Parte 1. Los Americanos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

A random weekend. One chock full of straightforwardness. It reminds me of the time I smiled at drop-dead handsome man at the gym, amazed at my candor. I had returned from PR and I suppose the sun-kissed me, was also a more confident and secure me. Fast forward to him insisting on getting to know me right then and there. Initially, over coffee, which progressed to us on my roof. I assumed it was to continue chatting . . . yet as he breathed into my neck, he told me he only had interest in getting to know me physically. A perfect arrangement. We would be monogamous sex-buddies. I walked away from Mr. Handsome . .

So, this weekend has left me wondering . . . why am I so incapable and/or uninterested in only physical relationships and where is it written on me that I am the perfect candidate for such? Is this normal? Surely, it is known that for women, the emotional aspects of sex are crucial. But, I also doubt that all women are as cold as I? And is it common for men to be so straightforward?
Shaker, a friend of my ex’s, randomly texted me on Friday night stating he was at the El San Juan Hotel with his buddy, Marriedwithababy. I was giddy with excitement. I felt as if a gift from New York was here to satisfy my longing for the city and friends.

2am He is kissing me. Telling me how he always felt a connection, about the unexplored passion between us. How much he always wanted to get to know me. How he was drawn to me . . . yet, I was the ex. “Timing is everything,” he said.

Quizzically, I look and I said, what happened to your girlfriend. Aware that Shaker finally had a girlfriend from his birthday I attended a few weeks ago. He was happy. He was no longer the single bachelor, the typical guy of New York. Now in front me, he tells me, “She is still around. Perhaps, she is the one. My life is lacking passion.”

Ok. Great Shaker. So come have a passion infused weekend with me and cement the fact you should break up with her? Why is this so common? The comforting stage of relationships. Your heart is already gone, but your unmentionables need to stay?

I have no respect and/or empathy for people who stay in relationships past their expiration.
I leave the El San Juan Hotel. Erasing the ink of the laid-out itinerary for tomorrow. I want to hang out with them. Want to fill my New York void. However, my body is stuck in bed the entire day. In the evening, I go to dinner. Conveniently, an hour late. I ask for a glass of wine. He raises an eyebrow, “no cocktail?” No, I immerse myself in conversation with one of the other gentlemen. I enjoy myself, but I realize perhaps I turned my corner of the table into a private date. My body turned away from Shaker, I wanted to make it clear that I was not his.

Shaker, Marriedwithababy and I go to drinks afterwards. I am enjoying myself. We are laughing-it’s not an awkward affair. The evening continues. Then, Shaker restarts his engines.

Shaker: Attainingme, kiss me.
Me: No. You have a girlfriend.
Shaker: But, you agree there is something between us.
Me: It’s irrelevant.

At this point, I believe there was a rant asking for confirmation that we could go on a proper date and he would have a real shot if he broke up with his girlfriend. At some point during the rant, I turned from the object of pursuit into the evening pimp. Amazed at his admitted transparency–how evident his pure goal of sex was.

I gave a full run down of the girls that would be found in the lobby of La Concha: Attractive. Fashionable. Champagne drinkers. La Placita: Younger. Beer. Return to college days. El San Juan Hotel. We both agree that logistically, with his room upstairs, that this is perhaps, the best bet. However, we took a detour to Divas, a strip club. It was unlike the clubs in New York. Only lightly littered with some overweight men. It was dead. Depressing. Shaker found a girl with a nice bottom. Took her upstairs. Marriedwithababy turns to me. Makes his proposal. What the fuck am I? Why, oh why men? Someone restore my faith.

Continued . . .

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