What is it about Latin men that make my blood boil? Ever since I was a child, not too long ago, I can remember the gardener on "The Flying Nun", "Chico and the Man" and who could forget Tony Orlando and Juan Valdez? In rural America, I didn't live in a cultural melting pot; we had one Mexican family that lived in town. True, I kept an eye on them, even though they were much younger than me.

As I got older and branched out into the world this burning desire grew stronger. It wasn't until I landed in Chicago that I had my first taste of Pinga! I met a very attractive young man at a club, and we seemed to hit it off. I will never forget my initial sexually motivated question. I asked him if he had foreskin, and told him I had never seen it before. Well, of course I had seen foreskin before, I just wanted to get into his pants. I was delighted with his response. We finished our cocktails and grabbed a cab. Once we got to my apartment, there was no hesitation on his part to show me his foreskin. In fact he was so pleased with his fleshy appendage; he started to swell with pride.

The lights were dim and the music was soft, he was an animal. This is what Latin love was all about! He was aggressive, yet tender. Every move was deliberate and sensual.
Anyway, we started seeing each other on a regular basis. I learned about his traditions and he learned about mine. He was very deeply rooted in his family. We had that in common, but that was not enough to build a real relationship on. We continued to see each other for about six months.

My craving was still strong as I searched out more Latin men to quench the fire that burned inside me. I moved to the far north side, and BINGO! I was in the thick of it.

I remember coming home from the club one night, as I was getting out of my cab, I noticed a young man. His brown skin glowed from the street lights. As I watched him walking toward me, he smiled. His smile lit up the neighborhood. What a piece of work he was. As he approached I smiled back at him and said hello. He didn't speak any English, and I only knew enough Spanish to get me beat up or laid. As it turns out I got lucky, and was able to speak the international language!

I didn't want to wake up my roommate, so we went into the stairwell between the buildings. He sat on the steps and I sat next to him. By this time I was experienced in the art of Latin male seduction, but this boy was ready to get it on. He reached up and unscrewed the light bulb. As he reached up, I looked at him and he was I'm hoping at least 18 years old. His shirt exposed his navel and a small trail of hair leading to his already unbuttoned 501's. I saw a huge lump in his pants, but I thought it was just the shadows dancing from the light as it moved while he was unscrewing. This kid was gifted! He had the thickest, longest pinga, with enough foreskin that I could have pulled it over my head, and believe me I tried. What a romp I had with him.

Now I am happily married to a Caucasian man with no foreskin, but my memories of Latin lust are enough to keep me satisfied, although I still get a little misty eyed every time I see a Folgers Coffee commercial.