The subway is packed, as usual, on the way from my Saturday morning class. I grip my bag closely, since thieves in Buenos Aires are commonplace.

“Hi, pretty girl,” says a man to my right, smiling. I steal a glance, and he's hot as hell. I try to ignore him, though. No telling what a stranger might do to you in a place like this. I pull out my phone and try to distract myself, but I still feel his dark brown eyes searing into me.

My stop is at the end of the line, and I figure Mr sexy dark haired man will get off at one of the stops before hand.

He doesn't. And now we're getting off together.

“You don't talk, pretty girl?” he asks. I giggle as the doors open. I catch a glimpse of him behind me in the window reflection. Still, I say nothing.

He follows me up the stairs to get out of the subway, into the daylight of the big city.

“Hey, pretty girl,” I hear his voice one more time as I exit the turnstyle of the subway. I don't know why exactly, but I freeze, and let him catch up with me.

He smiles broadly, as he comes into my view. My heart begins to throb.

“Yes?” I croak.

“I don't want anything,” he says. “just to know the name of the prettiest girl on the subway.”

“Liz,” I muster.

“Nice to meet you pretty girl Liz,” he says in accented English, and I have to admit it’s hot. “I would love to take you to the park to drink some tereré with me.”

I hesitate. I’m eighteen. This man looks older, at least twenty-five. Hanging out with a slightly older man in the park sounds exactly like what my parents warned me not to do while I’m studying abroad. I swallow, and consider my options.

I can head home and spend my Saturday afternoon diving into the oh-so-stimulating textbook on Argentine history of the late 1800s I was planning on doing. Or I can hang out with this gorgeous specimen of a man smiling, smirking at me. His muscles bulge out of his tank top, and he’s got on shorts that display some healthy leg muscles. He looks like he was made to have a good time.

“What’s your name?”

“Santiago,” he answers.

“I guess I can do that,” I reluctantly give in. His smile broadens.

“Follow me,” he says.

We head out into a nearby park. It’s green and bright; vast and beautiful. Lots of young students laze about the park, drinking the same cold tea. We sit down. And he pulls a cold thermos out of his backpack.

“Have you ever drank tereré before?”

“No,” I admit. “I’ve seen it though. It’s the cold tea right?”

He laughs. “So young. So innocent. You haven’t even had tereré. So you won’t mind if I pop your tereré cherry.” He fills his cup with some of the loose tea, some lemongrass, and pours some water into the cup. Using the metal straw, he sucks down the water, then refills it and hands it to me.

“Drink,” he says.

I stare at the strange looking metal straw. “I wonder what it tastes like.”

“It tastes good, pretty girl. Trust me,” he says.

I take a deep breath, wrap my lips around the cold metal straw, and suck the liquid down.

“Oh wow, that’s strong,” I remark as I hand the cup back to him.

“It’s always strongest the first time. It gets weaker with every sip.” He winks.

I’m not entirely sure what this man is getting at. My mind wanders to some dirtier places, but I don’t want to let on to him what I’m actually thinking about. I stare at his blue shorts and I swear I see something twitch at his crotch, but I can’t be sure. Me? I’ve never even touched a man’s dick. Where is it even located on his body? Seems like it’s a lot lower then where I’d expect it to be.

He fills the thermos, takes another sip, of his cup. He’s sort of looking out into the the park blankly as he pours me the next round of tea.

I take the next round down, and he’s right, it’s not as strong.

“So what are you in Buenos Aires for?” he asks.

“Just study abroad,” I answer.

He nods. We kick off a conversation that ebbs and flows for an hour as we drink the tea. Turns out, Santiago is an artist--he draws portraits of people on the street. Pretty cool. I did not see that coming with those big, tree trunk jacked legs of his.

A weird connection to make, I know. But hey, that’s the way my mind works.

That’s when he scoots his body in closer to mine. I reciprocate.

He wraps his legs around me from behind, and I sort of lean into his torso. It feels nice.

“God, you’re so beautiful, pretty girl. I mean Liz,” he corrects himself. He puts a hand on the cloth of my tank top and rubs back and forth in a rhythm.

“You’re young. Too young for me, probably.”

I squint back at him. “Nah ah. How old are you? Twenty five?”

“I’m twenty-six. What are you?”

“I’m eighteen.“ I snuggle further into his chest with my head. I can feel his hardness through his shorts, I think. “What is this, anyway?” I run my hand down his abdomen, but stop just below his belly button. It’s flat and hairless.

“What do you mean, what is this? I’m hard as fuck, Liz.”

I recoil for a second. “You get hard...just like that?”

He tips my chin toward him using a finger. “For a girl like you? Yes. God yes.”

“I’ve never felt one before,” I admit.

We’re in a public place. I can’t believe what he’s doing as he slips a hand down my shorts, under my panties, and right on my clit. I let out the tiniest of whimpers.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Does it feel good?” he shoots back.

“Your finger? Yes.”

I close my eyes and forget that I’m in the middle of a park with hundreds of people.

“Pretty girl, you don’t look so innocent anymore.”