how very lucky to be a girl

I spent a sunshine-filled Sunday (and also my first day off in a couple weeks of pre-production) leisurely, on the patio overlooking the marina, enjoying a champagne brunch with an old friend.

Our waiter Martin took great care to keep our glasses continually filled.  He also took great care to express his disappointment at our inability or unwillingness to make the champagne in our glasses magically disappear between pours.  It was 11:30am.  Back off, Martin. We had a full day of drinking ahead of us.  It wasn’t our first time at the rodeo, and we knew better than to leave the gate at a sprint.

Between Martin’s excessive visits-slash-heckling and the occasional bird boldy taking perch at our table in search of scraps, there was Javier.  I didn’t know him.  Neither of us did.  But he tore past our table several times, like a whippet on world tour, back and forth between the patio entrance and marina gate, each time waving and nodding familiarly.  We were momentarily befuddled by this stranger who appeared to think he knew us, but each time, he quickly returned to his rounds and we to our conversation.

Later in the day, my friend’s boyfriend joined us.  No sooner had he taken his seat than Javier buzzed by, this time stopping at our table to speak.

Hello.  I am Javier.

There was no hiding his heavy Argentinian accent.  He repeated our names as we revealed them, shook hands with my friend’s boyfriend and made his way around the table to stand beside my seat.

I love your hair.  It’s beautiful.  Does it take you a long time to do?

I smiled.  What an odd first question from a straight man.  Perhaps he wasn’t.

I can’t tell you my secrets, Javier.  A girl’s got to maintain some mystery.

He smiled and pointed toward the marina.

I would like to invite you to be my guests at a party I am having on my boat.

I looked at my friends.

Thanks, Javier.  We’re still finishing up brunch, but maybe we’ll come afterward.

 

OK, well, why don’t you give me your number, then.

Numbers poured out of my mouth.  None of them my actual phone number.  Apparently, Martin had been successful in his champagne coup.  Javier sent texts to each of the three inaccurate numbers I had given.

Javier, as it turns out, I don’t know my own number.  Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll send you a text.

Hola, Javier.  Es Staci. Success.

I need to get going, Staci.  But I hope I see you later.

With that, he was off, and my friends and I returned to our brunch.

Moments later a text arrived.

Señorita bonita, por favor, venga verme despues.

I looked at my friends.

OK, kids.  He’s a hot Argentinian.  He owns a yacht.  And he thinks I’m bonita.  We’re going.

Of course they had no objections.  Who wouldn’t want to spend the remainder of the day at sea?

I texted my new boyfriend and told him we were on our way.  He came to meet us at the gate and led us aboard his boat.  Javier introduced us to his friends in passing as he made his way below deck, gesturing for us to follow.  I felt overdressed.  There were 5 or 6 women in bikinis to my black and white print shell dress and black platform wedges.  I was the last to make it cautiously down the stairs.  Javier stood waiting with a glass of Veuve Rosé and an outstretched hand, smiling when I took it and telling me in a whisper that I looked very elegant.  I graciously accepted his compliment.  Of course I look elegant, I thought.  All the other girls look like they’re in a Columbian drug lord’s music video. Javier handed each of us a glass and toasted to his new friends, winking at me.

We went back above board and took seats along the bow of his Sundancer.  Javier took a seat beside me and we sat getting to know one another.  I learned about his childhood in Buenos Aires, his immigration to the states, his failed marriage, real estate ventures, hi-tech career, and mostly I learned that Javier couldn’t sit still.  All of this information was extracted over a multitude of seatings, each interrupted by a busy host fluttering about to ensure the comfort of his guests. During one such drive-by, he put his hand on my knee.

Come with me.

He took my hand and placed his other in the small of my back, guiding me to the transom, down the stairs and to the dinghy at the foot of the yacht.

Let’s go for a ride.

I removed my shoes as his dog made the decision to join us and jumped into the front of the dinghy.  Javier followed me into the back seat and off we went out of the basin towards the bay.  It was there, in the glassy bay, that he kissed me, and it was then that I knew I was going to go to bed with this man.  We sat, in a small boat under the setting sun, making out for a while, until the Javier I’d come to know in such a short time, could no longer sit still.  We headed back to his boat in the basin and crept below deck to his room where we furiously disrobed and jumped into the bed.

Javier was good with his hands.  He knew how to use them, and well, as he playfully explored my body.  The temperature and excitement increased a hundred-fold as we played with one another.  All leading to the obvious, but not before scrambling, sloppily, for a condom.

It was then that Javier started with the dirty talk.  Some of it in Spanish.  It was surprisingly sexy.  Up to the moment of this gem:

You love when I give you all 9-inches.

And the thing is, I would have.  Except that there were about 4-inches missing.  So maybe it was lost in translation.  Or maybe 9 inches is shorter in Argentina?

 

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