tango desperation

They met one night when she went out with a friend of a friend of a friend. They chatted and had a beer. She left with someone else, her ride was a psychoanalyst motorcycle man, lovely, perfect. She projected a lot on the vibrations of the machine, it could have been another story, but its not.
He called her a couple of days later. They met for a tango lesson. They drank some beer and the music began to play. It was so hot and moist the sweat was making her red heels slip off, but he was as wet as she, and he held on to her waist and they smiled and everything was, oh so lovely. And he was leading, she followed in that dance.
They danced and had more beer, he offered to go to his place or somewhere to listen to music. He lived far away, too much of a hassle. They ended up somewhere else for a bite, listened to some more music. He was enthralled by her, her lasciviousness, erotic savyness and whatnot. She thought him cute. They left the second bar, and he kissed her. Delicious. Walking on the streets just after midnight and kissing. He wanted to go to her place, ‘but my friend is there, impossible.’ So they hopped into a cab and he directed towards the cemetery.
She had been there a couple of days before, a tourist’s must, one of the most beautiful ceremonials for dead people. But at night, it was the incarnation of eros and thanatos, it was all there. All around the cemetery were the dance clubs, the strippers, the one-hour only hotels.
He took her to a place, the one sided mirror offered a female voice asking if they wanted a room for an hour, one and a half, two or three our tops. One and a half please. The hotel’s name, one of a beach in her country, spelled with an A. she laughed.
They went into the room, which had a door with a sliding cube in the middle, so food and many other things could be slipped in without anyone having to expose their nakedness.
There were ridiculous things in that place, like a palm, mirrors everywhere, underneath the sheets there was plastic and when lying on the bed you could see the shower thru a full sized windown. The cliché of places to fuck.
She went to the toilet, then he followed. They began to kiss and she let him lead. She whispered, this is like the tango lesson, I follow, you lead. And he thought he did lead. He kissed her, took her shirt and bra off, placed an unmistakable amount of attention on her nipples, introduced a finger inside her, caressed her ass, the wetness and moisture was there.
Then he turned and placed her on top. She began to kiss his neck, his nipples. And then… the biggest mistake of all: he pushed her head down.
It wasn’t a suggestion like push, it was a push, an ‘hey you, go down there’ kinda push. Biggest mistake of the night, the first and, unfortunately, not the last. She, obviously, did not go down there, but her libido did, it was finished.
He kind of got the point, and he went down on her, thinking, masculine brute, that if he did her the favor, perhaps she would do it too. But she didn’t, she was done with favors. She came, a small, barely felt orgasm, and told him to slip the condom on.
He did, and then, the second mistake. He turned her. He placed her in a position in which it was hard to penetrate, and, once inside, he would come asap, because men can barely keep it in once they go doggie. And they did, and he came, and she was oh so bored.
He got up, went to the toilet, cleaned up. She went next. When she returned, he was under the covers… and oh, I almost forget the pre-mistake. Turning off the lights, he was too shy, and too small, and perhaps too small which explained his shyness.
So, she thought, maybe the first go was quick, but a second something will arise, he will fuck me hard and good and long. But he didn’t. He just began asking awkward things and cozying up by himself in that sex infested plastic covered bed.
She was bored.
She began to look at the menus that were resting next to the bed; there was food and beverage, obviously. But there was a menu for sex toys, and he asked her what they were good for, sweet masculine brute. And there was a lingerie menu, and a sexy costumes one too. Oh, what joy and fun she found in those. Much more amusement than in the man who was laying next to her, without knowing what to do.
So, she thought, this cannot be a wasted night, so she took the menus home, as a souvenir, and, of course, she never called him again, pure innocent masculine brute.