[AWand]

Hello to all the very caring and compassionate people on this site. My name is Armando Wandatista and I am in crisis. I don't know if this is the right section to post this, but I wasn't sure where as my story doesn't seem to fit one general category. I hope just for some advice and friendly words, if anyone has any for me.

My story begins in Los Angeles, where I was vacationing for New Years. Upon arriving to my hotel (the Hyatt on Sunset Boulevard), I was informed by the desk clerk that the place to be on New Years was Skybar, a happening scene where the big names go to play. As geographic good fortune would have it, Skybar was right across the street from the Hyatt in the posh Mondrian Hotel. I was thankful for the information; I had no idea where I was going to spend New Years and the Hyatt, I was told, was being rented out independently by two parties--a large group of Armenian nationals and a locally well known lesbian club called LIPS (Lesbian's Implementing Purposeful Sexuality). For me, this bizarre combination, although one had nothing to do with the other, made the bar at the Hyatt a rather unappealing option. So, Skybar it was.

I spent the first three days in LA tooling around to the local sites. You know, all the touristy hotspots--Universal Studios, Howard Hughes's Spruce Goose, the Getty museum, Venice Beach (where I bought myself a coconut vase and a corral necklace), and East L.A.. East L.A was interesting. Some guy who called himself Little Hombre accused me of staring at him "with crooked eyes", pointed at me with a very large blade, and told his friends, "I'm going to cut out Esse Vato's heart and feed it to my Chihuahua, Homes." I should have seen that as an omen and just left LA right then and there. But I'd been planning this vacation for nearly a year, and I wasn't about to let this little oversight on the part of our lackadaisical border patrol ruin my plans.

On New Years Eve I gussied myself up good--Drakar, Kenny Coles, Versaci leather. I was pretty fly. When I exited the elevator into the lobby, I noticed a procession of partying Armenians filing out of limos into the hotel, half of them with expensive bottles of champagne in tow. A much quieter and well behaved bunch, the lesbians were assembled on the opposite end of the lobby, a majority of them firing disapproving glances at the rowdy dark-skinned foreigners, who were all wealth, flash, and bravado. I couldn't really blame the lesbians for finding the Armenians inappropriate. They were.

Steaming for the revolving front doors, I noticed one girl standing amidst the lesbians whose gaze was fixed on yours truly. She was simply stunning. A girl of length, both legs and torso, and an olive complexion framed perfectly by a cascading fall of straight black hair. And the eyes, wow--spectral green like that Afghani chick from that famous National Geographic photograph. In those eyes I saw something, something restless and frightened, something urgent. She just kept starting at me, no deviation, no drifting. I mean, I guess I'm a reasonably good-looking man. I'm 32, 6'3, 225 lbs, well muscled, dark brown hair, and steel grey eyes. I also should admit, if I'm being completely honest, which on a site like this I think it's important you are, that I had a penile augmentation procedure last April. Every women I know and have been with was shocked. They were all like, "Armando, what were you thinking? You had so much already." But I didn't care. I just wanted more. I wanted to slip on my leather Versaci pants and have there be no mistaking what so glaringly inflated them. I wonder now, in retrospect, if those beautiful eyes noticed that as much as whatever else about me is attractive to some women. Or maybe it had nothing to do with any of that. Maybe I was just a way out.

As I swooped through the exit, I looked over my shoulder and saw her eyes following me across the street and into the Mondrian. I thought about her through my first drink, how beautiful and surrounded by mystery she was. Was she one of the lesbians, because she looked Armenian? Was she with the Armenians and had somehow met one of the lesbians? Or, by some uncanny coincidence, was she actually an Armenian lesbian? I didn't know, and by the end of my third drink, I didn't care. Skybar was a world unto itself. Aside from the preponderance of unimaginably gorgeous women, there were luminaries mixed in with the crowd. At one point, static electricity found a clump of long brown hair pasted to my ear. As I turned to see who it belonged to, the hair wrapped around one of my silver hoop earrings and tangled in the clasp. The owner shrieked and pulled, which caused me to shriek and pull back. I turned to face my adversary in this impromptu tug-o-war and found myself melting into the blue wading pool eyes of one Denise Richards. The contorted anger in her face settled to an embarrassed smile. That relaxed me; it's tough to bring your A game when you stumble on a hot celebrity like that.

"Sorry," she said. "Long hair can be a pain."

"It was a pain worth having for me," I responded. She glimmered another, more restrained simper, nodded once, and walked away. I had hoped for more conversation, but there was Martin Sheen's deviant offspring in the corner, in a pocket of undisturbed darkness, waiting for his little squirrel. Damn. It would have been something for the ages if I could have somehow . . . I was dreaming.

I ordered another Grey Goose on the rocks, raised it toward my lips, and surveyed the room. There had to be someone here with whom I could forge a meaningful connection, someone who wouldn't mind my kiss once the clock rounded midnight. Before the glass made it to my mouth, it slid from my suddenly sweat-lubricated palm and crashed to the floor. There she was, across the bar, in all of her room-paralyzing splendor, and she was again staring right at me. My heart began surging against my sternum as her heels clicked down the stairs and her face aimed the rest of her body in my direction. I gave a quick check over my shoulder to make sure there was no one behind me who might be commanding those dangerously mesmerizing eyes. It was only me. I took a long, deep breath as she canceled the distance between us. She stopped inches from my face; for a second, I thought she was going to kiss me.

"Will you help me?" was her first words. She had a thick, Arabic-like accent that I assumed was Armenian.

"Help you?"

"Help me. You have kind face and I have no one to trust."

"I don't understand. Help you with what?"

"Please, if you make me explain, it will be too late. Come with me? I do not know you or the person you are, but I cannot go alone. You must pretend to be married to me. Will you go?" I thought about it, how absolutely insane her request of me was. I didn't know who she was, she didn't know who I was, and I had no clue where it was we would be going that I'd have to masquerade as her husband. Sometimes that we have nothing else better in our lives leads us to make impulsive and ill-advised decisions. I don't know exactly what it was, her beauty or her terror, that made my decision for me, but something inside simply would not allow the words "no" to be spoken.

"Your name . . . Can I at least know your name?"

"I am Sirvart. But I am called Sirri. My name means Love Rose in your language. Who are you?"

"I'm Armando."

"A name of strength." She peered behind her, then returned her eyes. "We must go now. They cannot see me with you. We have only minutes before they discover I'm gone. Please . . . " I didn't go to L.A. looking for trouble, but sometimes trouble just finds you. My better judgment ordered me to point my Castillian *** in the opposite direction and not look back. But what man listens to better judgment when a beautiful woman is practically begging you to be her hero. I should have listened to that better judgment instead of listening to little Armando.

Taking Sirri by the hand, I led her to an "Exit" sign on the back wall. The door exited into a side alley. Her eyes were intent on darting over her shoulder, as though she thought someone was following us. I saw no one, but something told me I'd better trust her instinct. If we were being followed, who could it be, and why? We traced a shadowed line behind the buildings on Sunset until we reached LaCienega. I hailed us a cab there, into which she practically leapt.
"Where do I tell the driver we're going?" I said.

She paused, her face sagging off her high cheek bones. "To the airport," she said in a voice laced with uncertainty.

"The airport!? Sirri, I can't. . . "

She placed a hand over my lips and "shooshed" an ending to my protest. "Please, you will pay for nothing. All I ask in return is your help, and your trust."

I shook my head and tossed my palms face up, but offered no more resistance. I had no reason to trust a stranger, but in her eyes lurked a deep and lingering flight from something or someone that I was certain meant her harm. Logic said that her intention was not likely to harm someone else when she herself appeared to be running from harm. I demanded of myself to know more before I indulged the insanity of getting on a plane with this girl, but there was simply something in the way she pleaded that disarmed any spirit of opposition I could muster. I was getting on a plane to somewhere I didn't yet know with a girl I didn't yet know. Well, I did know one thing--she was on the run.

An hour later I was sitting in First Class on a DC-10 bound for Honolulu. She wouldn't tell more than what the flight attendants had already told me, "We hope you enjoy your trip with us today to Honolulu". Minutes after take off she surrendered to sleep. I studied her, trying futilely to piece together, with no information, what would drive a girl of such amazing beauty to such desperation. What could have happened that would lead her to beg for a strange man's help, to pay for that strange man to hop a plane with her to Hawaii, to run so far and so drastically? I woke her up at 11:55 California time to share a glass of champagne I had waiting. Reluctantly, she fingered the tube and rose it to her lips, her hands shaking as if the plane, uncomfortably warm, was Arctic.

"I will tell you more when we arrive, when there are fewer ears to hear. You can never know what a noble man you are. I need to know nothing more to know that. You are good man, Armando, better man."

"A better man?"

"When we arrive. I promise."

We landed in Honolulu at 12:45 AM. Fireworks were still launching skyward over Diamondhead. I understood the name. The iridescent lights cast just the right shadows on the lava pack to accentuate its reptilian appearance. I had no time to enjoy geography I was seeing for the first time, for Sirri's next surprise was issued.

"Maui next. That is where we stop . . . for now."
"Maui?"

"Yes. Not nearly as many people as Honolulu and plenty of places to hide."

"Well, why not Kaua'i then? I've heard there's nothing and no one there. Maybe that would be even better for your purposes. Or howabout L'anai? We could build a hut in the pineapple fields and live under the protection of Dole forever."

"Armando, please. I know how crazy you think this. I will explain all . . . on Maui. Please. Yes?"

I just nodded, wondering how my plans to spend New Year's in L.A. had landed me in Honolulu and on my way to Maui with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, who had only told me so far that she was going to tell me everything once we went a little further.

The flight to Maui was short. I rented a Geo Tracker in my name and we drove, by her direction, southwest out of Kahalui. Five miles down the Pilani Highway, she said,

"We are close now. Turn off here . . . " She guided me down South Kihei Road, a littering of condos and restaurants to our left, the Kamaole beach parks and the ocean to our right. Our destination was the small town of Waliea, a resort community replete with hotels and golf courses and not much more. The house her directions lead us to, her house apparently, was deep set in one of the golf courses. The house was white slate stone with a red thatched roof--very Mediterranean. The end of the yard was a sheer lava cliff that fell away to the Pacific. It reminded me of something out of a Ludlum novel. Sirri poured us a glass of Merlot and motioned for me to sit down on one of the couches with her.

"His name is Jirair. He comes from a family called Razbirat. They very powerful and do business of drugs and murder in my country. He steal me from my parents when I am fifteen. I am told that my family allowed to live if I not try to escape and be true to Jirair. He keep me slave for twelve years, and not once do I see my family or try to escape. Then on the holiday Vardanants Day, Jirair tell me he to make me his wife. But he already have five other wives he keeps separate from me. I not want this, so I tell Jirair to please not do this thing. To please give me freedom. He get so mad and say I not love him. I try to take softness to him, but he is throwing things and hitting me . . . "

Her eyes took on the sheen of water. "He go to my home in Kars and kill parents. He come back and tell me that brother and sister will live if no more do I anger and disrespect him. He tell all of the engagement this New Years in America! He want to do tonight! But brother call from Kars to say that he and sister escaping to England, and will be okay. He say I am free now and can run from Jirair, stay in America and ask for green card. This call finished only ten minutes before I first see you, handsome man with the kind face. I not want to marry you for citizen ship, I promise. I am afraid to be in this country alone, no family and not knowing any persons. I am supposed to come to this place with Jirair to celebrate engagement. That is why you must pretend as my husband. So no suspicion from people here. You dark like Jirair. They not look and think things. Will you stay with me here a while, Armando? Will you be my friend in America. Please . . . "

"We're sitting ducks for your crazy boyfriend here! Are you crazy?"

"No, no , I promise. He think I run back to Armenia. Never come here without him, never. We stay for a few days, maybe week, then leave and go somewhere else, a safe place that you choose. I come with you wherever you go, if say it okay for me to. Please, Armando, he not come here. He never think me brave enough to stay America. He look Armenia."

I know what you're thinking--I should have gotten either me or both of us out of there that night, or at the latest the next morning. But I didn't. Call me nuts, but I wanted to stay with her there. I would have stayed forever. How does any red-blooded man deny a woman of such beauty in such trouble? The urge to rescue a hunted woman is strong in men, especially those guys who hope to parlay the hero role into getting in that woman’s pants. The sensible part of me wanted to run as far away from this girl as I could get. Every other part of me made leaving not even a consideration.

We spent the ensuing days exploring the island together--sunrise atop the Haleakala crater, a mid afternoon hike through the wraithlike fog of the Iao Valley, a full day's adventure to Hana, frolicking in the Oheo Gulch and the Seven Sacred Pools of Kipahulu, and a memorable trek to Waimoku Falls. It was on this trek that the surreal time I was sharing with Sirri first became something real to me. Somewhere between the Oheo Gulch and Waimoku falls sits a numinous bamboo forest. Even in the noonlight, only slivers of the sun penetrate the crowded stalks. Sirri and I descended several hundreds yards into one of the more dense thickets, at the center of which we found a small wading pool fed by a tributary of the falls. Again she reminded me,

"You are noblest of men, Armando. I wish to spend more time here in America with you. I never spend time with man, ever, that I enjoy like this. Jirair force me to smile and laugh. I want to with you."

"You want to with me?"

"Yes." I thought to kiss her, despite the confusion and complication it would likely cause us both. I didn't have the chance; her body was already flush against mine and our lips were in motion. We made love in the pool for most of the rest of the day. I knew I was either in love, in trouble, or both.

For the rest of the week, Sirri and I rarely found ourselves outside each other's embrace. We finished all of Maui, and when we did, retired to the house, from which we didn't emerge for two-and-a-half-days. At the end of the third day, Sirri sent me to town to purchase groceries and fill our rental car with gas. I was away a little over an hour. While in the store and away from her for the first time in over a week, I took some time to contemplate all that had happened, how it had happened, and how improbable it all seemed. All my friends were married to either their high school or college sweethearts, nothing especially exciting in how they met or the dynamic of their lives together. I had always been different. Somehow, I knew when I met the right girl, it would be under the most strained and dramatic of circumstances, and this was certainly that. Provided the feelings she was growing for me were genuine and that Jirair didn't think to come looking for her in America, every instinct was telling me to just run with it and see where it and she took me. I was going to invite her to come live with me in New York City when I returned to the house.

I rolled up the hill to the house and shut down the rental car. Bounding up the stairs, I gave the door a good shove and burst inside, barely able to contain myself. I called Sirri's name. No answer. I checked every room. Nothing. I looked on the tables and countertops for a note. There was none. A frigid feeling overcame me, which seemed very odd considering the 80 degree heat of the Hawaiian day. As I searched the house, I could find nothing out of sorts other than that it felt and was strangely empty.

Like a big set at the Banzai Pipeline that takes a surfer by surprise, the reality that she might have been using me smashed me hard into the jagged reef of my naivety. I was a second from strolling out of that house and ambling back to my life before Los Angeles, Hawaii, and Sirri had happened to me. It was about at that profound moment of self-pity that I noticed the slit in the sliding glass door. I eased it open and stepped outside. The white patio looked like someone's sick idea of splash art, not one tile of the entire white slate left unstained. All the naturally occurring reactions began manifesting themselves-shock, fear, dread, desperation--in that order. I followed a body-wide trail of blood across the lawn to the edge of the precipice.

Terrified to look, but knowing I had to, I aimed my eyes down. Bent across one of the lava rocks in the shallows along the shoreline was a twisted shape that resembled a butterfly closed in a book. With building trepidation, my mind running one 100 yard sprint after another, I stumbled and reeled down the path to the ocean. I don't even remember how long it took me to make the descent. At the bottom, on the rocks, embraced by the lather of dead waves, was Sirri. I was still 200 feet away, but I knew. The contours and curves of her body had already been committed to memory. And it was a good thing, because the rest of her had been rendered, either by the fall or by what they had done to her, almost unrecognizable.

I waded in, gently lifted her off her final resting place, and staggered onto the beach with her drooping in my arms. I sat in the sand with her head in my lap, stroking her blood-encrusted hair for what I think must have been hours. Then I called the police. They held me for several days, convinced I did it. It wasn't until they discovered several different sets of boot prints in the grass, none of which matched the one pair of shoes I had and the sandals I had purchased there, that their law enforcement noses were pointed in a different direction.

I was made to stay on the island for another week, but I was no longer a prime suspect, especially after I told them the story of Jirair that Sirri had told me. My innocence was further amplified when they were able to confirm Jirair's name on the register at the hotel and on a roundtrip plane itinerary that had been completed a week earlier (the date of arrival matched the day Sirri was murdered). A demand of extradition was issued through the state department for Jirair to be returned to America to stand trial should the Armenian authorities apprehend him in Armenia, which they purportedly are attempting to do.

I don't have much more to tell. I found love under the strangest of circumstances and lost it to the most violent. I feel hollow and alone and without much will to live right now. I am trying to resolve within myself whether I am, in some way, partly responsible for Sirri's death. There's a very strong desire in me to blame myself, to rationalize that I might have been able to save her if I'd just gotten us the hell out of Hawaii, before Jirair could find us. Why was she killed and not me? I feel that if she deserved that fate, so did I. Why did Jirair choose that one hour that we were apart, or was it just cruel coincidence? I may never know. I guess I'll just log that tormenting wonder in the hollow halls of my guilt, where the memories of Sirri and the short, but beautiful time we had together will always linger, haunting me.

This site was recommended to me by a trusted friend, who happens to be a psychiatrist. Has anyone here ever been through a similar ordeal? I hope not, but if you have, any advice on how you coped would be greatly appreciated. I'm in very bad shape. Thank you so much.

All the best to you special people,

Armando