My Tiger Woods

The story. 10pm 6/1/10

The buzzer rings unexpectedly. We had just arrived home. The doorman’s voice through the intercom echoes, “You have a guest here.” A replies hurriedly, “I’ll come down.”

As I unbutton my dress, laying the night to bed, I question who it was. I thought a dealer as A has an affinity for weed.  Five minutes pass, then ten. I notice his phone on the island and perplexed as to what could be taking so long, I look for an answer. No texts, no missed calls. My fingers continue to scroll through a history, one that paralleled us . . . 

What I discovered was more than one could ever fathom. Impossible. Not just a double-life, but multiple. A storied existence. The trashy thong I found in the bed long ago was reduced to child’s play.  Alexandra, Erica, Celine, Julia, Anne Marie, Ila– too many to count. Female emotions splayed via texts.

My heart palpitated as I expected him to arrive any moment. My desire to peek was countered by a fear of being discovered; ironic, as it was he who had been uncovered.

Time passed without his return. I took notes in an attempt to put it all together. Perplexed since I had been there almost every night for the past month. When, where, how?  Many of the texts were waning from previous encounters that seemed once regular.

Ila “You are the only man I love. If only we could be together. Why don’t you respond.”

Julia “You are mia.” “Where are you?” “We weren’t safe last night. I am worried . . . ” “FIne. I get it. You have a girlfriend now.” (I question as to where this came from as I still withhold any terms)

Erica “Laying in bed thinking of you” “Had a great time last night”

2am one evening, Alexandra Hustler “Can I bring Celine too? Another “$300 right?”

Anne-Marie “His tuition is due tomorrow- $22,000”

“Congratulations on your award”- from quite a few.

Erica 6am Memorial Day Weekend “I am at terminal 3 waiting. Just landed.” He had flown the company jet separately. Ancient texts show this trip long planned.


And then he arrives. 11:30. His eyes red. I say nothing. I smile. He starts. Amazing how much one will say when not asked. . .

To be continued . .


A story in eyes

Thoughts indistinct.  Movement without significance. No moments this past weekend elicit a painting. I write of noise.

A weekend in Vieques. Following my last minute decision, an impulsive text was sent to the very handsome man stranger from the gym Friday morning:

Going to Vieques if u want

One wrap following a work out and two lunches is all we had shared. I had always noticed him and while we had spoken, our eyes never had.

The quick meals shared in the last two weeks unveiled intelligence and shared philosophies. A heart and a gentlemen. Something was still missing. Our eyes still failed to speak. Though, curious about his continued lunch invites. And intrigued with my combined attraction and indifference, hence the text.

What time
Calling you

“Well, we’d have to share a room, but there is a seat for you on the plane. I won’t take advantage of you,” I joked.

In my mind, I didn’t foresee a budding romance or a weekend of sex. I simply was inviting a man on a plane, to an island, to my bed and was more or less, indifferent. Sleep like siblings should I wish.


The weekend was not a catalyst for emotions of color. Highlights. Experiences. Memories. However.




Dancing with Mr. Handsome. Physically, we are the perfect pair. Such ease and sexuality, our bodies seemed as if every inch had been explored. The truth is it was their first meeting.  A couple that you couldn’t watch without imaging them fucking. A comment from my dear gay, “What a hard on everyone had watching you two.” A weekend that brought a second truth to the fact that dancing is not a perfect indicator of the horizontal same. Decent. But my thoughts shift to Caballito with who I had two left feet. I enjoy Mr. Handsome, but emotions, there are not.






2am. Our corner spot was closed. We waited for the crowds to leave. To reenter and dance after hours with just our group. The locals walked to their mode of transportation-horses (a species higher in population than people in the amazing island of Vieques). I approached. Bored. Waiting for the doors. “Quieres montar?” One said. Thinking I was just some pretty gringa , he would lead me for a little walk.

I mounted. My legs bare. Took the reigns and one kick. In a minute, the crowds were far behind. Rhythmically gliding in the saddle. My hair flying.  His friends attempted to ride alongside me. Their faces shocked, in awe. I noted my continued amazement at the fact that languages divide, riding never does. Hugs envelop me without words or touch. Their eyes, their acceptance. Applause from the crowds. The boys following me as I turned the corner, bringing the canter to a halt.


Highlights. Memories. A lesson in eyes. 


The Dance of One

24 hours later. On the couch where his eyes could not meet mine. Where his voice was lost. The couch I walked away from . . 

I thought I would never look back.

A conversation, a teaching of my needs and here we are again. The break up, deleted.

You open champagne. A gift you have saved forever. And you gift me with the knowledge that you want to share it now. Your eyes tell me your emotions are deep. We sit. We talk. Like old times. Hours pass. 2am approaches and we start kissing.

I touched you? Or you touched me? I don’t remember.

In seconds, you enter. Foreplay not on the menu. My body was ready, wet with missing you. My lips part. That gasp of disbelief of how you feel inside me. That disbelief that never leaves. As if I have never felt this feeling, felt this good.

I am sitting on the couch and you are standing, entering me. You flip us around. I straddle you. My body moving selfishly, how she wants—but, it is also the rhythm, the movement, your cock desires. Your eyes. My body, in one continuous orgasm. You lie on the couch and we continue. Perfectly in sync, so much so, it is almost a blur.

Somehow we move, effortlessly, across the room. You sit on a chair. I, on top. You never leave from inside me—how, I don’t know. The pleasure, the choreography is overwhelming.

You stand up and are holding me. My 5’11” body feels weightless. And you, a professional jumper, are so much shorter. I feel acrobatic. Upside down in the air, somehow. Intense . . . I scream. Moan, even louder, if possible. Poor neighbors.

We are moving. I am stepping backwards. Choreographed. As if my legs are a part of yours. How? We enter the bedroom freezer. You turn on the light and look at me.

And throw me on the bed. The mirror. We continue. The emotions–our connection is intolerable.

We are one. We come. Together. It lasts forever.

Minutes pass. Our bodies still going.

 There are no words. 

There will be no dance

I ended it Friday night.

Everything I had was what I wanted, but for some reason my emotions were not in accord. Much like my growing departure from New York, sometimes what your mind tells you is irrelevant. My mind tells me New York is more my home than Puerto Rico. It tells me to stay connected, to return. It tells me I will never want to settle in Puerto Rico. Yet, my soul relearned smiling in Puerto Rico. My heart feels more at home daily. My core breathes. And with that, I know New York is not where I am meant to be.

He started kissing me. I kissed him back. Restrained. He kissed me there, his eyes watching me. I pulled him up and kissed him. I said, let’s go to bed. I couldn’t engage. I welcomed a bed where a few kisses could be followed by sleep. An escape from the intimacy of which I was unable. In bed, he kissed me. I wasn’t there.

“What’s wrong? You are distant,” he said. My lip moved, yet no words formed. “If you just want to be friends, that’s okay with me,” he ended the silence. Pain. Instantly. And it hit me. The emotions. Unseen tears as I turned in fetal position, away, to the mirror, the mirror where we would watch our dances. The mirror that came to life as we would go turn on the light and stare. 

His statement cemented that he didn’t care, that my emotions far exceeded his. I was done. I said so. He justified his earlier statement. It didn’t mean that he doesn’t care. Irrelevant. The pain of which I felt was the discrepancy between how much we care. Goodbye companion.

“We need to go to the living room so I can see your face,” he was refusing to hear my words. I suppose words can lie, faces cannot. We sat on the couch. And I tried to explain what myself didn’t know, that I didn’t want a commitment, that I was like him, yet it wasn’t working. And he said,

I told you from the beginning. I don’t have anything to give. But, it’s not about the sex. I care about you. We talk for hours. I miss you. I like you.

Some statement about how rare, our sexual chemistry. 

 I don’t want to hurt you though. I understand. You will always be my friend. We can still do dinner, and talk, and . . .

What changed though? I don’t understand . . . 

“i just can’t do this.”


Come. Let’s just go to bed. 


“I have to go. I can’t. Goodbye.”

 And then his eyes lowered. His voice wavered. Could he possibly cry? He couldn’t look at me. I went to kiss him. It wasn’t returned. I made a joke. And I turned from the couch. I never looked back.

I left Caballio’s. I ended it. Without knowing why. There would never be another dance. Goodbye mi companero. 

Why do women always talk, analyze and . . .

I miss you. I really do. My head has rested on your shoulder, our eyes waking up with sleep, replaced with the hunger for each other every morning since Thursday. Our bodies addicted to the new rituals, to their new partners. Yes, you are right about the Air Conditioner. I will inevitably get hot shortly after entering the freezer that is your bedroom. Our bodies glistening in the mirror, physically invigorated, the exhaustion from our days and lack of sleep, irrelevant.

I am addicted.

I didn’t like you. In my mind, this was improbable. But, you were right. You say you just knew. Your straight-forward declaration of that knowledge was perhaps not eloquent, but I appreciate your candor. You liked me, yet you didn’t want to be my boyfriend, you just wanted to sleep with fuck me.

Yeah right, I thought.

And now, I am addicted.


Last night as we spoke, our first night apart, I searched for words, for understanding. A woman’s response to something so perfect that needs no words. How did this happen? I don’t understand what the hell I am feeling. I too, don’t want you to be my boyfriend, but I really like you. You really like me too. Fuck, I think. “Could this grow into something?” my mind wonders. “Don’t think,” you say. “Ok,” I respond. I know you are right, but I am leaving for New York, and I miss you already.

I suppose this is what they call “friends with benefits”? (An arrangement I have always objected.) I always thought that FWBs lacked these corresponding mutual emotions.

You are addicted.

You miss me, already.


I will listen to you. I will avoid a vocalized search for why this is so fulfilling. For now, my companion, I adore you. 

Parte 2. Los hombres latinos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

Cont. from Parte 1. Sunday. I return home from El San Juan Hotel at 3am. For some reason, I wake up at 6:45am and decide to seize the day. I am walking my dog, as a car passes me, “heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!” Two men are inside. I thought the driver was the gentlemen from dinner the night before. However, as I walked up to their window, I quickly realized I was wrong.

I assessed that they were not starting their day as I was, but instead, were still out from the night before. I walk away. Feeling silly and too trusting for walking up to a car. Moments later, the car does a u-turn and the driver, is excitedly saying, “I know you!!!” It was Caballito! A well-know Equestrian here. They ask me to join them for beers. Perhaps, coffee? They propose a hotel where we can fulfill all of our wants. Shouldn’t I bring doggie home first? No, it will be fine . . . .

As i closed the car door, I smiled at that spontaneity and the randomness of this Sunday morning. Caballito, his Amigo, I and doggie sit at the bar. We all drink from plastic cups. Afterwards, I lead them to the beach desiring some sun time. I take off my dress and leave doggie with the guys as I run into the ocean. I look to the shore and His Amigo has every intent to come in. He disrobes, completely, he is now nakey. The man meditating on the rocks attempts to stare away. Ommmmmm. An hour later they won’t let us back into the hotel.

3 hours later, we reconvene. They are now with their swimsuits. We sit, talk and laugh. The man I know, Caballito, tells me he likes me. His Amigo takes turns attempting to kiss me on my lips. Jokingly, but with full intent. Uh . . .

Caballito, serious and humble, says again, “I like you.” He searches for words. Lifts his glasses to unveil the stunning blue of his eyes, “but, I don’t think I can give you want you want.”

I smirk. Amused. “And, what is it that you think I want?”

He stumbles with his words again. (At least, he speaks English.) “I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I just want to F___ you . . . . and I could.”
If anyone else said this, I would hit him, but, he is humble and simple. Awkward, as if he is a schoolboy. Genuine, and despite his words, not cocky. Either way, there will be no romance and/or sex with Caballito. I do hope that a friendship will bloom and result in horses and more random moments.

The weekend ends. I can’t bring myself to see Rediscoveringme. Too much time has passed. It seems as if it would be a meeting of physicality. . . and I have no interest in just sex. I need his soul first. And then I need the sex. Want it VERY MUCH. But, his soul is too far-gone when I am left here alone. I remember Marriedwithababy’s ending statements from last night after I turned both him and Shaker down. “What the hell are you interested in?” He was desperate to see me interested in someone, anyone. “Kiss a girl even!” “You must be asexual.”
And with a hmmmmph, he walked away.

And I thought and continue to do so, why am I unable to crave sex without affiliation, just pure raw sex? Maybe I should see Rediscoveringme, stop being so evasive. I am longing to feel alive. Longing to be one with him. Our bodies . . .