The Cuban

by Kim Rodriguez

  “Boss! You need a Band-Aid or something?” Sandro reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, and as he turned around to hand it to Rafa, I could see that he was trying not to laugh.

  We made it back to the house in minutes, and Sandro helped us get Rafa’s bag and the groceries as far as the foyer. Rafa noticed Kieran and Ken’s Louis Vuitton luggage all over the place but turned his attention back to Sandro.

  “Rafa, I got a call while you were listening to Led Zeppelin.” I had to give him credit for being so professional, but among three adults I was surprised he managed to keep a straight face. “Someone important asked to see you tomorrow. I told him you would be busy making arrangements, but he asked for a favor. His oldest son is in a lot of trouble. Drugs.” He leaned over and whispered a name in Rafa’s ear.

  “Three o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here at two.” With that, Sandro said good night to us both and left.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “A congressman.” Gesturing toward all the luggage, he asked, “Is your brother back?”

  “He is,” I said, nuzzling his neck. “He met someone in Japan and got married last night! I have a brother-in-law now.”

  “It’s cuñada, with an a,” he said, running his hands along the back of my skirt.

  “No, I mean cuñado. A man.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “He’s wonderful. I can’t wait for you to meet them both in the morning.” Then I remembered the rest of it. “They leave tomorrow night, and then Kieran’s moving to Los Angeles to be with his husband.”

  “I’m sorry about that, mamita.” said Rafa, sensing my disappointment. “But I’m here with you now.” Then, smiling, he ran his hands along the garters under my skirt. “I like these,” he purred.

  “Want to come with me and clean up?” I raised my eyebrows and glanced at his pants.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’ll wash my hands down here and start cooking. I’m starving, and you must be, too.” He took off his shirt and gave it to me. “But since it’s a mile up to that room, you can throw that in our laundry basket for me though, please.” I admired his physique as always, and I couldn’t wait to watch him cook shirtless.

  “You don’t want to take a shower?”

  “I took a shower a few hours ago.”

  “Well, I mean because of—”

  “Amada,” he said in a low, measured tone, “to be honest, I like knowing it’s there, and the way you’re acting is making me like it even more. I’ll take care of it later.”

  “I’ll be right back then,” I said, still uneasy, but bizarrely turned on again by the deep tenor of his voice.

  “Actually, wait a second,” he said, reaching for my shirt. “Before you change, let me see that bra in the light.”

  ***

  We spent the next hour making Cuban picadillo in the kitchen. First, he washed some uncooked rice by scrubbing it between his hands until the water ran clear, explaining how washing the rice had always been his job in his mother’s kitchen. After setting the pot of rice to cook on the stove, he made something with onions and peppers called a sofrito, added ground beef, a splash of sherry and a handful of raisins, then let it all simmer for a while in a very small amount of tomato sauce.

  In less than fifteen minutes he’d plated the meat over rice and we were eating together at the kitchen table, and to Rafa’s delight I ate far more than I should have of his delicious food. I particularly loved the raisins, which I’d never had in a savory dish, because they made every bite slightly sweet and extra delicious. Rafa agreed and told me a story about how he always used to save them for the end, until the day his brother came by and stole them all. After that, he made sure to always enjoy the best part of his meal first.

  “Never put off for tomorrow what you can enjoy today, mamita,” he said, blinking slowly as his eyes went down my body and back up again.

  “I love it when you tell me stories,” I said. I pierced the last plump raisin on my plate with my fork and brought it to his lips, in awe of how he opened his mouth and accepted it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “I love it when you feed me,” he said, almost to himself.

  When we were done cleaning the kitchen together, he said we’d have Cuban coffee and toast when we woke up. He promised I’d enjoy it, and I had no doubt I would. I watched as he wiped off the counter and started the dishwasher, trying to remember where my coffee cups were. I spotted them on the very top shelf of a tall cabinet and stood on my tiptoes to try and pull two out for the morning. Still a few inches out of my reach, I was just about to go drag a chair into the kitchen when Rafa’s strong hands locked around my waist and lifted me up with ease.

  Up in our bedroom, Rafa finally got around to showering and changing into his regular sleeping attire, a soft pair of cotton boxers, when I had an idea, so I went down the hall to my office and pulled a big leather-bound edition of a book I hadn’t read since college. I found my book light and went back to the bedroom, pleasantly surprised to find him still awake.

  “Hey,” I said quietly, slipping under the covers beside him. “I thought I could read a little of this to you every night. In English.”

  “What is it?” he said, tilting the spine of the book in the direction of the light.

  “Miguel de Cervantes,” he read aloud. “Don Quijote de la Mancha.” His beautiful blue eyes went back up to mine. “You remembered.”

  “Ready?”

  He turned on his side and faced me. “Ready.”

  “In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to recall, there lived not so long ago ...”

  CHAPTER NINE

  In the morning I opened my eyes to total darkness except for the light streaming into the crack between the cream colored drapes. For one brief moment, my heart sank just as it did every morning once I became fully conscious of the ennui that had slowly seeped into my mind and discolored everything around me. But today, it was the opposite. I shut off the alarm and leaned back into something sharp, so I reached behind me to find the ten pound book I’d been reading when I fell asleep. That’s right, it was Don Quijote, and Rafa had been with me, arms crossed, on his side, watching my mouth as I read to him. I don’t remember anything after that, but it had been like a dream. I hesitated, afraid to turn around and find no one there, but when his hand found mine, my fears fell away.

  “Good morning, my queen,” said Rafa, his voice scratchy and dry. Buenos dias, mi reina. I smiled, not really because of his many terms of endearment for me, but simply because I loved the sound of his voice. He moved the book aside and in one swift motion pulled me into him. He was hard everywhere, and I wondered what it would be like to fall asleep on his chest if he got fat and soft. It would be divine either way.

  “How did you sleep?” I asked, pushing my bottom into his erection.

  “Better than I have in a very long time.” He nuzzled my neck and slipped a hand into my robe. He began to stroke my breasts with the lovely feather light touch he knew I enjoyed. “I feel rested.” Descansé. “And you?”

  “The same.” I turned to face my Rafa, still so sleepy, but handsome like no other man could ever be. His usually gelled and groomed hair was an unruly mess, which made him all the more adorable. It was nice to know that there was one thing about him that wasn’t perfect.

  “Take this off,” he said, trying to undo the loosely knotted tie at my waist.

  “Say it in English, and I’ll take it off.”

  “You would deny me pleasure because of my shortcomings? That’s just cruel.”

  “We can’t, Rafa,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. “I’m bleeding. For at least another two days.”

  “Oh, that again,” he sighed. “I told you I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Because of the sheets?” he asked, still trying to coordinate himself enough to open the knot. “Let’s go in the shower.”

  “No, it’s not t
hat. I don’t even like buying tampons at the store.”

  “Oh, wow, you really are uptight about it then,” he said, giving up on the knot, still half asleep. “Well, I’ll buy them for you.” Then, he closed his eyes and started to laugh. “Anyway, tonight I’ll get you so worked up you’ll let me do anything.” I’m not sure if he even meant to say it out loud, but it was exactly how I imagined Rafa’s mind would work. He opened one eye and added, “Maybe we’ll have to switch to anal sex once a month.”

  I sat up, tense. “No way.”

  He burst out in laughter and pulled me back down to the bed, showering me with little bites and kisses all over my neck and chest. “I know, Amada, but you make it so easy, I can’t help it.”

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  Rafa studied me for a minute, clearly wondering if this was casual conversation or if I was leading up to something. “I’ve never done it and have never really had a desire to.” He groaned and came closer, wrapping his leg around me. “But I’ve thought about it with you.”

  “You thought about it the day we were out on the balcony.”

  “Yes, and many times after that.” He kissed me on the forehead and rubbed my thigh, then gave it a little squeeze.

  “So it’s safe?”

  “We’d have to be careful about certain things.”

  “Like what?” I propped myself up on my elbow and stared down at Rafa. “You know, Kieran has only been with women up until a few months ago. I wonder if he’s aware of the things you’re talking about. Are most people?” Rafa rolled onto his back and thought about my question, probably debating how technical to get with his answer.

  “In my experience, no. I don’t think the majority of people are as cautious as they could be, but keep in mind you don’t know for sure how experienced he is unless you ask, and you might be surprised.” Rafa took my hand and held it in his. “You shouldn’t worry. He’s a grown man, and I doubt he wants to discuss it with his sister. Just be happy he’s in love, and let him handle the rest.”

  “Believe me, I’m thrilled, but I still think you should talk to Kieran,” I said. “Actually, I’m kind of interested, too. I think we both need the talk.” I couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of Rafa as a medical professor in front of a whiteboard, pointing at all sorts of charts and diagrams.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, sitting up. “If he ever comes to me on his own and asks, then fine, but I’m certainly not going to approach him, and don’t bring my name into it if you start asking nosy questions. I want us to get along, and I have as much interest in his sex life as I assume he has in mine. None.” But then he changed from stern to playful in an instant, a knowing smile creeping across his face. “And I’ll give you more than just a talk right now if you keep it up.”

  “No, thank you,” I sighed, feigning boredom. “I’m uptight, remember?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, kissing the bridge of my nose. Now we were on our sides, face to face. “You’re just proper. Until you’re underneath me.”

  “My hang ups about blood must seem ridiculous to you.”

  “If it matters to you, it matters to me,” he whispered in my ear. “But blood is powerful and sacred, the halfway point between body and spirit. I don’t know why you’d think I wouldn’t want to touch yours. If I were bleeding, would you recoil from me?” His tone changed and I started to realize he was aroused, so I began to think about how I could make him happy, but his mind was already there. “One thing you might like,” he said, touching my face, “is oral sex.”

  “We already do that, handsome.”

  “Not everywhere.” He closed his eyes, presumably imagining us in that position, then kissed me, his tongue moving in odd ways, as if trying to show me what it would be like. I blushed at the thought, yet it turned me on immeasurably.

  “As soon as you let me anywhere near your beautiful ass,” he panted, “I’m going to lay you on your stomach, tuck a pillow under your hips and show you.”

  “Are you sure, doctor?” He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the hand washing. I think you’re a little germ phobic.” I meant it as a joke, but apparently my comment was more accurate than I anticipated.

  “Maybe,” he said. He rolled onto his back again and tucked an arm under his head.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I am afraid of sickness. I’ll never forget what it’s like to walk into a field hospital at the beginning of a shift. God, the smell. During an epidemic it’s packed with nothing but cholera beds, and every single one is occupied with a patient in extreme distress.”

  “What’s a cholera bed?” I asked.

  “It’s a plastic sheet with a hole in it and a bucket underneath. That’s the deluxe accommodation. When you run out of those wooden cots, it’s the ground.” He shifted uncomfortably, his body language betraying how deeply troubling the memories were to him.

  “Oh my God, Rafa,” I said, looking into his eyes. I’d never fully understand what he’d been through. My face must have fallen because he immediately put his hand under my chin and gave me a big smile.

  “Hey, that’s why I don’t like to talk about it with you. Out of necessity, I’ve had a lot of practice disconnecting emotionally, but you haven’t.”

  “You can tell me,” I said, wanting to relieve his burden somehow.

  “No, I can’t. But I just want you to understand why I am the way I am, that’s all. I’m probably too cautious, but when you’ve seen so much needless suffering, it’s difficult to be cavalier. Amada, you have to start taking care of yourself. Just trust me when I tell you I know what I’m talking about. Good health is precious.”

  “I will,” I said, feeling overwhelming respect for him. I caressed the back of his head and put my cheek on his, something I did when I was feeling particularly close to him.

  “You’re a good man,” I said, breathing in his scent. “You must have looked like an angel in white to all those sick people.”

  “Green,” he said, with a little laugh. “Ugly, dirty green scrubs.” He started to rub his cheek against mine. “I’m not what you think. I was so arrogant when I was younger. I fought a lot, and I have a horrible temper when I’m upset or scared. I’m no angel.”

  “That’s called being human,” I said.

  “I love you,” he breathed. He rotated his hips so that I could feel his arousal. “Please, don’t worry about all that and let me touch you.”

  “I have a better idea. How about we work on your English so that you can get back to doing what you do best?” I asked, stroking the side of his face. “Well, second best.”

  I glided my fingertips down his neck and over his chest, tracing his nipple and following the small little curls of chest hair all the way to the waist band of his white boxers. I slipped my hand inside and found him, warm and inviting.

  “This is your first special language lesson,” I said in English, “and if you do well, there will be more just like this.” I swirled the little bead of moisture at the tip with my finger. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, profesora, “ he said, speaking to me in English now. He pulled off his boxers and rolled onto his back, now fully erect.

  “Professor,” I said, absentmindedly brushing my fingertips up and down his smooth phallus. “In English there is no distinction between a male or a female teacher. A woman is also addressed as ‘professor.’”

  “Yes, professor,” he hummed. I didn’t think it was possible for Rafa to get any sexier, but his Spanish accent in English was so seductive. I’d heard it the first night, but now that I was used to speaking to him in Spanish, I really noticed the nuances of his speech. For whatever reason, his voice seemed even deeper.

  I continued to touch him at a leisurely pace, propping myself up as I contemplated his flawless body. We both watched as my hand went up and down his length, then locked eyes.

  “In English, how many women have you had sex with, Rafa?”

>   He hesitated, so I released him. He groaned and caught my wrist before I could pull away completely and placed my hand back where it had been. “Seven, with you. Only with my girlfriends.”

  I resumed stroking him and watched as he closed his eyes and his expression relaxed again. He put his arms behind his head and sighed. “Repeat after me,” I said. “’Seven including you.’”

  “Seven. Including. You.” He was careful to pronounce every syllable, making each word sound like a separate sentence.

  “Now the most important question. Were any of them prettier than me?” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the most adorable way.

  “No. You are not pretty. You are beautiful.”

  “Very good. Whether it’s true or not,” I said, leaning in, “that’s the right answer.”

  “Yes, I know this.” Rafa laughed and then rested his hand on my arm and left it there. “But is the truth.” As his lover, I adored his sexy accent and savored the compliment, but as a teacher, I made a mental note to explain the parts of speech and insist he stop rolling the letter r in English. This was a lovely new level of intimacy for us, as I knew how self conscious he was, yet he still let me see him at his most vulnerable.

  “Did you love all your girlfriends?” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to this one. I reached underneath and followed his curves to the flat spot that always made him moan.

  He hesitated again, but this time I could tell it was because he was trying to find the right words, so I didn’t stop. “Care, yes. Love, no.”

  “Did you tell them you loved them?”

  He licked his lips, remembering and struggling to find the right words. “I said, te quiero, not te amo. Is different. I say te amo to you.”

  “I understand,” I said, still teasing him with my fingertips. “When did you fall in love with me?”

  “When I saw you at the table,” he said slowly, trying to string the words together properly. “You were ... elegante. Elegant. I wanted to kiss you and... acercarme?”

  “Get closer,” I answered.

  “I wanted to get closer. I wished ... you were my wife.”