My hotel was off the main street, down an unpaved road with deep ruts filled with pools of reddish brown muddy waters. It was owned by a Jewish family, built on a small plot of land, next to an empty lot. There was a pool in the back of the building.
That evening it rained. Bored, I went to the small front office and sat in a chair uninvited and stared at the pouring rain. The woman managing the front desk was petite. She wasn't particularly attractive. We started chatting about America and Costa Rica and Jaco and the rain. She was, not surprisingly, a surfer. And a biker. And knew how to fix cars. She lived with her father and her young daughter. She needed to go to dental school one more year to graduate, but had had to put her education on hold to earn money for the family.
We went to the porch and stood watching the rain in silence. I asked her what does one do around here. "Go out to a night club," she suggested.
"I don't want to go alone. I wish I had a date." This was idle talk, and I expected this conversation to end quickly.
But to my surprise, she said, "Maybe I can arrange a date for you."
I looked at her. "You know a single friend who might be interested?" She smiled mysteriously. "Who is this person?" I wasn't sure I was really ready to meet someone. But I was intrigued.
"Maybe it's me," she replied coyly.
"Really?" I looked at her again. Standing next to me, she barely came up to my shoulder. She had curly hair. Her skin had a brown tone that I'd never seen before. "What would you like to do?" I asked, my enthusiasm rising.
"Maybe dinner after my shift, and then we can go to a night club."
She gave me her number and her name: Arelyn.
Later that evening, after she'd gone home, I hesitated for a few minutes before calling her. I wondered why she'd so readily suggested that we go out. Was this one of those shady hotels you read about? Did she make some money on the side as an escort?
But I dismissed those thoughts and gave her a call. She answered and said she would be delayed, and the earliest she could make it was 9pm. It was a couple of hours away. But there was nothing else to do. So I waited. 9pm came and went, and there was no sign of her. I paced the corridor, wondering if she'd changed her mind. At 9.30pm I was about to give up and go to the little eatery at the street corner when she showed up. Overjoyed that she hadn't stood me up, I hugged her.
We went to the restaurant and ate. When it came time to pay the bill, she fished out a couple of coupons the restaurant had left at the hotel. That was very thoughtful of her.
It was still raining and I didn't feel like going to the night club. So I suggested that we go back to the hotel and continue talking. She hesitated, but agreed. I thought we would sit in the office and talk, but she didn't want the night-watchman seeing her. So we went to my room and sat on the bed facing each other. I hadn't been with a woman in a long time. In fact this was the first time I found myself in the company of a woman after my marriage. I leaned forward and asked if I could kiss her.
"On my cheek," she said coyly.
"Well, then forget it," I replied. "I want your lips."
She didn't refuse. So I took that as a passive acceptance. Our lips touched. And it felt like I was a teenager all over again, kissing a girl for the first time. Her lips tasted faintly of nicotine and something else.
"Do you smoke?" I asked in surprise.
"Yes, sometimes."
"But what's that other smell?"
She hesitated. "I smoked some weed before coming here." I guess she'd be nervous about going on a date with me.
The smell bothered me, but only a little. I kissed her again, nibbling her soft lips, lapping her tongue with mine. I held her in a tight embrace, her breasts pressing against my chest. I was aroused. I put my hand on one of her breasts. She withdrew a little. Perhaps I'd gone too far. "Sorry," I said.
"No, it's okay." She leaned forward and kissed me. We kissed passionately, pressing against each other. I kissed her neck and she shivered. I moved down slowly, till I was on her breast. I could feel her hard nipple through her blouse. I nibbled at it. She didn't push me away. I unbuttoned her blouse and traced the outline of her lacy mauve bra. I cupped one of her breasts in my hand, and then slowly peeled back her bra to reveal her lightly pinkish brown nipple. It was thick and erect. I pinched it softly. She liked it. I bent down and sucked on it, softly at first and then harder. I bit her. She pulled back. I paused and looked at her. She was the product of at least three races: her hair African, her skin tone a mix of African and Caucasian blood, and her nipple, I couldn't place it. I'd never even seen photos of a woman's nipple that color. I decided it must be the contribution of the native peoples of Central America.
I took her top and her bra off. She looked lovely there in the dim light of the room, her breasts bare, looking vulnerable, and even beautiful. I gently pushed her onto the bed and lay on top of her, pressing my pelvis against hers. She slowly unbuttoned my jeans and felt my penis cautiously.
"No," she said emphatically.
"Do you want to make love?"
"No," she said again. "I don't know you all that well."
I was a little relieved. Any lingering doubts that I might have had that she had a dual life vanished then. I sucked her breasts with renewed passion. Her back arched and then she pushed me away lightly.
"We're going too far," she said.
On the one hand I respected what she said and agreed with her. On the other, it was frustrating. There we were, fully aroused, wanting to have sex. After struggling with the dilemma for a few moments, I sighed and pulled up my pants. She wore her bra and her blouse. "I should go now," she said. I nodded.
That night, I slept soundly, not hearing the racket the rain was making outside.
The next morning when I went to the office to see her she greeted me as if nothing had happened between us the previous night. I leaned forward to kiss, but she pulled away. "Later," she said, keeping my hopes alive.
It had stopped raining, but I didn't go out. I told her I'd wait for her in my room. At lunch time she knocked on the door, entered my room quickly and shut the door behind her. We threw ourselves at each other.
"I have to go," she kept whispering. "If the old man--" the owner's father, a bronzed, sturdy man, who swam in the pool every day -- "came looking for me he'd get upset."
But I wasn't listening. I undressed her and then myself. We lay in bed, she on top of me, riding me, while I squeezed her breasts.
"I have to go," she repeated, every time we heard a noise outside. And she kept riding me, picking up pace, her body taut. And then I came, years of pent up sexual tension released in a few seconds of bliss.
I laid her gently on the bed and stared at her. I brushed the hair from her forehead. I looked at her breasts, but they did not arouse me. I kissed her, but almost chastely. I was filled with dread. What had I done? Why had I made love to someone I might never see again? What if she thought of this as the beginning of a relationship?
I went to the bathroom, confused, and cleaned myself quickly. I was hoping she would get dressed and leave, and every second that she didn't move, I grew more and more anxious. When she finally stirred, I was relieved.
She dressed and kissed me as she left.
"Do you want to have dinner with me?" I asked, unsure what to do.
"No," she replied. "I have things to do."
I was relieved, but also disappointed. I mean wouldn't she want to make an effort to maximize her time with me before I left the next day? Who knew when we'd meet again.
I spent the day wandering around Jaco, trying to find things to do. There just wasn't anything there. I've rarely visited a place and not found anything interesting to do. Jaco is that kind of place, unfortunately. Hot, sticky, sweating, I returned to the hotel late the afternoon. She smiled at me, not a conspiratorial smile as I'd hoped, but one that she gave every guest. She was getting ready to go home as soon as her replacement showed up. We talked, but about her daughter, and her ex, a man she never married, but had a child with. He was of Jamaican descent from the east coast, and spoke only English. She'd thrown him out of her life after catching him in bed with another woman. She was distracted, perhaps thinking about her daughter, her broken relationship.
As soon as her replacement came, she ran out, hopped on her motorbike and rode away as I watched on a little despondently.
The next day I coaxed her into the ante-room of the office, filled with towels and shampoo bottle and soap. There was no CCTV cameras here. I lunged at her breasts. She giggled. "I've never met someone who likes to touch so much," she said.
"What do you mean? The men you've been with don't touch you? They just take their thing out and shove it in?"
"Yes," she said. I wasn't sure if I should feel sorry for her or wonder if I was the one who was abnormal.
As I fondled her she kept pushing me away. "I'm working," she said.
"You were working yesterday too."
"Yes, but you're leaving today."
I stopped. She looked a little forlorn. It hit me again. She was right. What was I doing? That was her gentle way of pulling away, of protecting herself. I gave her a hug, kissed her on her forehead and led her back to the office where we sat on opposite sides of her desk and talked as I waited for my shuttle to arrive.
And when it did, she came out, smiling brightly. "Let's be in touch by email," I said. "We'll meet soon." I scarcely believed myself. She smiled and waved at me as the van pulled away, bumping along the street. I didn't linger to look back at her. What purpose would that mawkish gesture serve? I had a journey to complete.
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