Good Boy, Bad Boy (2015) – Part 2

Bad Boy

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The city of Cordoba finally came into view. It has been 20 hours on the bus from the North of Argentina but there is no better feeling than heading to see someone you like; every minute, every hour bringing you closer to where they are.

I must admit: I hoped I would meet someone else. Yes, I liked Fran, and yes, we had some sort of weird connection, but he would never be someone I would end up with. He spoke no English. He had never had a girlfriend. He wasn’t a real gentleman. I would never trust him to be faithful to me. There were many things that I just couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate. When I pictured my perfect guy, I didn’t see him in my head. If I had met someone else, I would have probably reconsidered this trip. After all, I was heading to see someone I had no future with. There were two choices: either we would end up fighting and what we had before would be ruined by this new memory or I would get so close to him it would be more painful leaving. Neither of these seemed like a good option.

Yet, here I was – on the bus, knowing all this and also knowing that I wanted to see him. These two weeks, he was all I thought about. What’s more, he became a kind of friend too. He wanted to know everything about my trip. He wanted to help me with my new video. Our conversations kept me glued to the screen when I should have been out meeting new people, yet, he was the one I yearned to talk to.

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“Che boluda! Como andas?”

I felt and looked horrendous, after our two sleepless night when I was attacked by bedbugs in the little village close to Bolivia. There was no way I was staying with him as he suggested I do. The other reason I was scared of staying with him is that now there would be no way for me to look independent. He would get used to my presence and no longer be scared to lose me. As I said, I seemed to care too much about how this guy felt.

So my German friend and an amazing confidante Tina (poor girl!) and I ended up booking a hostel in the center of the city. We finally took a shower, and I texted Fran to let him know I have arrived, but he was at the river outside of the city which put a bit of a dumper on my day. Why did he leave the city when he knew I was coming? After we returned to the hostel from fruitless shopping, I got a message from him offering to grab some food. Since I just ate, I offered to go drink something with Tina, his cousin and I. However, he didn’t reply for an hour. So this was it, I said to my friend, now that I was here he is no longer interested. I lay on the upper bunk miserably unable to do anything else but talk about him, tap my foot and check my phone every two seconds.

When he did reply, he was cold and told me if I wanted to go to a bar, I should just do it. I didn’t want to play these games. I want to see you, I told him. As soon as I did, he offered to drive back to Cordoba.

“Mia, please just say yes. You will kill yourself if you don’t” – told me my poor friend who has been listening to stories of Fran for weeks now.

I could hear his voice before I saw him. His strong Cordobes accent asking for me. His sun-tanned face grinning at me with the happiness of a child where I again tried to play it cool.

In the car, he explained the situation:

“I didn’t know what you wanted! I thought you were staying with me and then you switched to a hostel! You told me you were tired so I thought you wanted to sleep, but you offered to go to a bar with some other people. “

He took my face in his hands and kissed me. Just like that we were back in Mendoza.

That night after spending some time in the bar, mostly staring at each other, I went to his place – a high condo tower in an island of towers.

We spent the night together and he drove me to the hostel the following day, both of us dead from the night before. I ran back to tell Tina about my night, and slept for one hour before receiving a text from him asking me if I wanted to go to a city on the lake with him. He had to go for work and I would accompany him there. I was dead tired, but the thought of spending the day with him on the lake sounded great.

Mostly I had to accompany him to different places as he went about his job, so granted, I was bored out of my mind. There were many negative things about Fran that definitely outweighed the positive. On the walk, I talked about some guy, possibly trying to make him jealous though I can’t quite remember. All I remember is he suddenly decided it was a good idea to begin flirting with the girls at the “information” booth.

“You are obviously trying to make me jealous” I pointed out.

“Just trying to show you it can be done so easily.” He grinned mischievously.

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Carlos Paz

He would kiss me and grab my hand, then withdraw and not crack a smile for a while. When he was like this I didn’t bother trying to play clown and entertain him. He wanted to be like this? I would do the same.

As we sat in the car, he grabbed a bit of fat under my tricep with a playful smile on his face. I did the girly thing and tried to hit him, but the truth is it didn’t infuriate me. I knew what he was after. He enjoyed the push and pull of our temporary relationship. He enjoyed playing around. There was a certain element of sexual tension created by that though I will agree – it is not a healthy one. But as he grabbed me and I hit him, the more I hit him, the more he enveloped me, with me wanting him right there. I think it was the element of dominance present in all our interaction and that was the other thing that kept me wanting him over and over again. He was not nice.

That evening, I checked out of the hostel and moved into his place.

“You know what” He told me as we lay in bed “I am constantly aware that you are gonna leave soon and it keeps me hanging.”

Sleeping with him every night, I grew close to him. The sex that started out so terrible, has now evolved rapidly. I loved the smell of him, the imperfections he had, his soft lips, his eyes as he looked at me, the way he touched me – both sensually and possessively. The way he tried to make sure I would get an orgasm (as it is really difficult for me), almost going so far as to organize a daily ‘activity’ so that I would feel comfortable with him. The selfishness he possessed in daily life was replaced to utter selflessness when it came to pleasing me. He would completely forget his needs just to focus on me. I think again, it was his love of challenge that also drove this need. Either way, I began feeling so connected, that when he would wake up to head to work, kissing me and cuddling close to me before he put on his work clothes, I would feel completely and utterly alone, missing him immensely. The loud lock of the door was always somehow a reminder that this, whatever it was, would end really soon.bed,bw,coupling,dontwakemeup,love,sleep-930e8c23bd4b9c852ed236ced6a5b3ca_h

He began calling me “his woman” after I cleaned up the house and cooked a meal the first day of our “life together”. Of course, the chicken didn’t seem edible to him, and I might agree it wasn’t amazing, but he was a complete machista when it came to certain things. In real life, I doubt I would have survived one day being married to him.

He would do certain things that drove me crazy. As we went out one night, I remember, he poured beer first to his cousin, then to himself and only then to me. I stared at him straight in the eyes:

“You have no manners.”

He ended up apologizing right away, enjoying my lack of tolerance. I didn’t talk to him after, a twisted enjoyment of a certain argument that would lead to makeup sex. And yes, that night, as we came back he lifted me up and carried me to bed. It seemed like he couldn’t wait long enough to undress me.

The other day, as we met in the center, he told me I was beautiful then shut down and walked around grumpy.  The final straw came when we approached the car and called out to me like I was a cat.

“Do not call me like I’m an animal” I told him calmly with a strong edge to my voice. I was always careful to put my words simply (not hard since Spanish is not my first language) and be angry instead of wailing like a woman. Again, I ignored him in the car and he threw many looks my way.

As we got out, he kissed me softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are. You know exactly what you are doing.”
“I guess I am” He admitted.

“You like me getting mad, don’t you?”

“In a way I do.” He smiled. “I mean, that means you have your own rules, that you won’t take crap from me.” He didn’t want to push it far enough, but he definitely enjoyed the sexual tension, the certain drama that established attraction. Shouldn’t you already have attraction? Would ask most of you. Yes, we should have. We shouldn’t have played games, but Argentina is a country of games, the game of power and a certain part of me enjoyed it.

And the funniest thing is that even through all of this, he never truly pissed me off. While many nice guys I have dated in the past irked me so much, I would start arguments myself. I explained this strange phenomenon to him after his little argument. We loved discussing little psychological things like that.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “You see what I mean? When someone is too nice, you take advantage of them. It starts to get boring”

Did he try to make me jealous? I must say, Cordoba is a city of beautiful women and while you are always aware that there is someone gorgeous in front of you, you must not let it show. On Friday, we headed to his cousin’s condo for some pre-drinking. As the main character of my new video on a single guy in the city,  Alex, his cousin decided to invite two girlfriends of his. One, Laura was gorgeous. I mean, as soon as I saw her my heart dropped.

I was aware that he was observing her and at the same time conscious of my reaction. This was the moment I would not show any kind of jealousy. After a few moments of feeling a bit uncomfortable, I turned the situation around. I focused my attention on her and began telling stories about my experiences. Soon enough, everyone at the table tuned into my story. With all this attention energizing me, I glowed as I talked. I could see his face as he observed me. He found me the most interesting person there, it was clear.

His cousin struggled to find a girl in the club, and as he called one girl after another at six in the morning, Fran exchanged a look with me that said “poor guy. Thank God we are together.”

“You know what is weird” He told me the next day “I always look for something else. I go to a club and search for the prettier and the other… but with you, I only had eyes for you.”eye

Weird? You might ask. What kind of effing compliment is that? Of course he should have eyes only for you. He has just started seeing you and on top of it all, you are leaving. And yes, you are right. Of course it’s a ridiculous compliment. But it was an honest one. Fran was a player. And him saying he could see no one but me said a lot.

I could feel he was falling for me. It was the fact that I was still this independent girl that would leave, travel by herself. It was the fact that I wasn’t from there. And the fact that as opposites, we still somehow clicked.

The last night, he enveloped me in his arms.

“I love how your passion for what you do makes you glow. You are so special to me.”

That morning I cried. I took out the old sarcastic letter I wrote to him, turned it over and wrote another letter.

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Best buses in the world!

He was at the station wearing a yellow dress shirt. I had tears building up in my throat and couldn’t wait to get on the bus so I could finally let them out. Those final minutes before you know you will never see this person again are the worst to bear. As much as you want, you can’t breathe enough of them. You want to hurry up time and just leave as it is more painful waiting it out, finding words to say. Nothing meaningful comes out anyways. He slowly kissed me goodbye, taking time to read me for the final time with his eyes.

“I’m really sad, Mia” he told me. “I will miss my little wife.”

With one final smile I got on the bus. I sat like that, looking at him through the dark windshield. A fountain of tears he wouldn’t see poured down my face. Suddenly the bus began moving back and all I remember is him smoking and looking at me driving away. An unexpected wave of pain covered me. I never thought I would get as addicted to him as I did. Driving away from Cordoba I couldn’t stop my tears. It rained the whole night. I cried most of the night until I finally tuned out and fell asleep. I felt so extremely alone. After a week of sleeping in his bed, inhaling his clean smell, his stubble against my skin  I was now completely and utterly single.

Why was I putting myself in the same situation time and time again? Was I some sort of masochist, addicted to the finality of all my romances? I yearned just to have a boyfriend. Someone I didn’t have to say bye to, someone I could travel with and not from.

“I just read your letter” came the text “I feel so much emotion. I have no words. It was weird sleeping without you. No one woke me up because it was cold”

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Carnaval en La Pedrera

I was now in Uruguay, surrounded by beautiful Argentinian and Uruguayan men. It is not often you see so many bronzed, hot men in one spot, but here I was for the carnival. I finally distracted myself, yet sometimes the pang would come unexpectedly. I thought it would all be gone by now. Yes, I liked him, but the truth is there was nothing special about him. I doubt I would have noticed him among this football team of men.

“There is no point to any of it” we both wrote to each other.

“Actually” he texted “we shouldn’t even be talking by now”

“I agree” I said. “But I’m not sure I can just stop like that”

That night he sent me a voice message telling me nothing in particular, but that nothing in particular told me he missed me. I cried listening to it.

“You confused me” he wrote next time “I don’t know what to do anymore. I miss you. I want to travel with you.”

“You want to travel with me?” I asked “You can’t even come to Buenos Aires to visit me.”

I took a bus to Iguazu falls, then came back through Buenos Aires to stay on the seaside city of Mar del Plata when he texted me he might be coming to Buenos Aires in one day. Sure I wanted to see him, but changing my plans just to see him one more day before I had to leave the country for good seemed like it would cause me more grief than happiness.

Next day, when I finally decided that I did in fact want to come back, he told me it was too late. The chance to come to the city has come and gone. The next morning I woke up feeling empty and missing him with a great ache in my body. How was I still feeling this? It was not possible. It was the fact that he was now distant from me. The regularity of our whatsapp messages: photos, nicknames, voice clips have started to diminish.  I could visualize him going out to a club and picking up women, having sex with them in the same bed we shared. It was a painful visualization.

It was now me initiating most of the conversations. Yet, he still wanted to see me. He begged me to come over, saying we had a week left and could be together that one week. I just couldn’t imagine myself spending my last week bored out of my mind in his condo, waiting for him to come home from work. I wasn’t a housewife. I couldn’t imagine myself doing the exact same thing, of being with him, with now a more painful thought – I had to leave right after. Before, I still had plans ahead of me: travels, people and now there would be nothing else left. I couldn’t say goodbye once more, knowing I would never see him again.

I offered a compromise of sorts – he takes 2 days off work and meets me somewhere in between. If he was willing to do that, it wouldn’t just be me doing what he wanted.

He didn’t bother to reply to this request.

Good Boy

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La Plata

The night city of La Plata came into view from the window. Now I wasn’t excited or eager. I sat in the bus holding back tears each time I thought of Fran, with a feeling of nervousness and a big question in my mind: Why was I doing this again?

Alfie and I began talking two weeks before I had to leave back. I guessed it was my photos with Fran that didn’t make him too eager to write to me. So one day I wrote him, and then he started writing me and just like that, we re-established some sort of a connection.

I found Alfie attractive and sometimes even more interesting than Fran, but I wasn’t eager to see him. I wanted choice number 3 – not Fran, who would just hurt me, and not Alfie.

He lived near Buenos Aires, in La Plata and he invited me to come down for a couple of days. I started thinking about it. I knew he would offer me romance, some beauty during my final days in Argentina. We already knew each other. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. But what if being with him would be a constant comparison to Fran? The kisses, the looks, touch – it wasn’t him I wanted.

I guess I didn’t want to be alone those last days. But repeating the same old with Fran just didn’t feel like the right option.

Alfie jumped up when he saw me get off the bus. We kissed each other. He looked the same: boyish face, tall and built, less bronzed than on vacation. Our conversation was really easy. Actually it was way easier than it was with Fran. He kept on asking me questions, I joked around. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

He took me to a Tapas restaurant where we shared the tastiest plates of food I have tasted since coming here three months ago. Meat, potatoes, bread and empanadas really quickly lost their charm. I think I was starting to turn vegetarian.

“So, let me tell you where I went.” I talked on and on, knowing I had to explain the Fran situation right away. “From Mendoza I travelled up North and after that came down to Cordoba. You remember Francisco, right?”

Alfie nodded, an ironic smile on his tight face.

“Well, I met up with him. He’s actually kind of a friend now.” I added really quickly.

Alfie laughed. He didn’t believe me.

“What?” I looked at him. “He is. You saw photos of us, didn’t you?”

“I did. I was really surprised. I remember you told me nothing happened yet I was seeing you all over Facebook.”

“I get it. It must have been weird” I agreed, not knowing what else to say. Really, there was no need to explain it to him. It seemed like both of us knew that this, whatever it was, was second best to something else. Maybe it was an energy radiating from me. Maybe it was him. The point is, it was far, far different from the first night out in Cordoba with Fran.

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Fifty shades of white

As we walked out on the street, Alfie grabbed me to him and kissed me passionately. Finally, it felt like we could let loose and get some sort of intimacy. Unfortunately, the rest was not so great.
His sister’s house was something out of 50 Shades of Grey: minimalist white and black, sparkling counters, huge spaces, enormous windows. As soon as we walked in he walked me to the sofa, pushed me on it and began undressing me. Moments later, I was against the wall as he excitedly rubbed himself all over me. Fran made very little sounds during sex, Alfie made way too many sounds. The groaning, the dominance, the “look at me” as we had sex, the disconnected look on his face all reminded me of a porn clip. It’s not that I felt cheap per ce, as he always made sure I was okay, and no, he did not use whips or hit me like the infamous movie, but it was zero enjoyment for me. There was a lack of intimacy, a lack of playfulness, a lack of sensuality that I experienced with Francisco. After we were done, I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom crying. I started considering going home the next day.

But as we lay in bed, him pressed up against me, I felt something for the boy. I mean, he was different than Fran, but I should enjoy the time with him as it was.

“If you have a diary” he told me later “Do you have a little space reserved for me?”

It seemed like he knew he was my second best and maybe that affected how this short trip ended.

The next day we spent at the pool, having an interesting conversation about everything in the world. We had so much more to talk about than I ever did with Fran, but missing was the flirtation and playfulness. He never touched or kissed me, but as we went upstairs we ended up having sex again. I was sure now – I wasn’t enjoying any of it.

He dropped me off to visit a girlfriend I met the same time in Mendoza ( who knew the whole story) and picked me up afterwards.

“Let’s watch a movie!” he suggested grinning to me as we drove back.

“Sure!” I exclaimed, feeling a little surge of emotion for him, this boy who I couldn’t really understand.

We lay down to watch the movie, my legs on his lap, but it was too long and he had to drop me off at the station at 6:30 am. A few hours in I told him I was tired.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” he asked, the gentleman he always was.

“However you feel” I answered, giving him a chance to step in. He had no problem telling me what to do in sex.

“I think I’ll finish it” he answered, resolutely.

I kissed him goodnight.

woman-crying21Fran would have continued it and we would have ended up having sex on the couch. Alfie did no such thing. Our kiss stopped short and I left across this empty house feeling equally vacant. I sat on the floor of the bedroom, crying once more. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want more porno sex with him. I wanted Fran, with his impish smile and his possessive touch. I wanted our messy bed, the messy sheets we changed together, falling asleep on his semi hairy chest, his puffed up lips in the morning.

I went to sleep alone and saw Alfie get into bed hours later. He knew I was awake yet didn’t kiss me goodnight or hug me to him.

“Do you maybe want to drop me off later?” I suggested in the early morning. I was dead tired and it would make little difference to him.

“No, it’s better we go now” he said firmly.

We talked about nothing in particular and kissed quickly at the end. There were no more beautiful words from him.

He did write to me when I returned to Canada but his texts no longer included ‘kisses’ or ‘hugs’ at the end. Whatever started out as warm, has finished with polite pleasantness. A girlfriend of mine looked at his face in one of my videos and said “But he’s cold, Mia. He’s impassive and emotionless.” I agree that this boy who seemed “good”, “romantic” and a “gentleman” now seems to me troubled and withdrawn.

And do you think Fran with whom I shared a bit of history acted any different? I was flying through the Chilean airport when I finally had a chance to connect my phone. He knew when I was leaving and yet, never had the decency to write me a goodbye text. Hurt, I told him so. He offered me an excuse of thinking of me and wanting to text me, but it was clear this, whatever we had, whatever connection we shared has extinguished.

This pendejo (asshole), as I called him warmly, who seemed my imperfect, sometimes irritating ‘bad boy’… yet someone who constantly inquired about my day, my plans.. who seemed part of my life there in Argentina, has proved to be just that – an asshole. A boludo. A selfish guy who, after not getting to see me again, decided it was not even worth it to inquire about me. To send one sentence. One word.CheBoludoLogo

Now, writing this I am hurt. Editing his cousin’s video, I see his stupid, regular face and want to cry. I know this will pass. I know that a memory of him is the memory of my world in Argentina, of a life I will never experience. I know that his city stands somewhere, his apartment still the way it was when I last saw it, his clothes scattered all over the chair. And yet, while that apartment stands, I am here – miles away from him.MapaArgentinaCanada

Good guy, bad guy. It is the person you find a connection with. And when you do, they are your guy. And that’s the best feeling in the world.

PS. And then Fran and I found contact again.

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Real Life Stereotypes

  1. How you going, mate?

It’s one thing to call your guy friends mate. That means man, amigo, dude, tio in Aussie-speak. But calling a girl mate, especially when you are trying to hit it off with her is just weird.  This summer I met an Aussie guy who kept on calling me mate. Like “how you goin’ mate? Whatcha doin’ mate?” Do I look like your rugby playing friend? I kept on emphasizing. “I have boobs!”  but he didn’t seem to get the point. When he made a move on me, I figured OK, he should be smart enough to stop with the whole mate nonsense. Guess what? Even after we shared a  romantic kiss on the beach, he would still refer to me as mate. “You taste like saltwater, mate” he would quirp in that annoying Aussie voice of his. And the funniest thing? He thought that his obnoxiousness was somehow attractive to me. To his surprise, we never ‘hooked up’ and I ended up meeting a French guy who never in his right mind would call me something as asexual as mate.

2.   Going Dutch

I am assuming the term “going dutch” came from Holland. For those who don’t know, it is paying for your own share of food or drinks and personally the idea is repulsive to me. I would rather offer to pay for the guy than split my own side of the bill. In reality though, I am old-fashioned and truly believe the man needs to pay, at least for the first year or so. And after, just emotionally.

Last summer I met a Dutch guy who was great –  smart, funny and cute. I had a thing for him and he seemed to really like me. At least he was so nervous around me, I assumed he did.  He wanted to prove he was somewhat of a gentleman so he could ‘score’ so he asked me if I wanted a drink. I don’t think he thought I would say yes, but I did.   I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he debated whether or not it would be worth it to get me a drink.  Would we have to pay two point five euros each? How would we make it work? It took him about forty minutes as we went from bar to bar, to finally find a cheaper place and scrape enough cash to treat me. When he did, he felt as proud as if he presented me with a bottle of Dom Perignon. He never did score, so maybe I should mail him a check for my part.

3.  I am from Roma!

Seriously, Italian men just love the fact that they are from Italy. So much so that they call all their cities by their Italian names. “I am from Firenze! I am from Milano! I am from Roma!” Possibly it’s because they cannot speak any English, but most probably it is because they have to play their role of the Italian stallion, the passionate seducer. Think about it – have you ever heard a French guy say he is from Pari? Or a Russian one that he is from Moskva? Italian men are so full of it, I can write a novel on it. The best is when they pause significantly before saying they are from… (insert drum) ITALY! The land of love and seduction. One guy actually presented me with this line after kissing me. “I am leaving for Roma (!!) in one hour. But if we go to the beach right now, I can be your man for this whole hour!” To which I replied “I cannot believe my luck! What did I do to deserve this?” to which he of course replied “What?”

4.  French – the greatest lovers?

Ok, so the first time I kissed a French guy was actually this New Years, so I wouldn’t say I have years of expertise here. However, he was one of the most amazing kisses I have ever experienced. Slow, sensual, made me feel crazy tingles. So, after this I thought “Wow, are all French men like this?” No, they are definitely not. But I gotta say, they are damn sensual and pay a lot of attention to you. The last French guy I was with was a terrible kisser. He was more like a pecker. I felt like I was kissing a relative. However, he was one of the best “lovers” I have ever had (though I’m surprised I even got there with all that pecking). Once again, sensuous and slow and made me feel like I was the center of the world. After which I never heard from him again.

5.  Begging Brazilians

Whoever said that the Brazilians are the best ‘in the sack’? I wouldn’t know, because I never got there. Reason why? They are so damn horny and so bad at hiding it that it can get pretty repulsive. A few years back I went out with a Brazilian guy I kind of liked. I loved our kiss on the first date. He seemed classy. By the second date, his hand was almost in my underwear. I told him no. But why? He asked. It is nice weather. I like you. This is nice. When that beautifully expressed proposal didn’t get the response he desired, he still tried over and over. Maybe I should have  been more firm, which I am bad at, but at one point he started saying ‘please!’ ‘come on!’ ‘ the sky is beautiful. You are.. pretty!’ And then he almost took his pants off. In the end, I never found out how amazing he was in the sack, but he would make a hell of a beggar.

6.  Lying Latinos

Oh the things that Latin guys will say to you to get you in bed! But a lot of us have a soft spot for Latin guys. They are supposed to be the romantics, the lovers, the passionate seducers. Great husbands though? A few weeks ago I went to a Latin Festival, where I ran into a Colombian guy who asked me for my number about a month prior to that, before I left for vacation. He recognized me and asked why I didn’t answer his calls. Distracted,  I kept on looking at the little girl on his arm. His sister, maybe? Then, a short Latin woman joined him with another little kid. My daughters, he mumbled before I smiled to the family and politely excused myself. But clearly I haven’t had my share of Latinos yet, as I met another guy at the same festival. He was cute, tall, Chilean and we had a great spark. He eagerly asked for my number, told me he wanted to see me that week and I was convinced he was very interested. Next day, I found him on Facebook. Not just him, but a woman who was kissing him on his profile picture. Wearing WHITE. And he had a separate album for his DAUGHTER. Yep, two lying Latinos in one day. How is that for a Monday?

 7.  Simple Brit Lads

I love generalizing, really, because obviously there are British guys that are definitely full of it, cocky, arrogant pricks. However, what I have noticed is that British boys have one great quality – they are simple and straight to the point. Many women are simply not attracted to the Brits because they lack that passion and fire that more Southern men tend to play on. However, though dry and seemingly less romantic, they are honest. At least the guys that I’ve met. They will not try to use cheesy lines or lame, overused names like ‘bella’ or ‘hermosa’ that are as a rule tried on every single girl. Or even man (bello). They will say it as it is, but in the end, when they tell you they love you, they will mean it more than the men who use a lot of flowery language to get you into bed.

I have had a little fling with one English lad and up until this day, he still writes to me and asks how I am doing. Meanwhile I have not received even one message from the passionate Latin and Italian men who threw a lot of words around. So, don’t underestimate the power of the Brits. They did make the history!

8.  Oh Canada!

Oh, Canadian boys. I will be very mean and say that I have not once met a Canadian boy I really wanted to date. Many are cute, many are smart and even funny, but for me personally, something is missing. While there are exceptions to any rule, most have no depth, no charm, no culture. I cannot begin to describe how many times I have cringed at their responses. “Cool”, “awesome”, “nice, nice”.. How can everything be cool or awesome? Seriously?

Please prove me otherwise. I have lived in Canada all of my adult life and have yet to find someone who isn’t arrogant, doesn’t have ADD (because he cannot make conversation), doesn’t say the most typical things in the world and has some class or charm. You know where to find me.

9.  A Wife for an Eastern European

Eastern European men are spoiled. At least the ones that reside in Eastern Europe. Russia, Croatia, Serbia, Ukraine are full, and I mean full of gorgeous, model-like, skinny, perfectly dressed and feminine women. And since there are more women than men, guess what? Men can expect anything and get it. The man looks for a woman who can cook, clean, and manage to stay beautiful.

This I experienced first-hand with my first serious Russian boyfriend, who used to complain I didn’t help him clean his floors. I would see him maybe twice a week and he would ask me why I never helped him clean. “Because this is your house?” I would reply. Had I been in Russia, I probably would have gone into the bathroom to start soaking the sheets in detergent.

I guess this is why so many men prefer Eastern European and Asian women. They turn around and BOOM, their socks are clean.

10.     Are Germans Cheap?

Yes. And yes. I have many, many stories about the generosity of Germans, but one of them is really quick and special! It isn’t about me, but a friend of mine who was going out with a German guy for four years. After they broke up, she received an envelope with a letter inside. “Hmm” she thought “Maybe he wrote me a romantic letter about his feelings or a note to say bye.” Instead what she found was a bill for every single thing he has ever bought for her. She would have to pay it all back. How is that for romantic?

* Just as a side note, these are all generalizations or notes from my own experience. If you believe that Canadians are super charming and classy or the Dutch are the most generous men in the World, feel free to share!

Mistake # 2: The Mexican Tarzan (2010)

Yet another mistake of mine, as I somehow ended up with a dominant prick I hated yet felt strangely attracted to. I guess if we didn’t like dominance, Fifty Shades of Grey wouldn’t sell so many copies. Please don’t tell me it’s well written!

If you have read some of my other stories, you may remember the mention of my Mexican boss, Vicente.

He was my direct boss whose job was to make sure the animators did not slack off and were on practically every minute. He was an animator himself and has been doing it for a few years back, taking breaks every so often to play basketball.

I hated his guts.

Dark and not very attractive, besides his perfect six-pack, he was crude, machisto and thought he was God’s gift to women. Maybe because he was so confident in himself, or possibly because of that Tarzan-like masculinity, girls were drawn to him like moths to a flame. And not just any girls. Beautiful girls. I watched wide-eyed as he would roar up to the building on his scooter, with yet another girl on the back seat. What did they all see in him?

One night, shortly after I have arrived, I was on my way to the supermarket and saw three

Mhmm, tacos

Mhmm, tacos

of the animators sitting in a taco joint close to our house. Vicente was one of them. We talked a little bit and afterwards he gave me a once over:

“You are welcome to come to my place anytime you want, Mia” he winked.

Repelled by his cockiness I shook my head side to side with a smile. It’s not going to happen, buddy, I thought. Nice try.

He was a boss most of us were intimidated of, as he always looked rough and angry, even if he was making a joke. Most of the guys on the team, Jay included (read the Cuban), looked up to him as if he was their mentor. He did get the girls, after all. With his low and raspy voice, Vicente’s anger scared even me. However, just as soon as he would yell at me, there would come out this other side of him. He would suddenly look at me with that fire in his eyes and I didn’t know how to react.

Once, during a Disney rehearsal, he came up to me as I was waiting behind the curtain and pressed me to the wall. His breath was hot on my neck and I held my breath, not sure if I wanted him to make a move or not. Maybe that was it, I thought. Girls liked the power of the wild animal in him. They liked being so explicitly wanted. And they were curious as to what this Tarzan man would be like in bed.

Hmm...

Hmm…

To my relief, he soon left the team and was replaced by Marcel, a former model who also thought he was God’s gift to women, but who was a lot easier to work with.

I didn’t see Vicente for some time, even though he lived in the same building as me. However, after I quit my job, he volunteered in helping me find another one.

I came by his apartment, uncomfortable to say the least, because I almost didn’t know how to act with him. He was so different. Gentle and funny, he talked to me as we had never talked before. We decided to go to a club so he could talk to the manager for me. They could use me as a dancer, he said.

That night I was exhausted. Now that I quit my job, all I could do was sleep. I had no energy for anything other than talking to Javier (read The Chilean) on the computer and even the beach bored me to no extent. What was there to do but lounge around or pretend to swim in the water, just because it was there? It struck me as odd how obsessed people were with vacations and beach, when it was there and there was no more fun in it.

I forced myself to wake up and get dressed. I needed a job, especially now when I would have to move out of my apartment in a week and I would have nowhere to stay. I wasn’t allowed to stay with my Mexican friends, since they like me, resigned the same day. It was our pact: to make our boss’ life hell as he would struggle to find replacements. After all, not only did I tell him all I thought of him and our working conditions, but I left that very same day. This was our top boss, Pedro. What a prick.

Vicente invited his sister and friend along, which relieved me. Now I wouldn’t have to be

Playa bar

Playa bar

alone with him. The manager was busy, he said when we got to the club, so let’s dance. He took my hand and led me to another corner in the room and I followed him. Suddenly we were dancing close to each other and I could see the fire coming into his dark eyes again. And then I felt him go hard. I should have turned around and left right then and there, but I didn’t. In some strange way I was flattered by the attention he was showing me.

He pushed me down on the stage and kissed me, his hot lusty breath on my face again. It all happened so quickly, I had no time to respond. As soon as he moved away, I got up and ran to the bathroom to register what just happened.

What was I doing? I thought. I need to go home. Or maybe I need a drink.

I walked up to the bar and suddenly spotted one of Pate’s acquantances – Gabriel. Gabriel was a wealthy Mexican from her small city and has lived in Australia prior to coming to Playa where he worked as a bartender. He was very cute and clearly interested in me.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Sure” I said, looking over at Vicente who was at the other end of the room eyeing me suspiciously.

Mr. Tarzan then sauntered over and informed me of their collective decision to go to another club. If I hadn’t known Vicente better, I would even say he actually looked jealous.

“I’ll join you soon” I said, looking over at Gabriel.

Ok, so the question on your mind is what was I even doing talking to these two guys, when I was already involved in a long distance relationship. Haven’t I already mentioned that meeting guys no longer interested me as I was invested in being with Javier?

Yes, it is true. However, we are all human and Mexico can do some strange things to people. This night, I was too relaxed to think straight and that’s what led me to what I to this day regret.

The pool from Gabriel's camera

The pool from Gabriel’s camera

Gabriel wanted to show me the pool bar that he worked in and we walked up the staircase to this beautiful empty lounge where he kissed me. We kissed to the way to the club. And we kissed in the club, with me pressed against him. It felt like we were kissing for hours.

“Do you want to come to my place?” he asked.

“I can’t” I said. I looked over at Vicente, who now was really starting to look dejected and who I actually beginning to feel bad for. A practical side of me took over, thinking that I did need the job, and he was the only one who could help me get it.

“You are leaving?” asked Gabriel who was now looking dejected as well. Well, sorry, I couldn’t please everyone.

I sauntered over to Vicente. “You want to go back?” I asked.

“You had enough of your boy there?” he asked jealously.

“Oh him? He’s a friend of a friend.. something like that.”

“Good friend, I can see” he smiled. “Ok, let’s go.”

It was getting light by the time we reached the complex in the taxi. He paid the driver and we walked upstairs. My room was on the third floor so I had to pass by his on my way up. Then the craziest thing happened.

Vicente, clearly still desiring what he didn’t get, grabbed  me by the waist and pulled me inside. Not knowing how to react I didn’t. I just went along with it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He began kissing me, then he pushed me on his bed.

“What are you doing?” I gasped.

“Don’t worry” he said.

“I don’t want to have sex!” I exclaimed.

“We won’t” he said.

He continued kissing me until I felt something hard in me. He lied! I realized. He tricked me into having sex with him and I was the stupid one now.

“Vicente!” I yelled. “ I told you no”

“You want me to stop?” he asked. “I can stop”

“I.. I don’t know” I murmured. I didn’t know. He has already started so if we stopped now, what would I say this was? Was this sex or was this half sex? I realize that it’s stupid to consider the importance of what this would be titled at the moment I was literally tricked into sleeping with him, but my mind couldn’t stop spinning.

“I can put on a condom” he said and I silently watched as he opened his drawer and took one out. Why didn’t I leave? We continued whatever this was, was it sex or was it rape? I could technically leave, but I was somewhat forced into an intercourse with this man. Who was I kidding? I brought this upon myself. After all, who turns a Mexican guy on, makes out with another one and then goes home with him?

Finally it kicked in  just how ridiculous I was being and told him to stop. Now in a firm no, not a million weak no’s that seemed to have zero effect. He  registered what I said, throwing the condom down with some anger.

“I’m gonna go” I said, straightening my clothes.

“Stay” he said. “Lie down with me.” This was bizarrely turning into Jay, the Cuban, but it was even stranger hearing this from Vicente, who I have never seen anything but angry or horny.

“You know” he said, hugging me to him as I awkwardly positioned myself near him “I always liked you.”

“Uh uh” I said. And a million other girls.

“No, it’s true. I remember you came to this party in this golden dress and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I really like you, Mia”

I think my mouth must have dropped. He really liked me? He was my cocky boss who was the ultimate player. Was this a trick to get into my pants yet again?

I left him there and went to my room, lying on my bed for hours, unable to fall asleep. I have never really regretted having sex with someone until now. This felt wrong.

Had I been able to ignore him, maybe I would have somewhat forgot the accident, but as luck would have it, I had nowhere else to stay but his place for the last few days of my stay. He would come into the living room, where I lay curled up on the couch and lower his face to mine. I would keep mine turned sideways so he wouldn’t be able to kiss me. Look at me, he would say. The one time I did, he kissed me.

The next time, I saw him in the club dancing with a girl. She was all over him and I just felt disgusted at the whole thing. Would I now come home just to find him in bed with another girl? It’s not that I care, I told one of my girlfriends, if I didn’t have to live with him.

As I walked in the apartment, I saw her walk out of his room in his jersey. I knocked on the door. I just need a pillow to sleep, I told him. I’ll only be a second.

He asked me to come in. He was sitting in the dark, fully clothed to my relief.

“Why don’t you understand that I want to be with you?” he asked. This was bizarrely turning into a sappy Telenovela.

Who will Maria Gonzalez stay with? The sexy Antonio or the naughty Jorge? Stay tuned!

Who will Maria Gonzalez stay with? The sexy Antonio or the naughty Jorge? Stay tuned!

“I just saw a girl walk out of your room, Vicente! Are you kidding me?”

“We never had sex!” he yelled.

“Listen” I continued, grabbing my pillow and heading for the door “This doesn’t concern me. Sleep with whoever you like. I’m not your girlfriend.”

“But I don’t want you to say that” he said, banging the wall with his fist. “I like you. I want to be with you.”

“Vicente, I have a boyfriend!”

“It didn’t seem like that the time you were with me or that other guy”

“I know. But it’s true. I really like him and I can’t cheat on him again.”

“Can you at least just spend the night with me? I promise I won’t try anything during the night.” He begged, looking like a lost child.

“Okay” I succumbed. “But no funny business!”

He did try to kiss me in the morning, but thankfully, this time I pushed him away. A deal is a deal, I said. He sighed – you are so difficult.

Gabriel also tried to get in contact with me through one of my friends. He would call her phone and ask her if she could bring me along to wherever we were going. He sent me emails asking if we could meet again. I never replied. The thing with these Mexican men was that they were so easily turned on and until they fully got what they want, they would not stop. I knew that once I slept with Gabriel, his interest would quickly fade away. But had I now been able to chose who I would spend that night or rather the morning with, it would be him.

I guess regrets are there for a reason. They teach us a lesson. “Only an insane person would do the same thing and expect a different outcome” Albert Einstein once said and should I continue this trend, I am planning on placing myself into the nearest mental institution for examination.

After all, how many mistakes can I make and still not learn my lesson?