August 26, 2009
Raise your hand if you’ve never had a Mr. Big in your life. Or maybe a Mr. Small, it doesn’t really matter. The point is I bet that every woman meets a good-in-paper kind of man, at least once in her lifetime… An elegant, mature, secure, confident, professional and splendid (AKA rich) man.Wouldn’t it be nice if, at least, this papacito lived in the same Continent? “What you have is the United Nations, my dear”, my friend said. But that’s a different story. For now, let’s get into what we’re here for:
Once upon a time, in a very hot and humid Miami night, I was sitting with my favorite couple, having some drinks. They’re my favorite because they always make me feel so comfortable with my third wheel ‘part time job’. Even better, they will always encourage me to entrench my relationship with Johnny (as in Johnny Walker, of course).
And so I met Peter.
By the time I saw him first I was already louder than Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and Celine Dion together and funnier than Ellen DeGeneres and Stephen Colbert together. Or at least, that’s how I felt. More so, it was around 3:00 am when we first had eye contact. It was a Wednesday night.
This tiny detail is quite important to me, since it makes me feel proud, yet a bit nostalgic. I mean it’s hard for me to understand how did I manage to have such an active nightlife before, and now, my bunions start bothering around midnight. I guess the lunch-break naps in my car, the feet splattered with Bengay and the two Advils before bed, have a lot to do with it, right?
Oh well!
Once inside Club Bed, I had an epiphany: I had always thought that what happens in Bed, stays in bed. But little did I know... Anyhow, my friend Estrella and I immediately went on our tour of recognition using the ‘going to the bathroom’ type of excuse with her husband.
By the way, I just hallucinate with women’s capacity to lie shamelessly. What’s that bathroom bullshit, anyway? Raise your hand if you had never use the ‘I have to pee’ pretext so you could go check out the hotties in the back.
“Fuck, I love the music here, but it’s so freaking loud that it’s impossible to meet anyone!” I told Estrella. “True, and that’s exactly why we need to go back to our ‘VIP corner’ and drink our asses off”, she replied convinced.
And so, that “be careful what you wish for” shit stroke back! Cause he was right there. Bald. Sitting on the stairs, thoughtful and lonely. His right hand massaging his chin kind of how you will see Obama on a Parliamentary session.
Thanks to the fact that the last time I felt shyness Ricky Martin was still straight and Britney Spears was a virgin, I went ahead and sat down by his side, imitating his pose.
And that was it!
Estrella swore I had just run into a long time friend, so she kept on walking towards our ‘VIP corner’ where her husband was awaiting us with recently poured free drinks. But I stayed there with Peter. Cool and relaxed. As if nothing…
He couldn’t stop laughing after my ingenious pick up line. And of course, the questionnaire began right away: “What the hell are you thinking about. It’s 3:00 am, dude!”
Still shocked by my imposed geniality, he smiled and came back with a: “What makes you think I’m thinking?”
¡FUCK! I was officially fucked!
“One can’t resist this sharpness!” I thought. Nothing worse than a handsome, nice, smart, funny and cynical single man, at three in the morning, on a Wednesday, while one is in-heat.
Minutes later, the five of us were at the bar: Sole, her husband, Peter, Johnny and I. Nothing could ever separate us. “What therefore Whisky has joined together, let no man separate”, I said while toasting.
“So, when’s your birthday?” he asked. “January”, I replied unable to control the instant thought of him being gay. I hate generalizations. But I need to admit that they make things easier a lot of times. Specially, when it seems too good to be true. Cause then, it probably is...
“You want to kiss me”, he added. I (totally drunk almost disfigured) felt suddenly sober again. “Who told you that?” I responded visibly mad. “It’s a given. Cause you’re a Capricorn and so am I. And I can’t wait to kiss you”, replied the hijo de puta.
¡Joder! If we were to make the best pick up line competition, his (and “For you, I will kill a whale with my chancletas”) will definitely make it into the Top 5.
If I tell you we didn’t stop making out for the next three hours, I won’t be exaggerating. More so, I can assure you that this was the best make out that I remember having in a public place. (Please note the deliberated use of the word ‘remember’)
It was time to go. Or at least that’s how I felt when that motherfucker swept my feet with his nasty broom. Club Bed was closing. And there we were. Such as Strangers in the Night…
“Ok, we have two options: Option #1- I put you in a cab home, give you a sweet good night kiss and no sex. Option #2- we come to my hotel and you put me in bed with a sweet good night kiss and lots of sex”, suggested the Swedish man.
Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I chose to shut up. I grabbed his white hand and got into a cab. “1604 Bay Road, please” I told the driver. I looked at Peter and said: “Option #3- YOU come to my place and we kiss until we have to have sex”.
I’ve never been a teaser. In fact, I hate cock teasers, those girls that rather being the fair maiden in the window. Cause instead, I’ve chosen to be the whore in the bed. Capiche!?
The morning after the story was quite different. Neither my honesty nor my determination could help our case. I guess alcohol was smarter than love. We just past out the minute our butts touched the mattress.
What about sex? NADA, NADA!
Not to mention the fact that it was already Thursday, and of course, I had to go to work. I offered him a ride back to his hotel and he accepted happily. It was about 17th Street and Meridian Avenue (where is full of beautiful tropical palm trees) when he decided to get conversational: “What’s your favorite word? Every writer must have one”.
I wanted to kill him! But since cynicism is a gift of the chosen ones, and OBVIOUSLY God had chosen me to pay some sort of karma that morning, I looked to the sky and said: “Penca”.
Try picturing his reaction… This poor man only knew how to say hola, burrito, Taco Bell and adiós. Very funny me, huh? I told him that my favorite word was “penca” just to get rid of him and the tortilla turned back over me. ¿How the hell do I translate “penca” so he understands what I’m saying?
I mean it was only 8 am. We had only sleep two hours. I could hardly remember how we got home or who the hell was he, and he was asking me what was my favorite fucking word. ¡No jodas, chico!
“Penca is the thing that hangs from the palm trees. They’re very long, green, sometimes annoying, and heavy”, I explained eloquently.
Translation: “pencas” are longer than our make out last night; greener than my vomit this morning; more annoying than having to come up with your favorite word at 8 am; and stronger than the hate I feel for Johnny right now.
And just like that, this beautiful story of love, travels, romance, friendship, weeping and farewells started. Peter and I are still friends and talk sometimes. And we still sing to each other that Sinatra song that seems to have been written after us. Along with You’re So Vain, of course.
We have gotten together in Miami, New York and Stockholm. Have talked over the phone from Hong Kong, Bangkok, Mumbai, Helsinki, Miami, Copenhagen, and Bogotá… You name it!
Such a jet setter's life the Swedish bald man and I live, right? And every time we get together, that same cool feeling strikes back. And it gets even more intense. And it gets into sleeping mode very now and then. But it’s always there. Latent. Fucking around!
“You set the bar even higher, coño!” I once told him while over the phone. “There are only two persons in this World that leave me with no answers: my dad and you”, he told me while getting drunk at a bar in Stockholm.
“Don’t worry, Penca. The Swedish moonwalk is still alive”, he replied in a text message after Michael Jackson’s dead. “You dance faster than Angelita Lind”, I told him while dancing hip-hop another night, at the Hudson Hotel.
“My girlfriend broke up with me right before Christmas” he confessed one time via Skype. “Who am I going to text now when I’m drunk with Johnny” I asked the
day he told me he had a girlfriend.
“Why her?” I asked. “I think she’s the one. And she lives in Stockholm. But if I wouldn’t have met her, I’d be flying to New York more often, and not for work”, he answered.
¡Vamos! No wonder why they say that “love from afar happy the four”… Actually, even though I do believe whoever invented this proverb was quite clever, I also believe he was pretty bad in Math. So I suggest the following adjustment: “Love from afar happy the six”. “The SIX?” asked my psychic. Yup! The six.
The thing is that I met Peter on August 13, 2005. And from then on, my life changed, but not my promiscuousness. Therefore, ever since, I’ve had two (countable) boyfriends and Peter has had two (known) girlfriends. Meaning, 1+1+2+2=6, right?
State that back then I was resistant to watch Sex and the City. Mostly, because I thought it was just a stupid trend, the refuge for all those bitter spinsters.
Nowadays, not only is my Bible, but also the fucking series helped me understanding what the hell happened with MY Mr. Big.
I realized that not all your soul mates make the man of your life. That not every man who makes you feel pretty, smart, clever, secure, funny, fucked (VERY WELL FUCKED) will make the father of your kids. That not only because they call you right when you’re about to loose faith in love, saying: “What the World needs is not more beautiful or smart women. What the World needs is more Pencas”, will necessarily make the right person for you. Because there are many great loves in one’s life. Peter is one of them.
Aha! Paradoxically, that’s what my heart tells me. Meanwhile, my conscious screams: What the fuck is that jerk waiting for to pick you up on a private jet and fly you down to Phuket? Don’t know. All I know is that PENCA is and will always be my favorite word.
Diva Silente ©
And so I met Peter.
By the time I saw him first I was already louder than Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and Celine Dion together and funnier than Ellen DeGeneres and Stephen Colbert together. Or at least, that’s how I felt. More so, it was around 3:00 am when we first had eye contact. It was a Wednesday night.
This tiny detail is quite important to me, since it makes me feel proud, yet a bit nostalgic. I mean it’s hard for me to understand how did I manage to have such an active nightlife before, and now, my bunions start bothering around midnight. I guess the lunch-break naps in my car, the feet splattered with Bengay and the two Advils before bed, have a lot to do with it, right?
Oh well!
Once inside Club Bed, I had an epiphany: I had always thought that what happens in Bed, stays in bed. But little did I know... Anyhow, my friend Estrella and I immediately went on our tour of recognition using the ‘going to the bathroom’ type of excuse with her husband.
By the way, I just hallucinate with women’s capacity to lie shamelessly. What’s that bathroom bullshit, anyway? Raise your hand if you had never use the ‘I have to pee’ pretext so you could go check out the hotties in the back.
“Fuck, I love the music here, but it’s so freaking loud that it’s impossible to meet anyone!” I told Estrella. “True, and that’s exactly why we need to go back to our ‘VIP corner’ and drink our asses off”, she replied convinced.
And so, that “be careful what you wish for” shit stroke back! Cause he was right there. Bald. Sitting on the stairs, thoughtful and lonely. His right hand massaging his chin kind of how you will see Obama on a Parliamentary session.
Thanks to the fact that the last time I felt shyness Ricky Martin was still straight and Britney Spears was a virgin, I went ahead and sat down by his side, imitating his pose.
And that was it!
Estrella swore I had just run into a long time friend, so she kept on walking towards our ‘VIP corner’ where her husband was awaiting us with recently poured free drinks. But I stayed there with Peter. Cool and relaxed. As if nothing…
He couldn’t stop laughing after my ingenious pick up line. And of course, the questionnaire began right away: “What the hell are you thinking about. It’s 3:00 am, dude!”
Still shocked by my imposed geniality, he smiled and came back with a: “What makes you think I’m thinking?”
¡FUCK! I was officially fucked!
“One can’t resist this sharpness!” I thought. Nothing worse than a handsome, nice, smart, funny and cynical single man, at three in the morning, on a Wednesday, while one is in-heat.
Minutes later, the five of us were at the bar: Sole, her husband, Peter, Johnny and I. Nothing could ever separate us. “What therefore Whisky has joined together, let no man separate”, I said while toasting.
“So, when’s your birthday?” he asked. “January”, I replied unable to control the instant thought of him being gay. I hate generalizations. But I need to admit that they make things easier a lot of times. Specially, when it seems too good to be true. Cause then, it probably is...
“You want to kiss me”, he added. I (totally drunk almost disfigured) felt suddenly sober again. “Who told you that?” I responded visibly mad. “It’s a given. Cause you’re a Capricorn and so am I. And I can’t wait to kiss you”, replied the hijo de puta.
¡Joder! If we were to make the best pick up line competition, his (and “For you, I will kill a whale with my chancletas”) will definitely make it into the Top 5.
If I tell you we didn’t stop making out for the next three hours, I won’t be exaggerating. More so, I can assure you that this was the best make out that I remember having in a public place. (Please note the deliberated use of the word ‘remember’)
It was time to go. Or at least that’s how I felt when that motherfucker swept my feet with his nasty broom. Club Bed was closing. And there we were. Such as Strangers in the Night…
“Ok, we have two options: Option #1- I put you in a cab home, give you a sweet good night kiss and no sex. Option #2- we come to my hotel and you put me in bed with a sweet good night kiss and lots of sex”, suggested the Swedish man.
Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I chose to shut up. I grabbed his white hand and got into a cab. “1604 Bay Road, please” I told the driver. I looked at Peter and said: “Option #3- YOU come to my place and we kiss until we have to have sex”.
I’ve never been a teaser. In fact, I hate cock teasers, those girls that rather being the fair maiden in the window. Cause instead, I’ve chosen to be the whore in the bed. Capiche!?
The morning after the story was quite different. Neither my honesty nor my determination could help our case. I guess alcohol was smarter than love. We just past out the minute our butts touched the mattress.
What about sex? NADA, NADA!
Not to mention the fact that it was already Thursday, and of course, I had to go to work. I offered him a ride back to his hotel and he accepted happily. It was about 17th Street and Meridian Avenue (where is full of beautiful tropical palm trees) when he decided to get conversational: “What’s your favorite word? Every writer must have one”.
I wanted to kill him! But since cynicism is a gift of the chosen ones, and OBVIOUSLY God had chosen me to pay some sort of karma that morning, I looked to the sky and said: “Penca”.
Try picturing his reaction… This poor man only knew how to say hola, burrito, Taco Bell and adiós. Very funny me, huh? I told him that my favorite word was “penca” just to get rid of him and the tortilla turned back over me. ¿How the hell do I translate “penca” so he understands what I’m saying?
I mean it was only 8 am. We had only sleep two hours. I could hardly remember how we got home or who the hell was he, and he was asking me what was my favorite fucking word. ¡No jodas, chico!
“Penca is the thing that hangs from the palm trees. They’re very long, green, sometimes annoying, and heavy”, I explained eloquently.
Translation: “pencas” are longer than our make out last night; greener than my vomit this morning; more annoying than having to come up with your favorite word at 8 am; and stronger than the hate I feel for Johnny right now.
And just like that, this beautiful story of love, travels, romance, friendship, weeping and farewells started. Peter and I are still friends and talk sometimes. And we still sing to each other that Sinatra song that seems to have been written after us. Along with You’re So Vain, of course.
We have gotten together in Miami, New York and Stockholm. Have talked over the phone from Hong Kong, Bangkok, Mumbai, Helsinki, Miami, Copenhagen, and Bogotá… You name it!
Such a jet setter's life the Swedish bald man and I live, right? And every time we get together, that same cool feeling strikes back. And it gets even more intense. And it gets into sleeping mode very now and then. But it’s always there. Latent. Fucking around!
“You set the bar even higher, coño!” I once told him while over the phone. “There are only two persons in this World that leave me with no answers: my dad and you”, he told me while getting drunk at a bar in Stockholm.
“Don’t worry, Penca. The Swedish moonwalk is still alive”, he replied in a text message after Michael Jackson’s dead. “You dance faster than Angelita Lind”, I told him while dancing hip-hop another night, at the Hudson Hotel.
“My girlfriend broke up with me right before Christmas” he confessed one time via Skype. “Who am I going to text now when I’m drunk with Johnny” I asked the
day he told me he had a girlfriend.
“Why her?” I asked. “I think she’s the one. And she lives in Stockholm. But if I wouldn’t have met her, I’d be flying to New York more often, and not for work”, he answered.
¡Vamos! No wonder why they say that “love from afar happy the four”… Actually, even though I do believe whoever invented this proverb was quite clever, I also believe he was pretty bad in Math. So I suggest the following adjustment: “Love from afar happy the six”. “The SIX?” asked my psychic. Yup! The six.
The thing is that I met Peter on August 13, 2005. And from then on, my life changed, but not my promiscuousness. Therefore, ever since, I’ve had two (countable) boyfriends and Peter has had two (known) girlfriends. Meaning, 1+1+2+2=6, right?
State that back then I was resistant to watch Sex and the City. Mostly, because I thought it was just a stupid trend, the refuge for all those bitter spinsters.
Nowadays, not only is my Bible, but also the fucking series helped me understanding what the hell happened with MY Mr. Big.
I realized that not all your soul mates make the man of your life. That not every man who makes you feel pretty, smart, clever, secure, funny, fucked (VERY WELL FUCKED) will make the father of your kids. That not only because they call you right when you’re about to loose faith in love, saying: “What the World needs is not more beautiful or smart women. What the World needs is more Pencas”, will necessarily make the right person for you. Because there are many great loves in one’s life. Peter is one of them.
Aha! Paradoxically, that’s what my heart tells me. Meanwhile, my conscious screams: What the fuck is that jerk waiting for to pick you up on a private jet and fly you down to Phuket? Don’t know. All I know is that PENCA is and will always be my favorite word.
Diva Silente ©
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