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.

deal breaker

- Who would you vote for,- he asked.
- what? are you serious?
- Yes, if you were American, who would you vote for?
- You are serious? I am a writer, I work in culture, its a joke, isnt it? - she responded
- No, its a serious question. - It was a serious question, his face, his voice and his attitude said it.
- Well, its kind of obvious, isn't it? Democrat. And you?
- I would vote for Sara Palin.
- What? are you serious?
He was serious. His face, his voice and his attitude said it all.
- Yes, I am, I would vote for her.
- Well then, all the appeal you had, is now broken. Shattered by your stupid question, and your even more.... answer. - She said.
- Are you serious? - he responded.
Her face, her attitude and her voice said it all, she was serious. Being a Sara Palin is a deal breaker, and even worse, a sex breaker.

The birds had a stiff neck and he was a drug dealer

They did, he was.
We were kissing and the birds had a stiff neck, so he had to stop and stare at the Japanese made in China painting. In the corner, next to Japanese spricts and semi beautiful flowers, the birdies were suffering.
Yes, the birds, two little nightingales were staring at the wrong wall, and I was in the middle of kissing my big-handed-first-time-lover. We couldn’t concentrate. The shots, the beer, everything got intertwined with the capricious stubbornness of the comfortableness of the little birdies.
Finally, he stopped once more. He moved to the wall and turned the painting 45 degrees. The stiff necks gone, so were the distractions.
My clothes were off, mostly. And the phone rang. A text. He ignored it. Another text. Another phone call. Two more, then to the room, then to his cell again. I couldn’t not laugh. Yes, hornyness and laughter can sometimes get along, as long as you aren’t laughing at the horny-pleasure-giving-partner.
He finally picked up, and set the phone on speaker. I heard, his friends knew he was busy but they really really really needed him. Under the door, they said. So they knocked and he slipped a little bag of white whatevers under. And then they called again. Damn, he said, and I laughed without my shirt on, the bra on the floor cradling my pants, my lonely underwear wishing it was stripped off my body.
I laughed and he turned off his cell and the lights, so they would think he wasn’t there or sleeping, and turned to me.
Yes, without distractions is best.

Dutch it up

In the cab, she sat between them. She began kissing the one on her right, and the one on her left dared to put his had inside her blouse. She let him. Then she turned. And shared the saliva of the first Dutch with his best friend.

She messaged her man, I am going to this hotel, with two Dutch men. The taxi driver almost crashed, about five times, in the ten-minute drive. Too busy was he staring at the rear view mirror.

She met them at the bar, one of them struck her fancy and when the crowd pushed her his way, they had barely spoken, but she had her hand against his chest, and she could fill him with her legs. Their eyes met and then their lips. It was natural, it was anonymous. Her friend tried to seduce his friend. It didn’t work out. They kissed and kissed and kissed some more. And she was eager to get out of there. He said, what about my friend? She said, well, lets take him along. He didn’t believe, she went to his friend and touched his groin and told him that it was time for the three of them to go somewhere else. Her friend was long gone. Frustration wasn’t her thing.

So they hopped into a cab and headed to their hotel.

She went straight to the toilet and messaged her man the room number, you can never be too careful with anonymous threesomes.

When she came out they were both naked, and the marathon began. One and then the other and then the first and they were so similar in body structures she couldn’t even tell the difference. One condom after the next. One orgasm after the other. Moans.

One after the other and then both of them together. One inside her, the other one in her mouth, with his tongue, with his sex, with his hands, with his ass, with his everything.

They were exhausted. One fell asleep, and she kept at it with the second one. On and on.

And then, she said, ok, I’m done. She got up, dressed and left. She was ready for more, but two Dutch men can go just so far.

touch

Tan sencillo como tocar.

Touch is simple. As simple as touching. With fingertips, just touch. What happened in that encounter between skins was similar to what one might find the first dawn one sees after making love all night, or rather, after fucking all night long and a few days more. After progressive orgasms, the sun shining bright acquires a different meaning, always.

Touch is simple, but to be touched is an art. Tocar es sencillo, que te toquen es un arte. Dejarte tocar. She had worked at it her entire life. No quería simplemente ser tocada, quería ser una professional, experta. Expertise in touch. In being touched.

Cada quien toca de manera distinta, las caricias saben a quienes las otorgan, se deshacen en el sabor de lo que traen en la boca, de los últimos pensamientos que salieron expelidos en las cercanías.

Con el dedo índice generalmente se trazan historias que no se desean contar, es el más empalagoso. El anular is the most timid and the softest of the fingers, when it caresses, it does it in a manner as if it was creating a whole new language on your skin, una nueva civilización.

La mano izquierda y la derecha tienen lenguajes distintos, as much as you try to confuse them; I close my eyes and try not to know which hand is which, and I fail, miserably. I always know. Su tacto está escrito en mi piel.

El pulgar es el más intenso, como si de verdad adquiriera vida propia, un ser aparte. He touches me with his thumb, and I know, exactly, what is going to happen next, or not. Las predicciones del pulgar mienten, pero son mentiras tan deliciosas que las volvería a repetir una y otra vez.

Nunca le creo nada a la caricia del pulgar izquierdo, y si lo acompaña el dedo medio, quizá, cuando aprieta mi pezón, o cuando juega en el ombligo, precursor de otros ronroneos que hará después, I simply melt, porque sé que ahí está toda la mentira de su ser, porque sé que me dice demasiadas cosas con esa caricia and just maybe, I don’t want to hear them, I just want to be touched.

Pero él. He was just too much.

Not only did each of his fingers have its own way of touching, but he had defined a different way of touching each part of my body.

Bajo sus huellas dactilares no tenía otra cosa que hacer más que derrertirse and let her be sculpted once more by the creativity of the sensations his fingers provoked.

perverse heat

He called me on a Saturday so hot that all I could do to not faint was lay on the cool floor with nothing on but my panties. I would change position every ten minutes, for the heat my body exhaled warmed everything around me.

With cucumbers on my eyes, to avoid the bloating, and hibiscus water by my side, I lay, listening to some Moloko and something else.

The phone rang, it was he. We had met strolling the street near my house almost a year ago. I thought he was cute, I think he thought I was too. He never called, until now. “So hey, I found your number, how you been… yes, we met almost a year ago… uhm yes, the movie business, I think we have lots of things in common. What are you up to now? Can I make you a sandwich in my new gourmet store? 30 minutes? Great.”

And I got up, got dressed, unwillingly, and went. Why? Well, I thought of all sorts of dirty plots which could evolve on a Saturday afternoon at a small deli store with no one around. And because, well, I was curious.

I got there, and he was fat. Great disappointment. And bald. He had just shaved his hair off. Fat men with shaved heads, well, it ain’t my cup of tea, they are only good for one thing, when they use their head, recently shaved please, no prickles, to caress your body. The texture is so different and the shape helps to…

But I am getting distracted.

So, he was going to make me a sandwich. Needles to say, it took him ages. It seems like heterosexual men can’t talk and do anything else at the same time.

“It’s so great to have you here… I know we’ve just met twice for five minutes, but I feel like I have a special connection with you, like we can really communicate… on a whole different level…”

I just nodded and smiled. I had barely uttered two lines, but I guess that’s what he was talking about, that I didn’t talk and I listened to him, so he felt like the centre of my universe. And I was getting so bored.

I told him about some of the things I do, and he took one as a pretext to ramble around, for what seemed hours. He talked about pornography, and about a site where a dude tells girls that he will make them earn between a thousand and five thousand dollars a day, but in order to help them out, they need to help him first by giving him a blowjob. So its this dude manipulating all these chicks to fuck him and do all sorts of things because he will make them porn stars.

He’s making me a sandwich, the slowest sandwich on earth, while talking about the slowest porn site on earth. Ah, his perversion, he called it.

And I was hot, to hot to handle slow conversation. And getting bored. Why couldn’t he just say all of this in five minutes instead of thirty.

“is this conversation bothering you?” he asked at some point. His eyes, beneath his shades, were eager to make me uncomfortable, to break the cold that my body exhaled now, with the boredom that surrounded me.

Of course not, but he didn’t believe me.

So, his perversion, and then, well, I wanted to leave, because… ah, I was so bored. I told him about the heat. He said that he had overestimated me, that the conversation (rather, the slowest monologue on earth), had affected me. Then he told me about his wife. That was just way too much for me. Boring and married. God, why had he called me?

I said no, it hadn’t stirred me even a bit, and told him that he would fall for the same scam. He said it wasn’t the same thing. Of course, men tricked into sex think they are getting it all. Fools.

Manipulation is manipulation, no matter what your genre is.

The sandwich was quite good.

god bless you, friend

So, they met for ice cream. She had instigated that reunion since she thought, and guess correctly, that he was too shy. Shy for her, that is, for he was known as somewhat of a Don Juan, but she, maybe it was true what they said about her. When you entered into her realm it wasn’t like entering a clam sea, perhaps surfing a bit in the waves. No, she was a 40 meter high wave, a tsunami.

So, they met, finally, a couple of days later, strictly for ice cream, well, or so he thought.

They had nothing to talk about, seriously, nothing. She was into arts, he was into money, and although both subjects could meet at a certain point, for some reason, they just didn’t mesh up. So, what did they talk about? Their friend in common, the reason they had met, the reason they were there, walking the streets of a spring evening while she was figuring out how to jump him without him knowing that it was she who had done the jumping and not him.

His phone rang, he picked up. She said that if he kept answering his phone, she was going to distract him. And she did. Breathing on his neck, barely touching with the heat which emanated from her lips, his earlobe, holding his waist into place with her left hand. He has been distracted, and he kissed her. Finally, she thought.

They strolled some more. Hand in hand, or with an arm around the other's waist. The wall had been torn down. Intentions clear.

He said he didn’t read much, she told him to lie to her. That he should say that he loved books. He did just that and she told him he was the sexiest man alive. And she kissed him some more.

They went to her place and, needless to say, they jumped each other.

That is the only sensible thing one can do when you meet with someone whom is nice but you have absolutely nothing to talk about. You keep your lips busy, and your tongue, and your fingers, and your sex.

So, how was it, the common friend asked him the day after. “Oh, god bless you…” was all he responded.