To the one who started (or ended) it all
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We met during the FIFA Confederations Cup. Unfortunately, I wasn't in Brazil for the tournament. I watched the host country battle Uruguay on the big screen, broadcast in Portuguese, while I ate linguiça frita mandioca. A few days later, I watched Spain and Italy go to a 7-round penalty shootout, ginger beer in hand. On the day of the Brazil v Spain Championship game, I met a Mexican.
Juan Manuel Francisco Javier* didn't look "indigenous" (his words, not mine) and he was at least 5'10". Immediately after he told me he was an Afro-Cuban drummer (he broke down batá to me) and a saxophone player his hands and lips stood out even more; his hands screamed power, his lips fuller.
Juan Manuel Francisco Javier was the kind of guy who used phrases like 'facades of liberty' when discussing the US, Fourth of July and our so-called freedoms.
This was the guy who asked me to tell him something about myself no one would be able to guess by looking at me. He stumped me with a question.
Never thought I'd find myself with someone like him.
There was even PDA. His drum-beating hands caressed my thigh and ventured up my skirt and we kissed, once, at the bar.
The cab ride into Brooklyn was frenetic and open-ended.
Neither of us had time to focus on our blue balls. There were stomps and tears of frustration over lost cell phones exaggerated into Apocalyptic crisis thanks to vodka. Juan Manuel Francisco Javier is the kind of guy to send emails like this the next morning: Let's start the morning on a good note. I want to forget my phone loss for a bit. I can take a cab over. I want to see you.
After the preview in the cab and 15 fortnights of no sex there was still that voice in the back of my head, Nah, I can't do that with him, can I?
A few days passed and Juan Manuel Francisco Javier reached out again. He danced around the question for about an hour before asking what I was doing that night and whether or not I wanted to hang out. Sure I could hang out with a guy like him. Eventually he brought up the elephant in the room and asked if I wanted to finish what we started in the cab that night. I admittedly really, really wanted to.
"I need a fabulous fuck."
"I want to give that to you."
But I didn't think it would go down the way it did. Not with a guy like him.
We met for a drink, walked through Chinatown, what's left of Little Italy and SoHo. He made calls to find a room where we could go for a few hours.
"The St. Mark's has rooms for $50." I was shaking my head 'no' before he even finished that statement.
"If you want me to lie on the sheets you gotta come better than the St. Mark's."
He made a call to the hotel I originally suggested. After a few moments, he ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket and started walking. I two-stepped it real quick to keep up. "They got rooms?" He nodded.
This was gonna happen. With him.
On the walk to the train station, the ride uptown, the stop at the ATM, the walk across town, the search for bodega beer, then the stop at the Biergarten, he didn't flirt anymore. He didn't touch me. There was a steely resolve that came over him. The only acknowledgement of what was to come was his asking me in a hushed tone if they had condoms at the hotel. I'd never been, but I assumed so, yet it didn't matter since I had condoms with me.
To get to the door of The Liberty Inn we had to walk through a sea of no less than 40 uniformed NYPD officers that were being briefed after July 4th festivities and heading out to control the post-fireworks revelry.
Juan Manuel Francisco Javier paid for the room with cash the Chase ATM spit out and I followed him to the second floor, corner room. It was clean. A/C was already cooling the room. It was cozy. Enough room to get done what we needed to get done.
I missed the part where he took off his shirt and shoes. I just remember he pounced. I had to fight my way out of his arms to take off my clothes.
Once we were naked and the foreplay was well underway, I felt like myself again. I remembered to put that limb there, keep my mouth on that spot until I feel this -- there are somethings you just never forget.
"Yo where the condoms?" Juan Manuel Francisco Javier asked. I reached across the gap between the bed and the table, grabbing the two condoms I'd taken out of my bag earlier and half-handed, half-tossed them at him. Before I could straighten myself up again he was sheathed and centering himself underneath me.
This is gonna happen? This is gonna happen? This is really gonna happen? I slid down on to him. Yup, it was happening.
It was happening with a 26-year old. To me, that's an infant. I've never connected with younger men mentally and their age automatically disqualified them as viable sexual partners. Once when I was 23 I hooked up with a 21-year old so that doesn't really count. We were both nympho neophytes slamming into each other in the locker room at the gym.
The first round was quick but not rushed; enough kissing and grunting to satisfy. Juicy, as he called Kitty since our cab ride to Brooklyn, caught him off guard. But looking back, I think that was his plan -- get the first nut out the way and then show her what he got.
Basking in our after glow, Juan Manuel Francisco Javier and I lay in bed talking while looking at our nude reflections in the mirror on the ceiling. He displayed his skills of recollection when he asked follow-up questions to things we discussed the first night we met; he listens. I was touched and impressed.
Juan Manuel Francisco Javier could hold a conversation, was educated, was a critical thinker, creative, had musical intelligence and he was attractive.
Round 2 began with a lot of kissing. Round 2 was slow, soft and steady. Round 2 was the championship round. He was in tune to all my subtleties and also took my verbal cues. This guy is gonna get me there. I saw no sign of struggle on his face. He watched me. He watched how he got me off.
I can't tell you how ecstatic I was that I had sex. Sex that was good. After 7 long months. Ending my drought with wack peen was of paramount concern. And here I was blown away and worn out by this 26 year old Mexican kid. The end of my drought and the beginning (or continuation) of my sex life was with Juan Manuel Francisco Javier. The young lad did not disappoint. The Universe reinforced "never say never".
"It's been a long time."
"Long time since you got it like that?"
"Long time since I had sex."
"Glad I could help you out with that."
He climbed back into the bed after a quick clean up. "That was a workout." He threw a leg and arm across my body and rested his head on my shoulder, his face in my neck. His breathing quickly grew heavy. I let him be and watched Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I couldn't reach the remote anyway.
*Do I even have to say it?
* * *
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