Romantic Monday – Ode To Erik Estrada
As a kid growing up I had lots of crushes on boys and sometimes men, most of them actors on television. One of the earliest crushes I had was on a certain Latin actor named Erik Estrada, better known as Officer Francis “Ponch” Poncherello on a little show called CHiPs.
Anyway, what I remember most about that time were my prepubescent fantasies of a chance romantic encounter with Senor Estrada. Seeing that he is Puerto Rican, I had always imagined learning to speak Spanish in order to impress him when we finally met. I envisioned a mall scenario where my bilingual ability would impress him enough to set me apart from all the other adoring fans. Enough for him to invite me into his van (Note to all you youngsters out there- all sexy guys in the 80’s had vans. And mustaches, but that’s another blog post). So for my weekly offering to Romantic Monday I bring you:
AN ODE TO ERIK ESTRADA
I stand in a line that stretches the length of the mall, sipping my Orange Julius, waiting patiently for the Latin object of my preteen desire to sign my copy of Dynamite Magazine. I size up the competition standing between me and my love while I wait. I count ten blonde heads in all.
They must have known someone to get in line in front of me, I tell myself in consolation. I’ve been here since five a.m. goddamn it. No one loves Erik Estrada more than I do.
I do little to hide my glee as I watch girl after eager girl dismissed with an autograph but without a second glance. Little by little I inch closer to the man who I am convinced will someday make me his bride. Anticipating a kiss, I pop a stick of Zebra Stripe gum into my mouth as I wait patiently for him to notice me.
Finally I reach him- sitting behind a table, his glorious dark hair feathered just so. My heart races as I pass him my magazine, intentionally brushing my hand against his as I do. He doesn’t look up as I ask for his autograph, and I can tell he thinks I am just another groupie only interested in the celebrity that surrounds him.
Oh Erik, my love, I am determined to prove you wrong!
He heaves a heavy sigh as he scribbles his name and without looking up says, “Is this it?”
He slowly raises his eyes to mine. We stare at each other for what seems like forever…the two of us locked in a gaze of pure intimacy.
“You speak Spanish?” he finally asks, clearly impressed with my dedication to learning all that I can about him.
I answer clearly. “Si.”
In an instant he’s up and around the table. He grabs my hand and pulls me quickly through the crowd of jealous teenage rejects to the exit doors that empty into the alley behind the mall. There awaits a van, his van, the site of my soon-to-be epic deflowering.
He slides the door open and hops in, reaching a hand out to pull me inside. Once I’m in he slides the door closed and tells me to make myself comfortable. I lay down on a purple silk bed built into the rear of the van while he twists the cap off a wine cooler and then pushes play on a cassette tape. David Bowie’s China Girl pours out of the speakers as he hands me my Bartles & James and says, “I want you to be my only Chica…”
My voice trembles as I say, “Si.”
He takes the drink from my hand and sets it down before he pulls me in close to him. The intoxicating scent of Aqua Velva mingled with Latin machismo emanates from his skin leaving me dizzy and breathless. He breathes in deep my own scent of Jean Nate and teenage lust as his hands move slowly to my back, working their way under my shirt. My skin is soft to him and smells “delicious.” He asks if he can taste me.
My breasts heave as I say, “Si.”
Sliding his hands up my body, he brings them to my face and then leans in to place sweet, gentle kisses at the corners of my lips, his tongue working its way into my mouth, tasting me as promised. His kiss is passionate and deep and makes me feel like the woman I am desperate to be. He asks if I want more.
Our breath mingles as I pant, “Si.”
I feel the beat of his heart racing with mine and the intensity of his desire through the denim of his Jordache for Men. My hand finds its way to his manhood straining against his jeans. I let my hand linger, teasing him. He begs me to set him free.
I whisper, “Si.”
I let loose the top button just as strong hands stop me, holding me in place. My beautiful Latin lover stares down at me with dark brown eyes and whispers, “You’re eighteen, right?”
I smile as I lie.
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