The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [46]
“Which one do you like?” he asked.
She chose the jungle room. They turned to the glass booth. Diego paid and ordered three beers.
“Three?” she asked.
“Yeah, just in case,” he said. He seemed nervous.
They took the elevator upstairs without touching, then walked down the hall to room number 48. Just inside the door was a plant with dark red and green leaves on a little table, lit by a lamp overhead. The walls were covered with painted leaves and animals. The bedspread had tiger stripes, the chairs spots. Animal print was a very common wardrobe choice among Argentine women, Isolde had noticed, especially among a certain kind of celebrity crowd. Isolde used to wear it too sometimes before arriving, but since had stopped, not wanting to give off a cheapish air. There was a jungle swing and a large TV playing porn, where a guy with an enormous dick was getting a blow job.
“I don’t like that,” Diego said, and turned it off.
Isolde felt confused by what he wanted. Last time, when they were kissing she worried she’d been too proactive, excited. Maybe she should hold off, let him make the moves.
He waved his hand in her direction. “Take off your clothes,” he said.
He took off his clothes as well. She liked the way the hair was dispersed on his body, a nice amount everywhere, except for his lower legs, which were nearly hairless.
Then, all at once, he was down on his knees on the floor, licking her with his very large tongue. She was at the edge of the bed. “It’s like a flower,” he murmured and went on licking. The men she’d been with recently had hardly even touched her, a few jerks with two fingers, and here he was licking. He seemed to like doing this very much. First lifting her head to watch, she then dropped it and let him.
At one point, he pulled her feet over her head, as if she were a child, a baby, and licked her asshole. She was startled. No one had ever done this to her before. Although the rest of the encounter was nice as well—he was tentative at first, only gradually letting her touch him—this became the part she went over and over in her head. For a long time after that, at random moments throughout the day, she would feel the touch of his tongue there. It was like an imprint, something primitive. He had touched deep inside her. She would do anything to be touched like that by him again.
When they came back downstairs, there was a sea of people waiting, a long line leading up to the glass booth, which spread out through the lobby, couples of all ages, some holding hands, some standing separate, more like strangers, their faces all registering divergent motives, the bleary-eyed, the frightened, the pros—for the young couple holding hands, it would be their first time. The vision veered between that of a group of individuals, each with a heart throbbing, a particular way of doing his or her hair, to a collection of types—there was something didactic in the bright light—representing the various ages, walks, intentions of humanity. The line spilled out onto the sidewalk, trailing down it to one side.
Isolde and Diego walked up the street. Except for a few places here and there, a bar, a restaurant, probably a brothel, the downtown streets were deserted. They came upon a kiosk, lit up, and bought bottled water, then arrived at the Plaza San Martín. The trees were towering, the figures below looking minuscule.
They crossed the street and entered the park. He held out his arm and she took it.
“Hey, look at this. This is my favorite statue.” It was called Doubt, a present from the French, and featured two figures. One, a young man, was sitting on the ground with a worried expression.