We ordered beers at a nearby bar. "You know that's what we say about Brazilians in America, right?" I asked. "That you're all obsessed with sex."
She smiled. "We like it." She thought for a second. "Don't forget to toast. It would be uma lastima, a pity, if you didn't."
"Oh?" I said.
Ana giggled. "We say in São Paolo that drinking without toasting is seven years without giving yourself to anyone."
She illustrated this by pounding her fist on her open palm, the universally understood Brazilian symbol for sex.
I raised my glass. She watched me hungrily.
"What do you want?" she said later that night.
We were in a square in the old city. We'd upgraded, or downgraded, I guess, from beers at a bar to cachaça and Sprite on a bench downtown.
Safe answer. "You."
She smiled. "How?" She put her hand on my leg.
I took a deep breath and touched the henna tattoo on the back of her hand, right where the oval reached a point. "Quero comer isso."
"Com-egh," she said automatically, then stopped. She smiled.
Her hand was down my pants by the time we made it to the motel.
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"Yes," she said. She stood up, straightening her skirt. "I think we can do that."
Her hand was down my pants by the time we made it to the motel. The room was sparse and sterile. But for the round plastic bed, and the mirrors on the ceiling, it could have been a hospital. I pushed her against the wall and started undoing her shirt.
"Ay," she breathed. She reached for my hands to stop me. "I forgot, Americans love big breasts, and mine . . ."
I grabbed her hands. "I like small breasts," I said. I undid her shirt the rest of the way and started kissing her nipples.
She moaned, pushing me down on the bed. "Do what you said you would," she said. She didn't bother pulling her skirt off, just stepped out of her underwear. She pulled my pants off and straddled my face. "Você é meu rey, meu rey, meu rey." You're my king, my king, my king.
"Faiz tudo o que voce quer," she murmured. "Do whatever you want to me."
Entering her, I was nearly certain that she'd said quer wrong.
I decided to let it go.
When it was all over, we lay exhausted on the bed. "Ay, Saul," Ana said, "voce me mato. You've killed me."
She seemed immensely pleased with this observation.
She said, "That was exactly what I needed. My first American. I'd always wanted one."
"Cara . . ." I started to say, as in caralho, or fuck off. As in, I'm not an American, I'm Saul . . .
Then I smiled. I thought about good sex, and horny Brazilians. I thought about how, realistically, I was going to go home and tell everyone I knew what had happened, thereby helping perpetuate the stereotype of Brazilian women as horny and sex-obsessed. And Ana was going to do the same.
And you know, I was okay with that.
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