It all happened very quickly. Riku was lucky. He wasn’t just the first, he was the first American man I’d interacted with “romantically” after Adam. Actually, I had responded to his ad. He had a nice face. The profile wasn’t particularly deep, but at that time, I was quite inexperienced in the area of American romantic relationships, so I had nothing to compare it to.
I didn’t know what it would be like. I just accepted the moment. Let it be whatever it will be. Was I nervous? Yes. A wild situation in a wild hotel, Days Inn. Everything around was wild. A wild rain surrounding my car. Wild fear of stepping into the world and living on my own. Everything was unnaturally wild. Me. Alone. For the first time. Without a man. I’m building my life. I’m studying insurance. That’s why I came to Orlando. I rented a hotel room. I’m meeting a man. Riku.
He called, as we had agreed, after I settled in the room, and immediately I noticed his strange accent. “Riku, what’s your nationality? You have such a funny accent.” “Me? I’m Indian. So, do you want me to come over?”
A light shock. This was the last thing I expected. Really, I couldn’t tell his accent over Messenger. “Yes, of course, come over.” Well, after all, a meeting doesn’t obligate anyone. I’m curious. Curious!
Forty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. I open it… Everything is different. He really is Indian, though his skin is light, and his face is handsome. He hands me a flower. He’s shy. He was born in Kenya, raised in Canada. A few years ago, he and his family moved to Florida, and a year ago, his father died of cancer. Now, he and his mother are trying to make money off the business his father left them, sell the house, and return to Canada, where the rest of their family lives…
I put on my new (stripper shoes) transparent sandals, and we drive in his new white Toyota Tundra to some supermarket to buy a bottle of wine. A corkscrew. Glasses.
He doesn’t drink. He pretends to drink. Sips from the glass and doesn’t touch it again. We turn on the TV. He stares at me without looking away. I can see that he likes me. I’m already bored. I detach, do what I want, say what I want, turn on the music I love. He watches and pours more wine. He listens and smiles. He stays quiet and listens. Brilliant, Riku! If I didn’t know you weren’t too bright, I’d think you had a unique understanding of female psychology.
I get drunk quickly. I stretch out on the bed. I’m tired. I’m really tired. And Riku offers me a massage. Should I refuse the massage? Men? Alone in a foreign city? Longing for touch? Massage me, mister.
Riku puts his soul into the massage. He loves my back with his hands. He caresses, strokes, tries. And passionately kisses my neck. I’m a little sensitive ball of fluffy fur. How could I close myself off to such a wonderful sensation? After all, at this moment, I honestly don’t care about anything else. I’m not attached to anyone. I have no internal connections or obligations. There’s Riku, and he wants to kiss my neck. And from that kiss, the night and day blend into one point, and I forget about what happened before and what will happen after.
He strokes my body. He kisses my lips. He kisses me without stopping for over an hour. I feel like I’ve never kissed for that long. He finds all the sensitive spots, but he asks for nothing in return. He just gives, gives, gives endlessly, as if in this giving, there is all that he can take. He kisses and caresses me the way no one has kissed and caressed me in a long time. He is so sincere in his desire to give. And he asks for nothing in return. There’s no hint of trying to take. He’s very aroused, but he caresses as if, if he stops, everything will collapse, and the world will end.
Riku is 23. I was that age 11 years ago. And I begin to feel that he’s the closest person to me. How can he know me so well? But for a moment, I freeze, trying to listen to him, and he says, “Cool guys kiss well.” And I realize that perhaps this is the sport of twenty-three-year-olds.
At 6 AM, he starts working. He gets up and heads for the door, setting the charts at twenty-eight, but actually countless of my orgasms. Without sex. I wrap myself in a sheet, and he bids me farewell with the heartbreaker phrase, “Even without makeup, you’re so beautiful.” It’s hard for a thirty-four-year-old woman to forget him after those words. Or at least, those words…
I never see him again. He’ll get nervous and play the “cool guy,” and I’ll wish for a “just a real guy.” But for a proud Indian guy, it’s hard to understand. And one day, I’ll tell him that I don’t want to talk to him anymore. Ever. My twenty-eight orgasms don’t define closeness. I was just fine. And I’m just grateful for that evening. And for the fact that sex was not a necessity.