Narrative 01: Santiago

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Author’s note: Santiago is the first instalment in a new collection of shorter pieces. Each narrative – limited to 5,000 words or less – recounts a different real-life event. As much as possible, nothing has been embellished: things unfold very much as I experienced them.

Some people’s names have been changed, however, for all of the obvious reasons.

*****

It was the late nineties. I was twenty-two, and had just arrived back in Santiago after six very long months in southern Chile.

Hired by a Canadian forestry company, I’d been managing a large timber survey about as far south in Patagonia as you could get. Further, in fact. When the highway stopped, we’d taken a boat for another eight hours to the isolated logging camp. What followed was backbreaking work, rain, wind, and a tangled temperate jungle.

Half a year later, now finally free of the damp and the mould and the leeches, I’d arrived back in civilization. I was flush with cash and in good shape after hacking my way through more than five miles a day of dense forest.

I literally hadn’t laid eyes on a woman the entire time I’d been there. I was achingly, maddeningly horny.

Walking out of the Santiago hotel after grabbing a shower and changing into something other than work clothes, I flagged the first taxi that I saw.

“English?” I said to the driver as I climbed into the back of the car. He waggled his hand. A qualified ‘maybe’.

Shit. How do I tell him that I want to find a place to get laid? Today?

I searched my meagre Spanish vocabulary for something that might work. “Tener sexo,” I said. I think this crudely translated, more or less, as ‘I really need to get fucked.’

He looked carefully at me in the taxi’s rear view mirror, and concluded pretty quickly that I wasn’t an undercover cop. He smiled, and nodded.

Thirty minutes later, we were far out in one of Santiago’s older neighbourhoods. Sharp sunlight on pale blank walls. Faceless two- and three-storey buildings hard up against concrete sidewalks. Not a tree in sight.

He pulled up in front of a small, nondescript door, yanked on the taxi’s handbrake, and looked at me in the mirror again. “Un momento,” he said.

He got out of the cab, knocked on the door, and was quickly admitted inside. It closed with a rattle behind him. A minute later, it opened again, and he waved his hand at me. “Ven.” Come.

I got out of the cab and joined him at the front door.

He wordlessly handed me over to a short, thickset bouncer type, who seemed to reside in the little hallway between the front door and a shockingly steep staircase. The bouncer looked me over carefully, waggled his head noncommittally, and then indicated that I should go up.

I turned to pay the taxi driver, and was surprised to find he’d already left. The bouncer urged me toward the stairs again. He hadn’t said a word so far.

I started up the staircase, noticing for the first time that the walls were covered with old, red, velvet-flocked wallpaper. The sconce lights were dim, but I could make out what looked like an ancient Persian runner on the stairs.

Finally reaching the landing at the top, I was met by a shrewd-looking older woman. She held up her hand towards me in a ‘stop’ motion. I obeyed, not sure what to do next.

She looked me over, seeming almost surprised at how young I was. She started rambling at me in rapid Spanish, and it was my turn to hold up my hand. “Solo un poco español,” I said, clearly demonstrating the fact that I could hardly speak any Spanish.

She laughed, and called back over her shoulder to someone.

Taking me by the hand, she led me away from the landing into a large sitting room – also dim, and also lined with red velvet wallpaper. Leather armchairs and wooden side tables lined the walls. An assortment of beefy older men sat in the chairs, most smoking cigars and drinking pisco. The centre of the room had been left wide open, almost like a fashion catwalk.

Looking at the men closely, I guessed that many of them were either military or police in civilian clothing. You could tell by their bearing, and their hard air of entitlement. They clearly resented me from the minute I walked in. I could feel my balls retracting a bit.

To a man, they swivelled their heads and studied me. I was lean, tanned and fit, with a (now) trimmed beard. My ragged hair, though, still hung down around my shoulders after six months in the bush. I definitely did not fit in: I was someone these guys would feel far more comfortable throwing in jail than sharing a drink with.

The old women clapped her hands again to get my attention and mimed knocking back a drink. Not a fan of pisco, I jumped at the first thing that came to mind. “Champagne?” I asked desperately.

“Champagne?” the woman echoed back, surprised.

“Si,” I replied, trying to appear more certain istanbul escort than I actually felt. What the fuck was I getting myself into?

She clapped her hands together again, this time with glee, and rushed out of the room.

Thirty seconds later, before the old boys could take advantage of her absence and start pummelling me, the woman swept back into the room. She was followed by an aged, tiny man carrying two thin glasses, and a champagne bottle in an ice bucket. He plunked them noisily down on the table beside me, eyed me carefully, and winked. He walked out of the room, cackling softly to himself.

I could hear a commotion in the hall outside the sitting room. Every few seconds, a different woman would peer briefly around the doorframe, scan the room, and then come to rest on me. This was usually followed either by a giggle, or a gasp, as their heads withdrew. There now seemed to be quite the whispered debate going on in the hallway.

With one sharp word from the old women, the murmuring stopped. She walked into the room, followed by her neatly organized chorus line.

There were twelve to fifteen women in all, looking like they’d come from every continent in the world. Scandinavian blondes, a redhead, women of Asian and African descent – someone for every taste under the sun.

Gathered in the centre of the room, they smiled at the men with practiced innocence, and thinly veiled boredom. They’d done this many times before.

When their gazes paused at me, though, their vacant expressions vanished. Each of them studied me carefully; trying to figure out what in the hell I was doing there. I felt like I was being sized up by a pack of wolves.

Finally, growing increasingly uncomfortable, I spoke up using the little Spanish that I could muster.

“Canadiense. Tecnico forestal,” I stammered. The men relaxed slightly, now understanding that I was a bit more legit than I looked. A Canadian forestry technician. Huh. No biggie.

Deciding to clinch things, I mentioned the name of the Chilean logging magnate I’d been working for. It was as if I’d said “Rockefeller” in a New York bar. The generals, hiding their surprise, all nodded their heads sagely. They looked at each other, and immediately pulled in their claws. I’d passed the test, I guess. They went back to evaluating the girls and sipping their piscos, now studiously ignoring me.

As the new bona fide celebrity customer, the women’s attention turned back to me. They were giggling again, and whispering excitedly to each other.

One by one, the madam introduced me to each woman by their first name. Some names were Spanish, some weren’t. They truly were from everywhere.

As they were called, they each stepped forward and twirled in front of me. It was almost like a beauty pageant with me as the sole judge. The women seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. The old men quietly watched the show from the sidelines, reluctantly ceding me first place in the whole affair.

Each woman was attractive in her own way – some in their late teens, some in their twenties, a few in their thirties. Each, though, also wore a certain look. It said that real passion was not for sale here: I’d just have to make do with a reasonable facsimile.

Feeling turned on and dismayed at the same time, I didn’t see any one woman that made me want to jump up and say “Yes, please.” Something just wasn’t clicking.

I started to panic slightly, not sure how the room would react if I said, “Thanks. But is there anyone else?” I didn’t even know enough Spanish to articulate it.

I’d underestimated the madam, though. She understood precisely what was going on, and nodded her head silently. Turning towards the door, she called out gently, “Sofia?” The girls all muttered in surprise.

After a few moments of silence, a young, shapely woman stepped shyly into the waiting room. There was no practiced artifice here. She looked completely out of place in the bordello.

She walked quietly to the middle of the room, and stood looking at me. I was floored. Of Spanish and Mapuche heritage, she was a classic beauty in her early twenties. Barefoot, and dressed almost primly in a simple cotton shift, she stood about 5’8″, with flawless olive skin and jet-black hair. She had wonderfully full breasts and hips, and her legs looked like they went on forever.

She looked pensively at me as I studied her. I was dumbfounded: I’d never seen darker, deeper eyes in my life. It was like looking into pools of ink. Sofia saw me take a sharp breath and then she looked away, staring down at her feet, embarrassed at the attention.

I looked over at the madam, who was watching me carefully. You literally could have heard a pin drop in the room. I nodded to her silently.

“Bueno!” the old woman cried out, and clapped avcılar escort her hands together again, sealing the deal. The crowd of women erupted in a flood of chatter, digging their elbows gently in Sofia’s ribs, and making what I could only assume were wonderfully lewd comments in whispered Spanish.

Sofia smiled nervously, and hesitantly walked over to my table. She sat down gracefully as the madam pulled the champagne out of the ice bucket and flourished it to the room. Nodding in triumph, the woman poured us two generous glasses.

I raised my glass to Sofia and silently toasted her. She hesitated, and then did the same to me, taking a tiny sip. As the bubbles fizzed in her mouth, she startled, looking almost shocked. Her first-ever glass of champagne? I wondered.

_________________________

The room quickly moved on to other things – namely, pairing off the remaining women with the waiting generalissimos. One by one, they hooked up and departed.

By the time Sofia and I had worked through the bottle of champagne, we were alone in the room. I wasn’t sure where to take things from here: we didn’t exactly speak the same language, and the bordello experience was brand new to me. Who was supposed to make the first move?

Sensing my unease, Sofia put down her glass, picked up the empty champagne bottle, and put it back into the bucket of melting ice, now upside down. Another dead soldier, I thought, remembering my grandfather’s favourite phrase.

Reaching over, she took my hand and stood. She moved with a cat-like grace, gently leading me out of the room and down a long, narrow hallway filled with closed doors.

Near the end of the hall, she stopped, turned to her right, and opened a door to a small, very tidy room. Maybe 8′ by 8′, there were no windows, and only veiled table lamps for light. A crisply made single bed lay against the far wall, and there was a plain wooden dresser holding folded towels, soap, and a basin of steaming hot water. There was no other decoration in the room: it obviously wasn’t meant for overnight stays.

Closing the door, Sofia stopped while she was still facing away from me. I watched her take a deep breath, throw back her shoulders, and then turn towards me. Her smile looked forced.

Oh shit, I thought. Now I know why I was attracted to her… she’s a rookie. Ah, Jesus… I was suddenly very uncomfortable.

She pointed at my shoes. I reluctantly kicked them off, now standing barefoot.

Visibly gathering herself together, she reached out to my belt, and slowly, almost awkwardly, slipped it out of the buckle. My cock jumped. I wasn’t sure at that moment if I wanted it to.

Sofia persisted, now unbuttoning my jeans and pulling down the zipper. My cock pressed out against my black underwear, already at full mast.

She looked down at my groin, then back at my eyes. She smiled again, this time with more certainty.

Leaning over, almost like a mother undressing a little boy, she pulled my pants and underwear down my legs to the floor. I stepped out of them, my cock waving fiercely only inches from her face.

Straightening up, she proceeded to unbutton my shirt, still not making a sound. I realized that, except for a few mangled words in the waiting room, we hadn’t said a thing to each other. This both shocked me, and turned me on. Mime sex? I thought.

As my shirt dropped to the floor, Sofia stepped back to look at me. My prick was throbbing, almost bouncing with excitement.

She picked up a towel, and laid it out across the middle of the bed. She gestured towards it, wanting me to lie down on my back. She stepped back to the dresser, fiddling with something.

I climbed onto the bed and stretched out, the towel now under my ass. She turned back to me with a hot facecloth in her right hand. Quietly stepping over to the narrow bed, she knelt down on the floor beside me, looking tentatively at my massively swollen shaft. I felt deeply awkward. And also in immense need of relief.

Gently, she reached out to drape the warm, damp cloth over me. It smelled of soap, and bay rum. It felt absolutely fabulous.

Working the fabric up and down my cock and then over my balls, she sponge-bathed me, now and then stopping to squeeze me almost playfully before resuming.

Washed to her satisfaction, she pulled the facecloth away and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. Picking up a small bottle of oil from the night table, she squeezed a few drops onto the palm of her hand. Nodding to herself ever so slightly, a determined look on her face, she reached out and grasped me between her slippery fingers. Slowly, rhythmically, she began jacking me.

I groaned, in heaven. Male to the core, my moral discomfort simply evaporated… I’d been waiting for this for six months. I completely collapsed into it.

Raising şirinevler escort my ass up off the bed, I tried thrusting myself up into her stroking hand. This really wasn’t going to take long…

Sensing that I was quickly moving climax, Sofia eased off, and released me from her grip.

She sat back on her haunches, studying me for a moment, and then reached down to the hem of her dress, pulling it off over her head in one easy motion, never breaking eye contact with me as she did so.

Ah Christ she was special. Firm, pendulous breasts, a narrow waist with the beginnings of a sexy small belly, a thick, shiny black bush, and legs that could stop a parade.

As she saw me staring at her breasts, she shyly pulled her arms up in front of them, hiding her nipples. Quickly reaching out, she grabbed another towel off the bed, and draped it over her lap. She was now both totally exposed and totally hidden at the same time. I don’t think I’d been more turned on in my entire short life.

Rising up off her knees, she sat on the side of the bed and leaned forward over me, taking me in her hand again. Pumping me slightly, she bent over, and gently took me in her mouth. It was like being wrapped in silk – delicate, and wonderfully warm.

For the next few minutes, Sofia slowly tongued my shaft, occasionally pulling back to power-stroke me for a few moments before taking me between her lips again.

I moved my left hand over to her inner thigh, and began running my fingers up her soft, exposed skin. As my hand moved higher, her legs separated slightly, opening to my exploring fingers. I lightly touched her labia, sliding one finger gently up and down between them. I was surprised at how wet she was. Moving higher, I sought out her clit. Flinching for a second, she seemed to pull away from my hand, and then change her mind. She slid her ass back towards me, and opened her legs wider. She was now making a soft, ‘mmph’-ing sound as she sucked the head of my cock.

Ever so lightly, I twirled my thumb around her clit. She gasped over my cock, and then took me deeper into her mouth.

Feeling an orgasm brewing, I clamped down on myself, and gently pulled away from her. She looked at me, confused, as if she’d done something wrong. I smiled up at her, took her by the hand, and silently pulled her down towards the bed. We lay entwined, breathing deeply.

Slowly coaxing her over onto her back, I began exploring her body with my mouth. We hadn’t kissed yet. I wasn’t sure if I should try that at the moment. Maybe too familiar, I thought.

Instead, I nuzzled her neck, and then slowly worked my way down her breasts to her swollen nipples. Moving lower, I kissed her stomach, and then gently trailed the tip of my tongue down towards her bush.

I could feel her grow tense as I approached her clit. Reaching out, she placed her hands on either side of my face, murmuring something that sounded like “No se que…” I don’t know that. She’d never had someone go down on her before?

“Por favour,” I pleaded in bad Spanish, desperately wanting to taste her. Trust me, I thought.

Slowly rubbing the tip of my thumb over her clit, I gently slipped my middle finger into her moist vagina.

I could feel her gradually relax, and her resistance fade. Looking almost embarrassed, she eased her legs apart again, closed her eyes tightly, and then sighed. She was going to give it a try…

Still slowly fingering her, I stopped massaging her clit, and spun my tongue down towards her sweet spot. She smelled so… singular. Deeply female, but as light as the sky. Even today, I still can’t describe the sheer joy of her scent.

My tongue glanced across her nub as softly as I could possibly manage. She shuddered. This was something totally new for her: someone pleasuring her, not her just going through the transactional motions.

I could sense a gush of fluid surge out of her – not coming; just welcoming me. My cock almost warbled with excitement.

Gradually, I slipped my tongue down through her parted lips to her opening. She made a sound I’ve never heard before, something both joyous and heartbroken. Hearing her, my heart broke a bit as well; I wasn’t sure why, but I suddenly sensed that Sofia had known great loss.

She raised her hands to her breasts as I slid my tongue into her. Slowly squeezing them, she pinched her nipples almost unconsciously, moving herself towards completion. Panting, she began to buck her hips slightly.

Looking up at her writhing on the bed, I had the irresistible need to be inside her. Pulling my mouth away, I arched up between her legs, shifted forward, and without hesitation slipped my cock into her as far as I could go. There was no resistance, no surprise. Just acceptance. She pushed back towards me, wanting as much of me as she could take.

Pausing, slowly melding. And then fucking: calmly, in slow, deep strokes.

Sofia opened her eyes, looked at me, and stopped moving. With surprising grace, she rolled me over onto my back while still keeping me firmly inside. She sat, straddled me, looking happier than she had all night.

“Buen,” she whispered, and began grinding herself on my pelvis.

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