How Did You Fall in Love in Buenos Aires?
I was worried that it would be too soon. I said to him in butchered Spanish, “But will you call me after? I just don’t want to do it if you’re going to lose respect for me.”
He corrected my conjugation before he said he would call.
The last time we’d hung out, we were shamelessly clothes-burning all along a long walk through Villa Crespo. A dark doorway, a street corner, behind a parked school-bus, against a tree. Big-city frottage. It was a real turn-on, and the fact that his kisses lacked subtlety was okay for me then. His eagerness was something I already knew couldn’t be learned, and kissing could, I reasoned. And he seemed to be a fast learner.
Now we were leaving a pub where we’d sat on the second floor. I was long sober then, drank water and diet soda. We wrote the words we were learning from each other in my notebook, drew little pictures as we corrected each other’s pronunciation. When he pulled me to him and kissed me full on the mouth in the midst of the other patrons, no one even seemed to notice and we spent a long hour necking in the dark room with marble tables and wrought-iron chairs.
He suggested that we leave, that we go to a nearby telo. I knew that telos were common. I knew that they were “love hotels” and that their use carries little to no stigma in Argentine society. When you have a multi-generation family home, sometimes you just need to get away to do it right.
He had tattoos over almost his entire body. To behold his wide shoulders and round tattoo-covered ass, his uncut hard-on, his wide fingers, and his taut, round belly gave me a jolt. He was so visually appealing to me, looking at him felt like being high. I stared greedily. His movements were assured and graceful and masculine. He’d given up a decades-long study of martial arts in the recent past. When I looked into his eyes, I saw a pure being there: someone interested in what was happening in my mind, someone curious about life and himself, and whose emotions were not hidden. It was a refreshing dose of honesty after fucking so many jaded losers for so many years.
In the foyer, he spoke to a young man behind a plexiglass window. He put the money into a drawer that ran beneath the counter, like the money and merchandise was handled in service stations in my old neighborhood. He paid and got the keys and I felt embarrassed.
He seemed to be rock hard effortlessly. His cock just stood up at attention with the least provocation, even though he was a couple years older than my 33. I would watch him as he went to take off the rubber and clean his dick in the sink and feel like I was ready to go again.
The room was mirrored on nearly all sides. I was immediately drawn to the knobs over the bed that were so like a car console. The headboard’s black, lacquered surface housed a radio, dials to the various sets of recessed ceiling lights for any variety of mood-lighting, and a button to call the front desk. There was a menu so you could order drinks and food and ice. The shower was frosted plexi. The bed had a black rubber mattress and an ill-fitting set of cheap sheets.
That first night, we tried at least a dozen positions: standing, sitting, lying down, off the side of the bed. I felt no compunction about making a ton of noise. I was so loud, I was even more sheepish leaving than I had been going in.
I loved the shivery way he responded to me, the vulnerable sound he made when he came, the way he regarded my body. It felt so good to be seen in such an overtly sexual way, but to be treated with affection. Affection was one thing missing from my romantic life for many years by then.
I loved surprising him with odd positions or new sensations. There was a purity to his enjoyment of sex that I also saw when he ate. I used to love watching him eat, because there was this naked happiness I could see in his face. He seemed to taste with every part of himself, and it was the same thing with his sex. He was the first person whose noisy eating wasn’t something I had to tolerate because I loved seeing him get so much pleasure that I barely noticed his horrible table manners.
When he looked at me as we fucked or when I went down on him, he was obviously so pleasantly surprised by my frank handling of his tool, and I felt more sexy watching him enjoy me. His eyes would go wide as I scratched my fingernails along his balls. I could see that I was introducing him to things he’d never experienced before and watching him assimilate new sensations gave me a joy I’d never felt with another partner.
I had never been with anyone so freely physically affectionate. There were hugs and kisses and grunting bear hugs. The love I felt from him was something I could almost breathe into myself.
We were a sweaty mess. Every surface of our bodies glistened. My eyes stung with the salt from my own skin and my eyeliner bled into dark, heroin-chic half-moons. I’d glimpse my face, red and distended in orgasm or catch a glimpse of my swinging tits as he did me from behind and look away from the mirror, at him. His truth in my raw, animal sexiness was much more pleasant to look at. I felt gratified that my orgasm made him come even if it meant shortening mine. We’d lie wordlessly with the Argentine alternative radio station on low, barely touching and sweaty and spent. Then one of us would make a joke and we’d be babbling like kids at the back of the school-bus again.
When I think about it, I see why we ended up together. And it’s hard to see how it got so bad in the end.
This post is the fourth of the Sex Writing Challenge. This challenge is more to myself than anyone else, but it’s also an invitation. Want to write about how sex goes in your own life? Comment on any post here with your own.