated him. But in the final analysis of her
life she loved him, proving to me there is indeed a thin line between love
and hate.

Here's another little tidbit. I don't want to have sex with anyone else. It'
s not so much the profoundly wicked sex we share. It's that I don't want to
split my karma anymore. I feel if l channel it in only one direction maybe
magic will happen. Maybe not, it's an experiment. If it works on outlaws
maybe it will work on mortals too. Not that I'm interested in mere mortals.
My weakness as you know is for the Samson type. Samson was an outlaw of
Biblical proportion. Janis Joplin knew about outlaws she's singing about one
now, some fugitive that she would gladly give an other little piece of her
heart to if he would just show up for the taking. Shit! It can't be. Mom,
Janis, Bonnie and me all in love with outlaws. I'm sure Mr. Robbins would
have a field day with that.