His name was Carlo and I had encountered him in my professional life around six months earlier. Back then, I worked as a Business Consultant and had been leading some strategy development work with the South African branch of a well-known multinational. He was an Account Manager for a big name IT company and had participated in some of the strategy workshops. There he was at my sister's Sunday barbecue (or "braai" as we call it in SA), standing quietly on the periphery of the usual group of guys gathered around the flames of the grill. He looked a somewhat solitary figure, gazing absently into his glass of wine whilst the others were drinking beer and laughing too much at unfunny jokes. In the background, a few children were playing noisily in the pool with their mothers perched around the edge enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. It was clear to me that it was not at all Carlo's scene.
I recalled him from those strategy sessions as being insightful and focussed in his contributions which were delivered in a cool and professional manner without any of the sales pitch that normally comes from people in his kind of position. I placed him as a little younger than myself, perhaps mid-30's, but it was hard to tell. There was a certain gravitas about him and that was complemented by his dark framed glasses.
Seeing him in a different context, casually dressed in a white polo shirt and well-fitting jeans, with a confident posture, looking lithe and fit, I have to say that my inner slut started to stir. That it was for a guy was a little unusual but not unheard of.
As I approached him, his face broke into a lovely smile of recognition and we engaged in a brief hug. He stood head and shoulders above my petite frame but I was used to that kind of situation. I discovered that he was a friend of my sister's husband, Brett, and was in Cape Town for the weekend ahead of a Monday business schedule. He was holding his glass of wine as if he wanted something more so I asked what he was drinking.
"I'm not too sure," he responded, "but I think it is some kind of Merlot/Cinsaut blend."
"If you give me your glass, I know where they keep the good stuff," I said. "I'll get some for you."
I handed the fresh glass of wine to him, he looked into it then swirled it expertly and took a couple of sniffs.
"A nicely aged Pinot, not too much wood and a touch funky," he said, then took a good sip. "That's excellent," came the verdict.
I gave him the estate name and the vintage and then went off to bring us some of the cheesy, choux pastry bites that had just come out of the oven; one of my sister's specialities.
"You're spoiling me," he said, "but it's always good to be with someone who has the inside track."
"I wouldn't do it for just anyone," I responded, "but, tell me, do you like these braais?"
"Well," he answered, "they always smell better than they taste in my experience but I have to say that it's never been my favourite way to spend an afternoon. I'm just here because I was invited and I would just be kicking my heels otherwise. What about you?"
"I agree totally," I responded.
He looked away for a moment and then looked into my eyes. "Look," he said, "if you square things with your sister and with Brett, then we could slide away. I noticed there's a new tapas place with a real Spanish chef close to my hotel and it's open all day. I assume you've got a car outside."
We'd struck an instant rapport and I very much liked his boldness in wanting to turn the afternoon around. There was only one way I could see things heading. My inner slut was fully awake and I had to remind her that it was still important to take it step by step.
"It's a black Porsche out on the grass verge." I said. "Give me a good five minutes. You do the driving."
*
I watched his angular hands, with their trimmed nails, on the steering wheel as we drove into the city. I like good hands, in fact, if they weren't good hands, he wouldn't have been with me.
"What did you tell your sister?" he asked.
"She's my sister," I replied, "That's all you need to know."
"And Brett?" he asked.
"Don't worry," I replied. "She's got Brett well under control."
He drove smoothly and surely, without much to say, and I think he was enjoying my car. We ended up in Camps Bay outside a smart hotel that overlooked the beach. The car was left in the care of the hotel driver/doorman and Carlo took hold of my hand for the short walk to the tapas bar. Few of the lunchtime crowd remained and we were able to find a sheltered table out on the patio.
The wine list was presented to us and I let Carlo ponder over it for a while. He chose a local Chenin Blanc from a good estate for which I nodded my approval and we headed into the main area to check out the offerings. The trays of food hiding behind a large glass cover, lying upon a chiller, were a little bare after the lunchtime servings and a swarthy man, who I assumed was the chef, appeared and apologised for the lack of options. From that point on I have little idea what happened because Carlo broke into very fast Spanish and the chef took a step backwards. The conversation lasted a while and eventually they seemed to reach an agreement.
"What was that all about?" I asked as we returned to our table.
"He was thinking we are stupid locals and would just accept what was left over," Carlo responded, "but now he knows better."
"He seemed intimidated by you" I said.
"My father was Spanish and very upper class," Carlo explained. "At home he spoke Spanish to me whilst my mother spoke English. In Spain, class is very important because it represents power or the lack of it. Your accent says everything. I picked up my father's accent and that's what he heard. I think we can expect a very nice little meal."
And so it turned out. A plate of seared baby calamari tubes, dressed in olive oil, garlic and herbs appeared together with a dish of olives and some warm crusty bread. It was not exactly tapas but it was totally delicious and I was impressed.
As we chatted, I learned that Carlo was shortly to be moving to London to his Company's European HQ. The trip down to Cape Town was about saying farewell to some colleagues and a couple of valued customers. It seemed like I had snared him at the very last chance.
*
I like rooms in smart hotels. For some reason, they have me feeling safe and free and sexy, not that I needed to be thinking any more about sex at that point. Carlo's room was on the top floor with a view over the South Atlantic. Unfortunately, the sun had already set and dusk was falling rapidly. We embraced and kissed, sensing each other at close quarters for the first time. His body felt as good as it looked, toned and powerful, and I wanted him to be strong and demanding of me. I wasn't there for the romance; what I wanted and needed was sex. I broke the embrace and took a step back.
"What would you like me to do?" I asked. "Tell me and we'll see ..."
I'd caught him by surprise and he paused for a moment or two.
"This might be a little different," he said, "but since you ask, what I would really like is to watch you strip off those clothes and lie back on the edge of that bed with your legs wide apart so you are fully exposed."
It seemed he had read me very well, and it was my turn to be surprised. At the same time it was perversely exciting.
"Certainly different for me," I said after a short pause, "but I'll do it with pleasure."
