4
I arrive home at seven thirty and say hi to my cat, Curro, who moves very slowly as he comes to greet me. I drop my bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen to give Curro his medication. Poor kitty, he’s unmoved.
After I give him some treats, I open the fridge and pour myself a Coke. I’m addicted to Coke . . . addicted. In a few minutes, I put on a Guns N’ Roses CD and sing along to “Sweet Child o’ Mine” as I get into the tub.
Wow, what a voice that man has! I sigh when I feel the hot water on my skin. Suddenly, Mr. Zimmerman comes to mind, with his way of talking, and my hands, slippery with soap, slide down my body. I open my legs and touch myself. Oh yes, Zimmerman!
When I remember his mouth, and how he outlined my lips with his tongue, I get all tingly. I recall all of him, and it just gets me going. My hands fly over my body until one stops on my right breast. I touch my right nipple with my thumb, and the nipple stiffens. I close my eyes and imagine it’s Zimmerman who is doing the touching, who’s making my nipple swell. I don’t know him. I don’t know anything about him. But I do know that when he’s near, he gets my motor running. I’m panting when I hear my phone. But I ignore it. I don’t want to interrupt this moment. On the sixth ring, my eyes pop open. I leave my little bubble, grab a towel, and run to answer the call.
“Why’d it take you so long to pick up?”
It’s my sister. Always inopportune and always asking too many questions.
“I was in the shower, Raquel. What’s your problem?”
Her laugh makes me laugh too.
“How is Curro?”
I shrug and sigh. “Same as yesterday. Maybe a little worse, I should say.”
“Honey, you have to be prepared. Remember what the vet said.”
“I know, I know.”
“Has Fernando called?” she asks after a brief silence.
“No.”
“And are you going to call him?”
“No.”
But my sister is unsatisfied with my answer. “Judith, that man is good for you,” she insists. “He has a good job, he’s handsome, kind, and . . .”
“Then you go out with him.”
“Judith!” my sister protests.
I’ve known Fernando my whole life. We’re both from Jerez. My father and his father live in that beautiful little town, and we’ve been friends since we were kids. When we were adolescents, we started a little romance that spilled into adulthood. He lives in Valencia, and I live in Madrid. He’s a police inspector. We see each other during summer vacation and in the winter when we both go to Jerez, or during quick trips he makes to Madrid with any excuse to see me.
He is tall, dark, and a lot of fun. You can spend hours just laughing with him because he’s easy to be with, and he has an unstoppable sense of humor. The problem is that I’m not in love with him like I know he is with me. I like him. He’s my summer fling, and we exchange bodily fluids whenever he comes to see me. But I don’t want anything more, although my sister, my father, and all our friends in Jerez insist we should couple up once and for all.
“Listen, Judith, call him. He said he was going to see you before going to Jerez, and I’m sure he will.”
“God, don’t be a drag, Raquel.”
My sister always does the same thing: she pushes me to the limit, and when she sees I’ve had it, she changes the subject.
“Are you coming over for dinner?”
“No, I have a date.”
I can tell she’s surprised.
“And may I ask with whom?” she asks.
“With a friend,” I lie. Considering how much of a Puritan she is, if I tell her it’s my boss, she’s going to have a heart attack. “And now, big sister, enough questions.”
“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing. But I think you’re being a fool about Fernando, and he’s going to get tired of waiting for you. You’ll see.”
“Raquel!”
“OK, OK, I’m not going to say anything more. And just so you know, I got flowers again today from Jesús. What do you think?”
“Damn it, Raquel, what do you want me to think?” I answer, annoyed. “That’s a very nice thing for him to do.”
“Yes, but he’s never sent me two bouquets within three weeks before. Something’s going on; I know it. I know him. And this is not like him.”
I glance over at the digital clock on my nightstand: it’s 8:05 p.m. Still willing to listen to my sister’s paranoid rants, I drag the phone to the bathroom, put it on speaker, and wrap my hair in a towel.
“Let’s see. What’s going on now?”
She reports the latest with her husband. They’ve been married ten years. But their lives ceased to be exciting when my niece, Luz, was born. My sister’s constant marriage crises are her preferred topic of conversation, but it exhausts me.
“We never go out. We never hold hands. He never invites me to dinner. And now, suddenly, he sends me two bouquets of flowers? Don’t you think it’s because he feels guilty about something?”
My mind wants to scream, “Yes, your husband is getting it elsewhere!”
Instead, I quickly say, “Of course not. Maybe he simply saw the flowers, and they reminded him of you. What’s the big deal?”
After a half hour of chatting with her, I finally manage to hang up without talking about my strange date with Mr. Zimmerman. I’d like to tell her, but I know she would just say, “Are you crazy? Your boss?” Or, “What if he’s a serial killer?” So it’s better if I keep quiet. I don’t want to think she might be right.
At twenty to nine, hysterical, I survey my closet.
I don’t know what to wear.
I want to look good, like he asked, but the truth is that my clothes are basic and functional. Suits for work and jeans for hanging out with friends. In the end, I opt for a green dress with a pretty neckline, which fits my curves nicely. I put on a pair of suggestive heels I bought on a whim.
I check my watch again. I’m on edge. It’s ten to nine.
Without a moment to lose, I plug in the hair dryer, lower my head, and dry my tresses using the highest setting. To my surprise, I like the results. Since I never wear much makeup, I simply throw on some eyeliner and mascara and paint my lips.
The landline rings. I check the clock. Nine o’clock sharp. Nervous, I pick up, and before I can say anything, I hear a voice. “Ms. Flores, I’m waiting. Come down.”
After stuttering through a timid, “I’m coming,” I hang up. Two minutes later, as I exit the building’s lobby, I see him leaning on an impressive granite-colored BMW. But in his dark suit, he’s more impressive than the car. When he sees me, Zimmerman gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Looking good, indeed,” he says.
I have two options: I can smile and say thank you, or just be quiet. I opt for being quiet. I’m so disconcerted that if I were to say something, who knows what might come out of my mouth.
He opens the car’s back door, and I’m surprised to find he has a driver.
“Tomás, I have a reservation at Moroccio,” Zimmerman says as he gets in.
Once he’s given his instructions, he presses a button, and an opaque glass partition comes between the driver and us. He stares at me, and I don’t know what to say. My hands are sweaty, and I feel as if my heart is going to beat out of my chest.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you so quiet?”
I look up at him and shrug, not knowing how to respond. “I’ve never been on a date like this, Mr. Zimmerman,” I manage to say. “Usually, when I go out to dinner with a man, I . . .”
His penetrating blue eyes cut right through me; he doesn’t let me finish my sentence. “You date a lot of men?”
I’m surprised by the question. What, this guy thinks he’s the only man in the world? I take a deep breath and manage not to hit him.
“As many as I like,” I say. I lift my chin a little haughtily and hear myself saying, “What I don’t understand is what I’m doing here, heading to dinner with you.”
He doesn’t respond. He just looks at me.
“Are you going to say anything, or are you going to spend the rest of the evening just staring at me?”
“I like looking at you, Ms. Flores.”
I curse under my breath. What have I gotten myself into? But since I can’t seem to shut up, I ask, “And where do you get off with that question about how many men I go out with?”
“Simple curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” I respond, scratching my neck. “And does a man like you lead a monastic life?”
“No, Ms. Flores.”
“I’m glad to hear it, because I don’t either.”
“Don’t scratch your neck, Ms. Flores,” he whispers, his lips curving. “You’ll get a rash . . .”
Tired of pretending to be formal, and given what we’ve just talked about, I protest. Damn it all!
“Please . . . call me Judith, or Jude. Let’s leave the formality for the office. Yes, you’re my boss, and for that reason I need to show you respect, but I’m uncomfortable having dinner with someone who continuously addresses me by my surname.”
He brings his face close to mine. “As long as you call me Eric,” he whispers. “It’s uncomfortable and very impersonal to have dinner with a woman who calls me by my last name.”
I sigh again, accept, and extend my hand.
“Agreed, Eric. Pleased to meet you.”
He takes my hand and, to my surprise, kisses it.
“Same here, Jude,” he adds in a sweet tone.
Just then, the car stops, and Tomás opens the door from the outside. Mr. Zimmerman—I mean, Eric—gets out and offers me his hand.
As soon as we step inside the well-lit and beautiful restaurant, I’m in a much better mood. I’ve always wanted to come here. Besides, I’m famished; I haven’t eaten since noon. I check out the tables and especially the dishes the waiters are serving. Mother of God, everything looks so good! As soon as the maître d’ spots my companion, he brightens and comes over to us.
“Please follow me,” he says after greeting us. Eric takes my hand, and I follow. I notice several women admiring him. That makes me proud to be the one he’s leading by the hand. Crossing the crowded dining room, we arrive at a space separated by gold satin curtains. I can’t help but be surprised. When the waiter opens one of those curtains and asks us to go in, I almost whistle.
The table is lovely in the candlelight. To the side, there’s a very comfy-looking rocking chair; and in the center, there’s a round, well-set table for two. Eric signals for the maître d’ to retire, then chivalrously pulls out one of the chairs for me.
“Do you like it?” he asks me.
“Yes . . .”
As soon as I’m seated, he circles the table and sits across from me. “You’ve never had dinner here?”
“I’ve passed by a thousand times, but I’ve never come in. The prices here are too much for a girl like me.”
Eric wrinkles his nose and takes my hand, drawing circles on my wrist.
“Few things will be out of reach for you,” he whispers.
That makes me laugh. “More things than you know.”
“I doubt it, sweetness. I’m sure you’re the one who creates your own limitations.”
The way he looks at me, his deep voice, and how he just called me “sweetness” captivate me. I shiver. He fascinates me more with each passing second.
He presses a button next to the table, and almost instantaneously, a waiter appears, carrying a bottle of wine. But I don’t like wine. I’d kill for a Coke. As soon as the waiter has poured, Eric picks up the wineglass, swirls it, brings it to his nose, and takes a discreet sip.
“Excellent.”
The waiter pours again and serves me too. I scratch myself. An instant later, he disappears, leaving us alone.
“Try the wine, Jude. It’s fantastic.”
I take the glass, trying to enjoy the moment.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me.
“Nothing.”
Zimmerman tilts his head.
“Jude, I don’t know you well, but there’s a rash breaking out all over your neck,” he says, surprising me. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t help it.” Oh, this Mr. Zimmerman, nothing gets by him. “The truth?”
“Always,” he insists.
“I don’t really like wine. And I’m dying for a cold Coke.”
Mouth agape and quite amused, he looks at me as if I’d just said Teletubbies is my favorite TV show and SpongeBob SquarePants is my boyfriend.
“Do it for me and just taste it. If you don’t like it, of course, I’ll get you a Coke.”
I taste it immediately.
“Well?” he asks without taking his penetrating eyes off me.
“Sumptuous. Better than I would have thought.”
“Shall I get you that Coke?”
I shake my head. In that instant, the curtain opens again to reveal two waiters with various dishes.
“I took the liberty of ordering for both of us. Is that OK?”
I nod. I don’t really have a choice. And then, as we chat, I savor an exquisite shrimp cocktail, a fine eggplant pâté, and, afterward, a delicious salmon à l’orange.
That’s when I become aware of an orange light blinking on the right side of the room.
“What’s that?”
“Maybe I’ll show it to you after dessert.”
That piques my interest, and I take another sip of wine, which certainly tastes better each time.
When I finish my salmon, the waiters come in and take the plates. Seconds later, another waiter leaves a slice of chocolate torte, accompanied by a pink ball, right before me.
“Mmm, delicious.” And then I see he hasn’t been served. “You don’t like dessert?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets up, takes his chair, and comes to sit by my side. He flusters me. He’s so sexy, it’s impossible not to think about a thousand and one desires in the moment. He picks up the spoon, cuts a piece of the torte, and scoops up some pink ice cream with it.
“Open your mouth.”
I blink, surprised.
“What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He lifts the spoon, and I automatically open my mouth. I’m mesmerized. He inserts the spoon very slowly, and I close my lips around it. He gazes at me. I smile bashfully and swallow. I start to say something, but he cuts me off.
“Delicious?”
I nod and he comes closer.
“Can I try it?”
I agree, and to my astonishment, what he tastes are my lips. My mouth. He places his generous lips on mine and savors them. Like he did this morning in the archive room, he advances his tongue first, separates my upper lip, then the lower; then there’s a nibble. Finally, he kisses me, and I close my eyes, ready for more. When I feel his hand on my knee, my breathing hastens, but I don’t move. Slowly, he brings it to my inner thigh and caresses me there. His hand reaches my panties, but he quickly pulls away from me and returns to his position on the chair.
My cheeks are burning. What is happening to me? A kiss and a simple brush of his hand have practically brought me to orgasm. Eric is observing me. I see desire in his eyes.
“I would undress you right here,” he whispers.
I gasp. I want more, and this time, I’m the one who kisses him. He accepts my lips, but when I go to put my arms around his neck, he grabs my hands and pushes himself just a little bit away from me.
“Exactly how far are you willing to go?” he asks, his lips very close to mine.
The question completely bewilders me. What is he talking about? In that moment, I feel such an intense yearning for him that I’m entranced and I simply want to be naughty.
“As far as we can go.”
“You sure?”
“Well,” I whisper, all worked up, “I don’t really go for S and M.”
Eric grins. He places his hands under my legs, then around my waist, and pulls me onto his lap. I’m going to explode. He rubs his nose on my neck, inhaling my aroma. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I realize he’s staring at me.
“Do you want to know what that orange light means?”
I look over at the light, which is still on, and I nod. Eric moves his hand and presses one of the buttons on the side of the table. The curtains below the orange light part to reveal a dark glass. What is this? Eric watches me. An instant later, the glass brightens, and I can clearly see two women on a table engaged in oral sex.
Incredulous, I’m captivated by the spectacle those two strangers offer us, when, abruptly, Eric presses another button and the women’s moans resound in our reserved space. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know where to look.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks.
My skin is feverish when I feel his strong fingers tickling my waist. I stare at him, confused.
“Why are we watching this?”
“Watching excites me. Doesn’t it excite you?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. I don’t even know if I’m still breathing.
“We all have a little voyeur inside. We love looking at what’s prohibited, perverse, or titillating. It stimulates us; it makes us want more.”
I turn my eyes back to the glass as the breathing of the two women echoes in the room. Eric presses another button, and the curtains on the left part too. In seconds, the glass clears, and I see two men and a woman. She’s draped on a divan. One of the men penetrates her, and the other nips at her chest while she happily enjoys the moment.
“It’s wonderful to watch scenes like these,” continues Eric. “I find the woman’s expressions hypnotizing as she lets them relish her body. Just look at her delight; she’s reveling in what they’re doing. She’s content to surrender to them, don’t you think?”
“No . . . I don’t know.”
My blood simmering, I lift the glass of wine and drink it in one swallow. I’m still thirsty, and he’s still talking.
“Easy now. They can’t see us. But they’ve given us permission to watch them. The orange light lets us watch, and the green light is an invitation to join in. Would you like to?”
“What?”
“Join in.”
“No,” I stammer, panicked.
“Why not?”
My heart is racing out of control.
“I . . . I don’t do things like that,” I manage to say.
His eyebrows arch.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Nooooooo,” I respond too effusively. “But I . . .”
“I get it. I understand. You’re more into conventional sex, right?”
Like a fool, I nod.
He turns my face so I’ll look at the trio; they continue with their ardent game.
“They’re also into conventional sex,” he says. “It’s just that now and again they play and experiment with different things. It really doesn’t turn you on?”
I don’t want to take my eyes off them. I can see how much that woman is enjoying herself, and I unwittingly groan. I’m aroused.
“No . . . I . . . ,” I respond.
“Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about sex?”
I’m flabbergasted.
“Your eyes betray agitation, but your lips proclaim desire,” he insists. “You can’t deny that what you’re seeing makes you hot, right?”
I don’t respond. I refuse to.
“You’ll have a great time, Jude,” Eric whispers in my ear. “I’ll take care of all your needs. All you have to do is ask.”
Like a fool, I nod again. Never in my life would I have imagined something like this. I’m so inflamed, I’m ashamed to admit it. The place, the moment, and the man next to me make it impossible to think straight.
“In these especially reserved rooms, whoever wants to can have an exquisite meal and then . . . something else. Only a select group of people has access to these. So if you want to play after dinner, all you have to do is push that button, and the glass partitions disappear.”
Suddenly, I’m beyond nervous. I don’t want any of what he’s proposing. I try to get up, but Eric doesn’t let me move.
“I want to leave,” I whisper, my breathing hard and fast.
“It’s only eleven.”
“I don’t care . . . I want to go.”
“Why, Jude?” When I don’t respond, he adds, “I think I remember your saying you were willing to do whatever I wanted.”
“I wasn’t referring to that. I . . . I don’t do those things.”
Holding me even tighter, he forces me to look at him.
“You might surprise yourself if you tried it,” he murmurs as his eyes stare into mine.
“Eric, I don’t . . .”
“Jude, sex is a fun game. You just have to dare to experiment.”
I shake my head. A prisoner of my nerves. I don’t want to experiment. The conventional sex I know is more than enough. After a few more seconds that seem like an eternity, Eric presses the buttons and the moans disappear. A few more seconds and the glass turns dark again. The curtains fall.
“Thank you,” I whimper.
He lifts me off his lap and looks at me gravely.
“C’mon, Jude. I’ll take you home.” Half an hour later and after a strange but not uncomfortable silence, broken only by his phone conversation with some woman, we finally turn onto my street. He exits the car and comes in with me. He’s cold and distant again. He accompanies me in the elevator. When we get to my door, I want to ask him in, but he doesn’t let me.
“It was a very pleasant dinner, Ms. Flores,” he says. “Thank you for your company.”
Then he kisses my hand and leaves. I’m Ms. Flores again?