The Crazy German (2015)

The red flags, oh the red flags…

Yes, it has finally come! My new post. For months I have been thinking that it wasn’t such a big deal I stopped posting. I mean I am still single – of course. I haven’t really had anything super worthwhile to write about. I have been going crazy over my channel and trying to get it as famous as possible so I can finally be location independent, work from anywhere and hopefully have more success in finding the man of my dreams than in freezing Toronto with its equally lifeless robot people who barely exchange eye contact with each other.

Until, today I stumbled into my junk mail and realized with a shock that I had messages upon messages of support, personal stories and touching words. When I abandoned blogging for my channel, I thought that my page would soon lose its flow and grow weeds, and when I discovered all your messages I told myself that no matter what – I will continue writing more stories. Actually, I would do it right away… or a few hours later. So, I took out my laptop and here is my semi-latest story.

A couple of months ago, I realized I needed a break. I realize it all the time. Actually I always need a break. Don’t we all? Some of my girlfriends don’t think they are entitled to one due to work or school, but all I ever think about is lying on the hammock on the beach, not going to yet another club, lounge, bar and feeling bored and restless, which is how I feel a lot lately.

Long story short, I ended up in Miami with a German girlfriend Marta, who I met while backpacking in Argentina. That night her and I went to the cheesiest club of all “Mango’s” and had our two other hostel roommates join. As soon as we walked in men surrounded us like prey. I guess they sniffed out fresh blood of newly arrived foreigners. I managed to break free from the grasp of a puny and sweaty Chilean guy before he managed to kiss me and went to watch the show, wondering how I was going to get home now that all of the girls were occupied.

Just at the moment when I was getting bored of standing in the corner watching a Michael Jackson show, I saw an enormously tall, blond and built guy coming into the club. He was joined by a much shorter bright blond man (who might I add looked just like he stepped out from a Nazi movie!) As someone who has an unhealthy obsession with the Germans as caused by my very first experience, I got excited and tried to get close to them. Finally, I did something I would probably not do back home. But as you know, we are at our best and riskiest self outside our comfort zone.

I touched the Nazi lookalike on the arm as he walked by me and asked, rather stated. “You are German, right?” He stopped in his tracks and asked me “Why do you sink vy are

Mango’s insanity. The cheesiest club in all of Miami.

German?” What a difficult question, indeed. He was really intrigued so we talked for a bit. He went off to find his friend and as I went around the club, I ran right into both of them chatting to Marta, who was standing right by the tall friend. As soon as he noticed me, he stopped the conversation with her and introduced himself to me excitedly.

Hanz was a teacher from some village in Bavaria and he was on a sabbatical to travel the world. He was staying one more day and then he was off to Asia, lucky bastard. He looked like a very German basketball player with a cute face and an incredible physique.  He was just my type. Physically, at least, because I wouldn’t say we had some great connection or anything. He was trying hard to give me backhanded compliments, to be funny and to challenge me every step of the way. Marta thought he was a full of it asshole.

“You know!” she told me with her harsh tone which she used most of the time. One time when we were late to return the bikes she yelled “Vy are late!” so much that I actually got terrified.  She could sound like a lieutenant sometimes. “You know. I found your German attractive at first. But zen! Zen I realized he was an idiot!” Of course, I knew she was into him so I took her harsh comments with a huge grain of salt.

There was something so endearing about him waiting for me in the crowded dance floor as I came back from getting water. He was just waiting there, unsure in what to do and as I touched him on the back, he turned around with a child-like smile, excited I came back.

As we danced, he bent all the way down to be at level with me, kissing my forehead and I closed my eyes against him, feeling so content I actually felt sorry for myself. I was so tired of being alone. So tired of fooling myself that these flings would lead to anything. I was no longer after an exciting time, a fun and memorable adventure. I wanted a future. I have always wanted a future, but now it was clearer than ever. I missed the security of someone hugging me close, of being next to me. A feeling of a strong man I could lean against – physically and emotionally. I danced with my eyes closed. I wanted to savour the feeling of it. We kissed and kissed and danced some more.

At the end of our night, he told me he regretted meeting me so close to the end of his trip. He wished he could have spent more time with me, because I was just his type.  As much as it disappointed me as well, I knew we at least had one more day left. One more day to let him fall for me, to possibly continue into something more. Who knew? I was always open for a chance like this. These were the only chances I got. I was always meeting someone on vacation and falling for them. It always ended up in something. I don’t know if I was attracting this, but it was a repeat of my life.

“I would invite you back” He told me “but I’m staying in a hostel…”

“Who said I would go back with you?” I asked him playfully. “I can be kissing you the whole night and it means nothing else.”

“I like that you have standards” he said. He seemed to be fully into me, or as much as he could have been after one evening together.

As soon as I got back to the hostel, my phone pinged with a message from him. Marta climbed onto my bunk and we whispered girlishly: a 30 year old me and a 35 year old her – two idiots who really yearned for love. Hanz wanted to see me tomorrow, but mentioned he would love to get a hotel room. I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him, but even if I were I wouldn’t want it to be so open, so out on the table. It was much too programmed for me.

The next day, he texted me good morning. The guy was clearly hooked, but at this point all I could see was that he was hooked on having a good night. Having just come back from Latin America, I’m sure this blond Trojan man would have zero problems getting women. I’ve lived in Latin America. I know what the blond hair and European passport would do to a woman. This made me even more wary.

Hola! De donde eres, guapo?

Hanz mentioned that he was going to a basketball game but would love to meet after. He was still set on the hotel, but I wouldn’t budge. I told him that if he wanted to see me, he would make it happen without a promise of sex. As we went out that night, I was not mentally there at the party. I kept on trying to get wifi signal (even going so far as running across the street to a taco place), glancing at my cell phone every two minutes and letting all conversations drift past me in a haze. Finally, he texted me back and told me that they were back at the hostel and wouldn’t be able to go as far as our neighborhood. However, he surely would be glad to book a hotel for us.

Again, the damn hotel.

Did you say “affordable”?

Apparently, the hotel would be ‘much more affordable’ if it were booked in advance. German logic indeed. Affordable is the most seductive word, is it not? How can a woman not fall to her knees at the word affordable, right? Also, if throes of passion came upon us or in his words “If we became hot and bothered” we would find no ‘affordable’ hotel in Ocean Drive at night! Gasp. Hey ladies – want passion in dating a German? You got it! Affordable is the key! Book ahead and the passion is at your feet.

It is not to say that I haven’t considered having sex that night. It’s been a while, I was really attracted to him and my skin has been so bad lately, apparently good sex would clear it up a bit. I’m not joking, I read that somewhere and actually narrated it to my roommates who looked at me like I was slow in the head. Anyways, why not? But the point is even though Marta proudly produced some terrible condoms and handed them to me for later and that I was really starting to consider it, I could not for the life of me have such a pre-planned evening, where the man did not spend one minute on actually seducing me, on talking to me, on taking advantage of the beautiful Florida scenery but right away booking the hotel. It felt cheap and predictable.

I suggested over and over that we meet, talk and then possibly I would agree to it. I made it so, so easy and even then he did not want to meet unless I gave him a warranty that meeting with me would equal to sex (or money back guarantee). And just because I tell you everything, I will admit that at one point I almost succumbed. I wanted a chance to stop a taxi, slip away from this terrible party and drive up to where he was waiting for me. It almost seemed romantic. That is until Marta ripped the phone away from me and hissed “You are not doing zat! Are you CRAZY!? He should put the effort.” Of course. This was the girl, that once told me to dump the guy because he didn’t buy me a drink in South America. But she was right. I was losing my sense of self here. My pride. Once again my desire to feel something beautiful was really me heading off to bed with yet another 2 day guy. Tomorrow he would be off booking hotel rooms in Asia. Probably more affordable ones, too.

So, I changed my mind and stayed at the party. At first I said “screw it” and danced my heart out. Then I cried my heart out. Let me just say – I wasn’t fun for anyone that night, least of all myself.

When we got back to the hostel, I realized that he had been writing to me. Even though we never met, he still couldn’t stop. He was angry at himself, at us for not meeting. He regretted missing the chance to be with me. He was questioning why we let it all slip away. I was sick of going round and round as my whole night has already been ruined by him so I wished him a good night.

Yet, even the next day as he was leaving back to Germany he kept on writing me. He couldn’t believe it. If we could have, should have, would have.. If we just had… If, if, if…

Once back in Germany, he wouldn’t stop. I was his type. I was the woman he was dreaming of. He might have been stupid in being so organized, but he couldn’t help it. The poor lad was German. It was in his blood. He was crazy for me. He couldn’t stop admiring my photos. He regretted everything.

And I let him continue writing that. I’m a very soft girl and when I fall for someone I can ignore all the red flags. In this case – there were so many red flags I could have re-built communist Russia. I still imagined that, who knew? Maybe I was the woman of his dreams. But how could I be? He met me once for two hours. Not only that, he failed to spend time with me had it not been on his terms. He didn’t want to have a romantic evening with me if it didn’t lead to sex. This was not an ideal no matter how you twisted it.

He didn’t stop writing for a few weeks he was back in Germany. At the end, I got enough of the round and round talking of could haves and should haves and told him that had he wanted to see me, he could come to Canada and stop wondering what if. He laughed it off and said he had no time before going to Asia.

But at the end, it got too much. He would always comment on my appearance and talk nothing of substance and when I called him out on it, he got angry and said he wouldn’t do it again. This perfect looking guy with happy traveling photos on Facebook and an array of friends seemed quite troubled. Getting angry when I wouldn’t answer back to him, sending me enormous text messages and arguing like he was my husband of 5 years – all of this had to stop.

The best was when he decided to send me videos of himself singing. Apparently, apart from a teacher he was also a ‘musician’ who made his own original videos. One was of him dressed as the devil and the other of him dancing with a mannequin. When I told my friend this story over sushi, she told me “Man, Mia. You have to start writing about your crazy stories.” Ha!

Hanz is still traveling Asia and has stopped writing to me for now. I have a feeling he will somehow reappear in my life and finally get around to booking that hotel. Of insanity. At least he will have enough time to book an affordable one.

Do you have stories of mentally unstable men you have met? Share them below!

 

Twenty-Two is an (Un) Lucky Number (2015)

Why does this always happen to me?

As of last Thursday I’ve been with 22 sex partners. I was a little hesitant about sharing this number with you, because I feel like people do judge you based on your number. Remember that movie “What’s your number”? It’s a ridiculously stupid chick flick, but it kind of proves my point.

However, since I always share my personal details with you guys, I figured that was the next step in our virtual relationship! I’m thirty and two of my longest relationships were a year each, so I suppose it’s not very surprising that my number added up so fast. It’s ironic – I hardly have sex back in Canada. In fact, my apartment has been man-free ever since I rented it (a year and a half ago) and the last time I had sex, I was in Argentina – and if you read it and remember the story: it was bad. So, when I’m back at home, I approach dating way more seriously. And if I miraculously meet someone I like (which happens rarely in this impersonal city), I wait it out before I have sex. But of course, nine times out of ten we never even get there. Nor do I want to.

Make it stop.

Ever since coming from Argentina I briefly dated a Russian guy who then disappeared into thin air and reappeared on Facebook with photos of his fake-assed, fake-titted Colombian girlfriend. And there was an English guy who was amazing, but who I barely any physical attraction with. And of course, the French guy from my past story who simply disappeared when I didn’t have sex with him… So out of  complete and utter boredom, I was beginning to develop feelings for my hot Brazilian student, who unfortunately had little topics other than his love of the gym and eating tuna to stay in shape. After I dragged him to a bar for language practice and spent the night correcting his English, I realized I was getting desperate. Out of a lack of options, I exploiting my workplace now.

The next day I was supposed to meet Emilio, a friend of mine with whom we recently drifted apart. He told me he had the ‘perfect specimen’ for my international web-series who just came from Switzerland. Since I never interview random Europeans for my channel, I figured it was a set up. Emilio was sarcastic and constantly poked fun at my love of European and Latin men, so I expected he would bring someone attractive. Or I hoped.

I dressed casually in jeans and white tennis shoes and went to meet them by the lake. As soon as I hugged Emilio, I saw what I can only describe as the ‘most European guy I have seen in a while.’ Bright blond hair with some sort of Avicii type haircut, big light blue eyes, full lips, very tall. I guess if I lived in Scandinavia I would most likely be completely desensitized to this, but as a girl who loves everything European and lives in North America, I practically salivated over him. He represented to me everything that I craved.

He confidently introduced himself as Frederic and I think I put on my interviewer mode, which is what I do when I am nervous and into someone. I was very conscious of being interested but for some reason I was picking the worst things to say to this guy. I started saying the Germans made fun of the Swiss accent, out of all things. Then I told him Switzerland must be boring as hell. Why can’t I just be the girl that smiles sweetly, listens and looks extremely feminine? Why do I need to dominate every conversation with my ‘world knowledge’ and wit?

We met a few more friends and began walking in search of bars. I had to get up early next day for a school BBQ, but I was too interested in this guy to go home. And of course, shall I say it yet again? He was leaving in a day. Damn that. Frederic looked a bit younger, but he made a deal of telling people he was 26. It wasn’t my age, but I suppose it was old enough. By that, I mean – I never meet guys my age that I’m actually attracted to. When I do, it’s a cause for real celebration.

Weird lot

He was very flirtatious. If I could say one thing about Swiss-Germans is that they are a strange lot. Mostly I found them to be aggressive, kinky and very sexual, so it was interesting that Frederic was also very forward. At first we walked side by side talking, but soon enough he began touching me with a certain ease, sending me prolonged looks full of meaning and acting like he just arrived on some Italian boat of seduction.

Seduccione!

“Your friend must do this a lot, huh?” I light-heartedly asked Emilio, trying to be casual, but actually really hoping he would say no. “You would be surprised actually.” Emilio answered with a shrug, showing me it was indeed a no. That lifted my spirits up immensely and I agreed to go dance with Frederic as soon as he asked me at the bar. Man, I can’t even remember the last time a cute guy asked me to go dance in this city. It’s such a rare and wonderful feeling. We walked out on the empty dance floor and awkwardly danced to horrible R’n’B oldies.

“I would like to kiss you” he told me with no hesitation.  He said it genuinely, with no fear of rejection, in such a lighthearted manner that I gaped at him in awe. How was this person Swiss?  I loved that he was so forward. In a city where everyone is constantly scared of appearing too invested, too interested, too vulnerable here was Frederic who wanted to kiss me and didn’t try to hide it. It was playful, it was easy, and of course I wanted to kiss him too but I answered “Not during this horrible music” and softly pushed him away.

We went back to drink and then as the music changed, he led me on the dance floor again. No less empty, at least the music was beginning to sound somewhat romantic. They were playing some weird mix of Titanium, but it was a step above Get Low by Lil Jon. We gave each other a few prolonged, awkward stares and then he took my face in his and kissed me. I thought “what the hell” and kissed him back. Relieved, he smiled and said “And now, we can dance!”

As we left the bar in search of another place, Emilio and my other friend told us the directions and asked us to meet them at the next place. As they drove away, we stood on the sidewalk for a split second before he took my face into his hands and began kissing me. Moments later we were up against some wall right in the midst of nightlife, making out like we were in high school. Even the police drove up and told us to get a room. Then they just sat in the car laughing. People passed by us staring at us, but I didn’t care. I don’t feel that young, spontaneous and carefree often so I enjoyed the feeling of standing against some wall and just kissing.

But he was set on going to my place. And I wasn’t planning on inviting him over. Like a very good salesman, Frederic wouldn’t give up. I think we went back and forth for  two hours, but my mind was set.

“Look” I finally told him the truth. “I just don’t like the one-night stand thing. I don’t want to feel used. It’s not a pleasant feeling.”

It seemed as if he liked my honesty. “I will tell you the truth” he said “I didn’t like you when I met you.”

“That’s definitely helping.”

“No, really” he looked at me seriously. “You kept on asking me all these questions interview style.. I wasn’t interested. But when we got to the bar and I got to know you a little, all of a sudden that changed. By the way, I’ve never had a one-night stand either.”

Come on! He is bullshitting you – you are all thinking. I will admit, his approach was very flirty, very easy and reminded me of someone who was used to getting women. I mean he sang me the song “I feel so close to you right now” as were left behind the other group.  I sang back: “When I met you in the summer..” (to keep in the theme of Calvin Harris songs)

But, the one thing that I love, absolutely love about Germans and Swiss-Germans (and Austrians, I suppose) is their ability to tell the truth. The cold, hard, bitter truth.  I prefer that over hearing a bunch of lines anytime. Like a quality Swiss watch, this guy just had to be trusted. And I haven’t had sex since March.

“I have a two day rule” I told him. Actually, it used to be a three day rule, then turned into “the last day of the days we have together before one of us ultimately leaves” rule.

He stepped back. “That makes you very unattractive” with his soft German accent making the last word into ‘unatractif’.

“Why?” I couldn’t understand how having rules made me ‘unatractif’.

Later he told me he thought the rule implied not sleeping with two guys in a row. Like I needed a day of rest or something. When I told him it’s been quite a while for me, he was ecstatic. Finally he took my hand and led me down a path where we climbed over some fence and proceeded to do I don’t know what. At this point I realized I might as well just invite him over to my house. Whatever this was, it wasn’t much better than a one-night stand. And what was I loosing exactly? This was the most excitement I have felt in a while.

We took a taxi over and I rapidly cleaned my mess while he stood outside the door. I mean, how would I know a live man would come into my house on a Thursday? On top of it all I have books like “Fifty Shades of Grey” and “Why Men Love Bitches” on full display.

He was so nervous, he went soft soon after we started. What is it with me? Either I am so sexy men get intimidated or I’m that unattractive they can’t get excited. After Fran in Argentina and his initial softness, I was starting to sense a pattern. But strangely enough I kind of liked it. It showed me that he was just as nervous about it as I was and it somehow brought me closer to him. I told him it was absolutely fine and instantly relieved he enveloped me in his arms and kissed me with fervor. He couldn’t get enough of me. I couldn’t get enough of him. We hugged each other close and ended up cuddling for the longest time. Before we fell asleep we ran out of condoms, and when I woke up early on next morning all I saw were those big blue eyes staring at me counting down the minutes until Drug Mart opened. He didn’t take his hands off of me the whole night. Before I went to work, we took a shower together, washing each other’s hair. This no longer seemed like any kind of stand.

That’s the one we watched!

This night instead of sporting jeans and tennis shoes, I made sure to dress up in a red dress and heels. When we met by the water, he couldn’t get enough of how I looked saying “wow” every minute or so and kissing me. We watched the fireworks on the bridge and held hands.

“You know, when we took a shower today.. it almost felt like we were a couple.” He focused his eyes on me. “I don’t want to scare you..”

“No, you are not scaring me” I told him.

He was doing the opposite actually. We stopped by to say hi to Emilio and a few other guy friends of mine, who were the witnesses of our quick romance the other night. We were welcomed by clapping in unison. “You look so radiant” one of my guy friends mentioned and I really felt it.

Hm..

After we took off, we sat on the dark beach talking. He was telling me he was thinking of studying to be a doctor, even though he just finished an engineering degree. Something about it didn’t add up though. I mean, at 26 he should have already started working, not just finished university. When I asked him about when he was turning 27, he told me “Age is just a number” which could have meant it didn’t matter, but it got my wheels spinning.

Sex that night lasted for ages. Rather, it started out hot and passionate, then very close, and by the end (about 2 hours later) we started having a regular conversation both falling asleep and laughing from the ridiculousness of it all. At one point he looked down at me and said: “You are so beautiful. You know, I really like you Mia”

“I really like you too.”

It’s not that the sex was the best of my life, but during this night and this morning, the bed had become our world as we talked, had sex, cuddled, moved around, laughed, had sex… over and over and over again as some strange continuous motion, our hands never leaving each other. I imitated German accent, he tried Indian accent that sounded like he just hit puberty and made me burst out laughing. As usual, with some of my long distance flings I started feeling a connection. And of course, then I began thinking “Maybe it could work.” He had invited me to New York as he was still traveling around North America until September. Maybe it was the beginning of something? But that nagging thought didn’t leave me.

“Frederic. Can I ask you question?”

“Mhmm” he looked at the ceiling.

“Are you 26?” I held my breath.

“Age is just a number, Mia” he repeated.

“Just how old are you?”

Maybe he was just playing with me. I mean, he did say he was 26. He knew I was 30. My friend Emilio was 34.

He grew quiet clearly debating telling me or not.

“Frederic”

“I’m 22. Almost 23” he finally said.

I covered my head in my hands and uttered “Oh my God!”

“But come on. Does this really matter?”

“Yes! Of course it does! I am a pedophile!”

He lay there scared to hug me.

“But this doesn’t change anything. I mean, I’m the same guy”

“Yes. I but thought you were 26.”

“But what does it matter? I mean, it’s a fling, isn’t it?” he asked, crushing something inside of me. Not only was I attracted to younger guys, but I was actually considering having something more with him just a few minutes ago. Now all of these illusions made me feel even more pathetic. Just how old was I?

Forever stuck in a hostel

He was mature.. for his age. But now that I looked him over – he did look younger. Young, blond – the European type guy that goes to Avicii concerts and stays in hostels. The guy that I’ve always wanted to have when I was younger and never met. Was I making up for some sort of lost time?

“So when you say I’m the best you have had, how many were there? Two?” I probed.

“Well, there can’t be two. I mean I told you I had my girlfriend and I was dating a girl in the USA. And you”

“Three?” I exclaimed.

“No, four.”

“Four girls” I muttered to myself. “Oh God.”

Of course, it was all ‘wow’ and ‘this is amazing!’ and ‘I can’t get enough of your body’. If I could pinpoint the time my subconsciousness was yelling at me to give him another look was when I was on top of him during sex.He was grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

“How many did you have?” he asked me back.

“I’m not gonna tell you.”

“I’m not gonna think you are a slut, don’t worry. Was it 22?”

I turned around so quickly, there was no way to cover it up now. “How did you guess?”

“I just named my age, that’s all” he smiled. “And when did you lose your virginity?”

“When I was 22” I muttered. Apparently this was my lucky or most likely cursed number.

“On vacation?” he asked innocently. Did this guy have access to this blog or something?

I still liked him. Hell, I was still naked in bed with him. But now, I didn’t know what to do. He was still the same guy that I got along with so well, but I was concerned about myself. I was becoming that woman. A puma.

Once, when I was in Miami I met a what seemed to be a 38 year old woman: long hair with a very weathered look, who would spend hours in a bar flirting with an Italian bartender. At the end, she picked up a young Australian guy who was so thrilled about the prospect of getting laid he didn’t care how old she was. That evening, I quickly kissed some guy in a club. On the way out, he went to join his friends and I remember her turning to me and telling me to go after him if I wanted to ‘get laid’. I promised myself – I would never, ever become that desperate woman. I would save my dignity and integrity and never chase men, especially young men, just to get a sense of validation.

I didn’t feel the age gap with him, but I was much, much older. Eight years ago, I lost my virginity and he barely hit puberty. And that doesn’t even say much considering I lost my virginity very late.

We slept one hour only because I forced him to. He was ready to stay up all night, praising my body and jumping on me.. oh the stamina, but I was dead. Finally, an hour later, he got up like a zombie, but still tried one last time. Then he dozed off holding me, almost missing his bus to Montreal.

You would think I would no longer talk to him? Yet, not a day has gone by that we haven’t engaged in long conversations over Whatsapp. Sure, this is completely and utterly pointless, but I just can’t lose him yet. He tells me he misses me, that he thinks about me, that age doesn’t matter. But it does.

Yet, while we get older and let our past experiences get to us, as we lack the courage

Young Girl Jumping Off Cliff Into Water

or the interest in putting ourselves out there, as the novelty of certain feelings wears off and as we start yawning at 10pm because we would rather be in bed than attending some party, I think we need to revert back to our 22 year old self. (In my case, my 25 year old self as my 22 year old self was scared of everything)

The zest for life. The ability to be vulnerable without any guards up. To say what is on our mind. Not to behave in a certain way because we feel it is expected. To actually go after someone and let them know it. To risk looking unatractif. To look at someone and tell them you want to kiss them. I mean if you do, why not just state it? You might just disarm someone.

How many sex partners have you had?

*To add onto this story – Frederick ended up coming back to stay with me for a week only to postpone his ticket 5 times for a total of 2 months. Was I stupid to let him stay knowing we had no future? I suppose I was, but I missed the companionship of a man and with him, I could finally feel I was with someone. The first time he considered extending, I put up a fight saying he could only stay a week more. I knew I was losing time with him, yet the longer he stayed, the more I got used to him. I wanted him to leave so I could finally focus on something serious yet I was scared of being alone once again. He told me he loved me a few weeks into it and I didn’t say it back. I didn’t believe him, really. I knew he was in love with an idea of love, with his experiences, but not with me as a person. Another few weeks into our so called relationship, I lost my job and we ended up going to Cuba on a vacation before he would leave back home. And yet, he ended up staying 3 weeks more and I let him. Finally, there was no more postponing medical school and by this time, we began fighting more and more regularly. I was upset about him leaving, but I also knew that even if he had been my age, I doubt I would have wanted a serious relationship with him. We both cried at the airport, but at the bottom of my heart, I was actually relieved. For weeks, I missed the empty space next to me in bed, but I didn’t miss him, really. I missed having someone near me. We stayed in contact for a few months, and at the end we stopped. He hasn’t written to me in a month now and though it definitely hurts, I stopped thinking about him to the point where it doesn’t matter much. Oh, and by the way, he has access to this blog, so should he read this.. well, he might as well find out.

The Weekend Guy (2015)

Always play by your own rules. And calendar.

“I’m kind of dating an Argentinian guy, Mia.. but I’m not sure what he wants. I’m not even sure if we are dating”.

This week, I received a few such messages from my female subscribers. Since I am supposedly an expert on the cultural aspect of dating or just have lots of experience being screwed over by foreign men, they assumed I would give them some useful pointers. But should you pursue a Dutch man just because they are known for being passive? Should you play the hot and cold game with the man just because he’s Argentinian?

Well, the short answer is – no you should not. You should have your own set of standards and not try to please him by adhering to his rules. No matter his culture. Because even though I think culture plays a large part in our dating ‘rules’, a man who is truly interested will invest genuine effort in pursuing you. Because a real man who truly wants to see you has to contact you. If not, he just won’t see you again.

No matter if they are Swedish, Japanese or Colombian.

Ironically, as I was receiving all of these messages I was going through a bit of an inner conflict of my own. It’s easy for me to tell you “Don’t call/text him. Don’t go home with him. Set standards” when I spent my own Monday morning with my head glued to the computer reading “The Rule of no Contact” – one of my most go-to sites about dating and one that I have referred to over and over again to remind myself I have standards.

So here is my own (relatively) short story. One that I’m sure many of you have experienced yourselves. The story itself – nothing earth-shattering. But one that really makes me feel united with my female readers: all of us girls who over-analyse, read into the situation, provide excuses for someone and forget our needs completely as we try to figure out what they want.

I met Marc at a language meet-up. I noticed him as I was walking into the bar since he was gigantically tall, big and slightly bearded. The last one did not appeal to me so much. The guy looked like a bit of a terrorist. And as it turned out part Egyptian. Sorry for the bad joke here.

I approached him and his two friends, striking a friendly conversation. His Canadian friend was the one that tried the hardest: poking me, leaning on me, being overly playful. But I wasn’t into him. You probably know I seem to always ignore the Canadian boys and go for the ‘other’. Feeling like the center of attention, I flirted with all three of them.

You know that moment when you feel everyone’s attention on you and you are your most fun self? The moment you are not yet invested? That’s the moment you are your most attractive self.

Marc (who was a mix of Polish and Egyptian) also flirted with me, but ended up leaving us as apparently it seemed like his best friend, the Canadian was ‘scoring’.

After they left, the Canadian tried to get my number but I gave him my Facebook. I wasn’t really interested. Truth be told, not one of them really interested me but I was slightly bored and tired of meeting men through online dating apps. I liked the spontaneity of meeting someone randomly. Something that doesn’t happen often when you live in Toronto.

As the Canadian added me the next day, mentioning how great it was to meet me last night, I did the not-so-nice thing and added his friend Marc on Facebook.

Instantly he messaged me and we began talking. Turned out he was sharing his condo with the Canadian five minutes away from me. We decided to grab a drink on a patio near my place.

Marc showed up looking very attractive in a collared shirt:  tall and big, his face tanned and chiseled, all the waitresses making eyes at him. Right away I felt it – he’s not for me. And I’m not for him. I could picture him sipping martinis in  a lounge with a made up, leggy blonde. I was not that type. And if I could describe my guy’s style it would be athletic/casual, relaxed and playful. Not that Marc wasn’t athletic – a former heavy-weight boxer he came to Toronto for Pan-Am games. From his Facebook photos, he used to be very built but now, due to a lack of real exercise he was getting kind of pudgy.

His eyes glowing a yellowish brown against the sun, Marc drank Caesars like they were water and really got into talking about himself. Sure, he would ask questions about me and even listen, but it wasn’t active listening. It was more like I-will-wait-for-her-to-finish-so-I-can-tell-my-own-story-about-that. I’m always the one that talks the most and sometimes it gets tiring, and I have to admit –  I also get kind of impatient since just like him I have stories about everything! So, it was a strange feeling sitting there like a Japanese wife, my palm against my cheek, listening to his stories with a look of awe. If I got that bit of space to say something, I went bullet style feeling like he would interrupt me. It was actually kind a Speed Dating. From my side at least.

I love long walks on the beach!

Yet, I was attracted to him. Shoot me, because it’s so hard for me to be drawn to someone but no matter all these warning signals, I still wanted him to like me. And I still wanted to kiss him.

“So why did you really approach us?” asked he, clearly fishing for a compliment.

“Are you trying to get a compliment?” I asked playfully.

“No, no” he denied.

“Ok, well…The truth is that I noticed you outside”

“Oh, you noticed me?” he perked up.

“Yes. And that’s why I came over. Happy you got your compliment?”

“Ah, ok then” he said, reassured I liked him and shifted in the chair contently.

Later on in the date, he began mentioning places and saying he would take me to them. Now that I recall, it came after the compliment was paid.

As we were saying our goodbyes, he seemed kind of shy, but I was two drinks in. At this point the world could come crashing down, but I had to kiss him. Who cared if he talked about himself? If I couldn’t see us together? I just wanted to be attracted to someone.

So, right after the drinks, we stood around talking about his old bike. Now I was grateful for him filling in the silence of what is the most awkward part of all. We did the French double kiss (helps immensely!) and then we were kissing.

As I was walking away, he told me to stay in touch, which disappointed me because that generally means – you do the work cause I won’t, but then mentioned he was free Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

The next morning he texted at 7am.

“Hm, I guess he liked me!”  I thought contently as I was getting dressed for work.

He kept on texting the whole day: sending me photos of his work trip, making jokes… And I would wait a couple of hours before replying. Normally, I don’t care for these games, but I was wary of him. He looked too much like a douche-bag to be treated seriously. But when someone texts you so much and answers back immediately, without any games – you can’t help but lower your guard.

He invited me to come to his place since has having some friends over. The Canadian friend was gone to Florida but managed to ask me out again. Twice.

Sorry, I told Marc, I have other plans.

I didn’t want to be available two days in a row. I wanted to be seen as someone who had standards.

When he told me he would go out with his friends I told him to have fun.

Stay in touch, he wrote again.

And then he wrote early on the next day inviting me over again. Seemed he had an array of friends at his place the whole weekend. I was wary of being invited over instead of being asked out separately but I justified it as – he’s spontaneous, he has friends, he wants me to meet his friends (yes, after that one spectacular date! He probably loved my listening skills!) and of course – he’s French. They enjoy the group dating more than our North American official one-on-one.

I went on a boat ride with my friends and then ran off to his place. I dressed up in a tight black top and jeans as it was quite cool outside. He looked like he was on vacation in shorts and a polo. We kissed hello and he introduced me to his two French friends. I seemed to be the only girl he not only invited but introduced to his guy friends. Were we together? Again I felt like the center of attention with his guy friends asking me things and one of them even getting competitive with Marc, seeing as how I was with him. Marc made sure I was comfortable, and would touch me every time he walked by me.

Afterwards a few more people came up to the apartment. Two guys we ran into in the elevator. Two girls he met a day ago. Seemed like he was meeting people left and right and no one past a week. Was I one of the weekly specials? Or should I say weekend?

Everyone decided to go to a bar and as we went downstairs to wait for a cab, I told him it made absolutely no sense to drink at his place then go to a bar to drink again. We decided to go up to his place and watch a horror movie on his balcony. I wasn’t going to have sex. I simply wanted something romantic. I have started to miss the closeness of having someone near you, of cuddling, of being hugged. How sad, right?

So we put “The Ring” on, cuddled under a big blanket and lay on the couch on the balcony.

I loved how affectionate he was. Right away he enveloped me in his arms and I felt like a little girl with a big, strong man. A bear, as I called him. Then I caressed his hairy chest and said in a Borat voice:

“Persian carpet. How much?” which made him burst out laughing.

Not that I’m into a hairy chest or anything. I much prefer non-hairy.

It was exactly what I needed. I don’t remember the last time I really cuddled like I did with him. It didn’t feel like a prelude to sex. It felt more like affection and closeness. Or maybe that’s my naive self talking.

We stayed like this for a while and then transferred to a couch inside. Actually now that I am writing this, I remember it was his idea. He was suddenly cold under a blanket. Truthfully,  I think he wanted to get me closer to his bed.

The kissing heated up. Yes, it was my fault. There is something really excitint about seeing a man turn into an animal as he gets excited. His breathing gets hotter and sharper, he begins kissing you more aggressively and in this case, holding me by my hair and my neck which is my weakness. I hate men who do not vary the rhythm when they kiss, or when nothing much changes as they get excited. When you want to ask – excuse me, suh, are you excited? In this case, that was not the problem. But I would go to the limit then stop and say ‘sorry…’ so yes, I was literally dangling raw meat in front of a bear. But he was a gentleman. He tried, yes, but would stop without complaining every single time.

“I’m sorry” I told him yet again. “I have certain rules”

“I respect that” he told me. “So when would you be ready?”

“Not today” came my vague answer.

“Would you want to stay with me?”

“No, I’d rather go home”

“I wouldn’t try anything”

“Come on, Marc” I looked at him with a smile “I’m not a teenager. I know if I get into bed with you, a hairy man, I wouldn’t even trust myself.”

If this is the first story you read by me, wait until you say “Good for her! What solid rules she has” and refer to my older stories.

“What are you doing tomorrow” he asked.

I told him I didn’t know. I wasn’t going to see him yet again, but I didn’t have time to come up with anything. So he invited me to his house. Again. Is that the way it would go?

I kissed him goodbye and left. And as my friend later pointed out, he didn’t even walk me home. But I live in a gay neighborhood so it might have been more dangerous for him to walk back from my house.

The next day his first message came in at 5:30pm. Not that I was sitting at home waiting by the phone.. No, I went to the park and waited by the phone. And then when he texted me, I waited an hour before I texted back with a bit of a question.

And he didn’t text for two whole days.

At first I thought it was because he didn’t want to be texting too much.

Hey, I’m sorry I can’t text. Kind of busy right now.

Then I thought he was busy. Ah, busy. Don’t you love that excuse? Remember being so busy that you couldn’t pick up the phone and text two words? If you do, you probably work in the Canadian Tundra. As a pilot. Or possibly in the tunnels as a miner. I briefly dated a British Intelligence Agent and even he texted every day! (Yes, you can ask me about that one!)

When I saw he wrote about the state of French politics on his Facebook page, that thought quickly faded away. Not that I really believed in the first place.

By Monday I convinced myself it was fine to have some space. He clearly wanted to see that I was independent and non-clingy. Instead of working on my project, I spent my morning reading countless articles and watching Matthew Hussey discuss how high-value women should behave.

Then I was upset. I mean – what if there was something about me that turned him off. Was I too available? Should I not have come over? Should I not have stayed until 3 am kissing him on a couch? Did that mean I was too easy? 

By Tuesday I was between pissed off and confused. How was it that someone who responded right away to every text I sent, was now gone? Maybe he didn’t actually receive the message? I googled tips on checking to see if your text is send to the other person and wished I talked to him through Whatsapp.

By Wednesday I thought “Screw it!” Even if he never received my message, he should have enough decency to inquire about me. Women ignore men all the time and still get pursued relentlessly. Then he texted. 

Now I felt in control. Ha! I waited it out and it worked! Now I could it play it my way. I waited until the evening and texted back something neutral. Carefully going over the wording of course. He responded right after. According to his not so carefully constructed text message, he was going to the gym.

Again I felt like I lost. He never meant to ask me out or even really talk to me. This was a way to check in but not say anything meaningful. And the irony is – I didn’t even like him so much! And here I was obsessing over this person. The person who was not even right for me in the first place.

On Thursday he checked in again. I waited hours then sent over a short and flirty message. I wanted to remind him that I was a fun, exciting self but felt he wasn’t even giving me anything to work with. That weekend we started texting it felt natural because he was trying. Now, he was just sending over standard “how is your week” messages. When he only answered back on Friday and not even asked me out, I was done.

Saturday night he reappeared at 12 am to ask me how my weekend was going. This time I would finally leave him hanging.

Right?

I knew the truth – the guy was barely stringing me along so he could see who else was available. He just wanted fun. He was putting zero effort and wanted it to remain this way. And the most unforgiving thing of all – it was because of him I re-watched that horrible movie “Think Like a Man”.

My brother first laughed. Then he said “Come on. It’s obvious. The guy wanted to get laid. You were too much work. He was too lazy to lift a finger above getting drinks nearby and inviting you to his place.”

So the lesson here, girls is: do not become more invested in him than he is. I know most of you found me because you were googling “What do French/German/Italian etc. Guys like?”  and I am not telling you to discontinue that. After all, I need my readers!

But before you do that, think about this – by forcing yourself to adhere to his rules, his standards, his type, you are really losing a part of the natural you. That part that maybe even attracted him to you initially. Your freedom, your sense of humour, your playfulness, your fearlessness – that moment before you become invested, before you began stalking his Facebook, overthinking the text messages, reading about his culture, and really trying to be liked by him instead of thinking “What has he done to make me like him?”

And just like that you go from the weekend girl, from the casual girl he flirts with, from the casual sex girl to the girl that has standards. And that’s the most attractive quality of all.

Or he disappears. But at least it was you who let him go.

What Happened to Them? (2015)

People are not characters and even as the story ends, they continue to live on. So, most likely some of my faithful readers out there have wondered – hmm.. What happened to this guy? Or that douchebag? Did she ever see them again? I’ve decided to do something different and give you a continuation of the stories. Only the ones that had some sort of continuation of course.

The German – Stefan

The guy I lost my virginity to? His girlfriend is having a baby. We no longer speak to each other. I no longer care either, though of course, even years later I still remember him. Who can forget their first?

The Chilean – Javier

Remember the nineteen year old I met in Mexico and decided it would be a great idea to have a long distance relationship with him? Wonder of wonders, I was passing my Chile a few months ago and he met me at the airport. With his new girlfriend of course. At this point, I had no idea what I could have seen in this guy. Empty blue eyes, nothing interesting to say.. Yes, he definitely grew from a boy to a man, but now at 29 I no longer saw what my 25 year old self was attracted to. The whole thing was quite awkward as his girlfriend seemed very jealous and at one point, as he asked me about the past, started caressing his arm protectively. Any look in his eyes suggesting interest raised red flags in her. To be very honest with you – I didn’t even want to make her jealous. I thought both of them looked perfect for each other – like a clothing ad. Even their names were similar. I’m not saying I became a better person or anything, but I think I matured to the point where I no longer felt the need to prove something to myself or anyone. I was too busy looking for my own person.

The Argentinian – Fran

This is the newest story of all… And at this point, I no longer feel anything for Francisco either, though I still get a warm and fuzzy feeling when I get a message from him. We talked recently right after I uploaded a new video featuring his cousin – the player. The lover of attention was quite disappointed I never included his highness in the video. I told him I would include him in the next. I will not.

The Argentinian – Alfie

We are not in touch, but whenever I see his face on Facebook it literally makes me sick. There is something seriously off with that guy.

The Portuguese – Luiz

Some of you have mentioned to me that this is your favorite story. Actually, it’s also one of my favorites. It is not every day someone flies to see you in another country. And someone that gorgeous either. But sadly enough, looks quickly faded for Luiz and he is no longer the “Brazilian model” young guy he once was. I was in Lisbon in the summer and only wrote to him the last day of my trip. I suppose I didn’t want to ruin a good memory and see Luiz as he is now, but then had a change of mind. We never managed to meet. It was too late in my trip and he now has a girlfriend that controls his every move. I think it’s a good thing we didn’t. Some memories are better left alone.

* and even though this is a story after the story, there is still another story that follows! A day after publishing this entry, Luiz decided to call me and we had a conversation on the phone during which he told me that he broke up with his girlfriend of five years. My romantic and idealistic Luiz sounded the same and yet different. He told me he learned English (through watching the Game of Thrones) and even though he was still a romantic at heart, his last girlfriend killed the idealistic streak in him. “No!” I yelled into the telephone “You were my one super romantic guy! Don’t tell me life destroyed that!” Seems that Luiz and I can’t seem to lose the contact and even when you think the story is over, life suddenly surprises you.

* And no, Luiz is still the beautiful Brazilian looking guy. Maybe even more so in his maturity. But after a Skype call, after hearing from him that he has never experienced what he had with me, I still knew that he is not the man I want. And I doubt I would move to Portugal to live with him.

The Puerto Rican – Franko

Oh, my crazy obsession! The biggest obsession I have ever had over someone I barely knew. But someone who I now know is a self-obsessed, self-entitled asshole who feels he can get away with treating people any way he likes. The guy had the audacity to repeat his Puerto Rican episode not one more time, but TWO more times. The first was a year ago, after my video has come out. Clearly he felt special so he decided to invite himself to Canada to visit me. When I told him that he wouldn’t be able to stay at my place, he answered back with “I’m not going to sleep on your couch after a long flight!” Even though he didn’t bother messaging me for over 2 months, the royal douchebag still expected me to welcome him into my bed. Then he disappeared.  But the last straw happened when I was in Buenos Aires a month ago. He wrote to me to say he was coming to the city, but as soon as I stupidly expressed interest in his arrival, he just blew off. Didn’t even bother responding. The only way I could redeem myself is by erasing him off of Facebook. What a blow, right?

The Cuban – Christian

The romantic Cuban and I wrote back and forth for months. And no guys, he didn’t ask me for money or a visa. Finally, I stopped this useless interaction. I knew that there was no future in this. Sure, he was a beautiful person and it was a warming memory but who were we kidding here? A couple of months ago, when living with Fran in Cordoba I wrote to him again. I guess I missed the romance he and I shared when Fran and I did not. The Cuban was now working in a resort as an entertainer. The last email I received from him said that he waited for my email for 11 months. Heartbreaking right?

The Belgian – Eduard

The one guy nothing even happened with, yet I have been in consistent contact with. He even offered to fly to Argentina just to see me. And when I was in Europe blamed me for not letting him know since he would have flown anywhere in the continent to see me. Totally beating any Latino man, right? Sadly, I don’t think I felt enough for him. I told him that and he accepted it, but we still have not lost contact. Once in a while he messages me and we talk back and forth like friends. I almost feel like if all else fails, maybe he can be my back-up plan. Don’t call me mean. I just wish I had more feelings for the guy! So here we go. So many stories and yet not one with a great ending. Do you have someone that you keep thinking about? Do you wonder what it would be like to see this person again? Share your own stories and experiences. I love getting messages from you, so send them over and I will do my best to respond to each one of you!

Good Boy, Bad Boy (2015) – Part 2

Bad Boy

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

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.

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”

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

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.

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.

Fran 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.

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.

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.

Good Boy, Bad Boy (2015)

The story of my fling with two Argentinian guys and one connection that is hard to explain.

“Hey, Canadian!” He yelled to me mischievously in Spanish as he sprinted up the stairs of our hostel. I smiled to myself. This guy was exactly the type of Argentinian that was fun, easy going and a bit of a player.

I have arrived to Mendoza, the wine region of Argentina a few days ago, from Buenos Aires. I loved the feeling of the small city, surrounded by mountains and my hostel – a little resort with a pool in the middle. I turned thirty exactly one day ago and though I have to admit I did cry on the eve of my birthday, consoled by a thirty one year old Argentinian girl, the day I actually turned thirty – I felt like finally there was nothing to dread. The day I dreaded to change my life came and went and I was still the same. And that I was actually doing what I wanted. I’ve always had an incredible interest in the Argentinian culture and it has been the first country on my list for ages. Now, I was here, with three months to travel, speak Spanish, meet locals and focus on the dating trends for my Youtube channel.

My main focus was chamuyeros – the men that smooth-talked women for the game of seduction. Here in Argentina, they were a penny a dozen and though fascinated by the whole concept, I wanted to show any guy who tried it on me that I was aware of his tactics.

Our hostel

This guy seemed just that.  A fun loving, easy-going chamuyero. Within moments of moving into my dorm with his cousin, he chatted me up in a very self assured manner. Moments later we were drinking wine with them on the terrace. Right after, he had the decency to tell me to change into something nicer for the club. It was pushy and presumptuous, while at the same time kind of nice. Seemed we skipped all the niceties and headed straight for saying what we thought. He did for sure.

Francisco was nothing special. He was somewhat taller than me, with dirty blond hair, liquid caramel eyes that seemed to read mine, full lips and a very Italian look to him. Even though he came from a line of Southern Spaniards.

But instantly, without any thought or reasoning I was attracted to him. Now thinking about it, I am sure it was the way he carried himself. Self assured, relaxed, sarcastic and mischievous. And his way of looking at me, like he was really seeing me.

We formed a little group of us: me, two of my European hostel friends and his cousin Alex. On the way to the door, another guy came up to me. Alfie just arrived with a helmet in his hand, later turning out to have motorbiked all the fifteen hours from Buenos Aires. He was tanned with dark hair and dark eyes, tall and had a body to die for, from what I saw as he hung around with his other friends (shirtless). Instead of arrogant as I initially placed him, he spoke to me in a really friendly and well-mannered way. I immediately invited him to join us.

So here I was – two guys I found attractive and not sure which one to go for. Fran was not someone I would ever consider seriously, while Alfie was both attractive and a decent guy. So decent, he didn’t carry himself with the same ease Fran did, even though he had more of a reason to.

Bad Boy – Monday

“Ugh, this Fran is such a player” I told my English roommate, one of the Europeans who joined us “Look at him chatting girls up”. I was jealous. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him strutting around confidently, looking like the club – boliche was his playground. And wearing a pink t-shirt of all things! He had to be a douche-bag.

A few minutes later, Fran grabbed me by the hand and offered me to go ask the DJ for another song. As we walked away, he stopped in the middle and simply began dancing with me. Alfie threw a look at us.

“Let me get you a drink” offered Fran in a bit.

“Sure. I will go to the bathroom and join you after” I lied. I didn’t want to be too easy. I didn’t trust this guy. I didn’t think he was a good person. I thought he was arrogant, and I wanted to make him wait.  At the bottom of my heart, I wanted to be different. A bit aloof and unattainable.

So I did. I danced and danced as he sulked by the bar staring expectantly at me.

A girl who he earlier talked to and who for the record turned out to be a lesbian, approached me to find out if I was interested in Francisco.

I remember telling her, very convinced: “No, nothing will happen with this guy. He’s just a player and I hate players”.

But let’s be honest. I’m not a bitch. I’m very bad at toying with someone’s emotions and his look of desperation combined with the fact that Alfie was now chatting with my English girlfriend, completely ignoring me, spurred me to walk over to the bar and take a seat near Fran. Soon enough everyone, Alfie included (not without giving me a bit of a look) left, leaving me relieved. I knew Fran was a player, but I justified it as “Whatever, I’ll just have fun” to my English friend who nodded in (somewhat of an) agreement.

It was obvious he was gonna try to kiss me. And he did. Three times I pushed him away. “Not yet”, “Do you know how to wait?” “I said no”. He was a typical pushy Argentinian and having done lots of research on them, I was more than wary. I mean, he barely waited to make a move and even when I turned him down, did not act rejected. Any North American guy would now be swallowing more beer to feel like a man. Here was this guy who could care less. Actually he seemed to enjoy a challenge, which is why I gave it in the first place. But secretly, I wanted him to kiss me.  When he kissed me for real, I was hooked. It was a strangely sensual, unhurried kiss… It was a personal kiss. Something you share with someone you like. I can’t explain it, but there was something deep in it. It sent a wave of tingles down my body.

We kissed, danced, and he even managed to sing me some song during the dance. He was a natural with no inhibitions and someone to have a bit of a fling with, but nothing more. Nevertheless, I was scared to lose control with him. From this point I became the girl I wanted to be – fun, independent and sexy. For some reason, it was natural with him. Pushing his kiss away at first separated me from the other girls– I knew it. If anything would happen, it would be by my rules, not his. I knew Argentine men. I didn’t trust Argentine men. They were good with women. He was good with women. I didn’t want to be the one he would use and forget.

Back at the hostel, he got into my bed and offered to ‘lie there’ with me, but as much as I wanted to have him near me (and as adorable as he was cuddling next to me), I told him to go back to his bed. Not before I made out with him against the wall.

That, without the frilly dress

The next morning I woke up extremely happy. Sure, I’ve kissed lots of guys in the past, but there was a surge of excitement pulsating within me. He woke me up. At the tender age of thirty, I felt younger than ever. I went biking in the park, singing to myself and looking around at everything in wonder. Thank you, Francisco, no matter if you are an asshole or not.

Next day, they had to switch hostels. Not only that, they might leave to another city if the car starts working again, Fran mentioned, not forgetting to look at me directly with a certainty in his eyes – I know you don’t want me to go. They did not end up leaving. Instead he asked me to give him my phone number, in a very old fashioned way – on a piece of paper. I took this opportunity to act my sarcastic self.

“Did you want me to write you a letter?” I asked

“Ok” he smiled slowly looking into my eyes in that way he did.

I took the paper and wrote down how special he was to me. However, with my voice I showed that in reality, he meant nothing to me. (a month later I would write a different letter on the back of that paper.) Smiling, with no further comments, he kissed me goodbye.

Good boy – Tuesday

Mhmm… asado

That evening I kept on waiting for him to come through the door. Sure, it was a fling or whatever, but I missed seeing his stupid impish face. We were eating asado (Argentinian barbecue) in the hostel and Alfie has barely exchanged two words with me, but I noticed him sitting on the other side.

When I was finally bored of all the conversations around me, I went to lie down on the couch. Minutes later, Alfie sat by me.

“Mia” he looked earnest and young (five years my junior). Though Argentinian, Alfie resembled a quarterback in an American football team. Sometimes I could swear he just stepped out of a Freddie Prince Junior movie.

We started talking and after some time it became obvious he 1. Liked me 2. Was jealous of what happened with Fran 3. Really didn’t like Fran

“He’s just such an arrogant asshole. I hate guys like him and I don’t know what happened between you two, but I think you are much better than associating with guys like that”.

“I know, Alfie.  He’s no more than an acquaintance. How can I take him seriously?” I lied of course. What would you do if you had two guys you were interested in, have been single for an eternity and had one guy fawning over you while the other didn’t even bother to text? They thought they could use me? Hah, I would take advantage of the situation and be the one to play a game. It was fun and it kept me from falling for any of them, especially Francisco.

A conversation later, we ended up in the park as he lifted me up and pressed me against the wall. He was definitely the one girls would call hot, and more so someone I would envision having a romantic fling with. However, that kiss lacked something. And that night I thought about Francisco’s stupid face with his long eyelashes, caramel eyes and mischievous grin.

Bad Boy – Wednesday

Next morning, Alfie went rafting and Fran came by to pick me up to the go the thermal baths. He texted me right after I got back from the park to say he wanted to see me. No matter what happened with Alfie and no matter the fact that this guy had the word ‘untrustworthy’ written all over his forehead, I grinned as I read it.

Thermal baths!

He stood on the sidewalk smiling at me as I walked by to him, kissing him on the cheek. We headed down to the thermal baths in the mountains with him smiling to me through the windshield as he drove the car. We spent the day cooking asado, swimming in the cold pools and tanning. He refrained from kissing me, but as we swam through the tunnel, he finally pushed me to the wall and kissed me sensually. Seeing as there were people coming, we stopped, but his hard-on prevented him from coming out of the water.

After we ate, he hinted that they were going to play cards with some other guys and I instantly left to tan. The last thing I wanted was to look like I needed him. I wanted to be as independent as possible, always at the brink of leaving, never lingering. As I lay down on the grass, I knew I was into him. I reenacted the cave kiss in my mind, feeling the tingling feeling every time I thought of his lips touching mine. It was an exciting feeling. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Seduction, a bit of danger, the sense of possibility and yearning.

He came to find me after and we headed to the hot baths where we lay together and talked. We were close but did not kiss. He looked at me intently as I talked, but all of the actions were unhurried and calm. I yearned for him to kiss me, but the closeness of our faces without it was even more of a turn on. Soon enough his cousin found us and smiled in a bit of a surprise. I assume we looked like a couple, cuddling together in the bath.

They switched to the hostel right by us. My French friend Simone, who now knew bits about the story, as well as two Argentine girls in my room, told me what I was doing would be impossible to pull off.

“Mia” she said in her extremely strong accent “If they come tonight for the dinner, you have to choose one boy. Which boy you like?”

“I like him” I told her. “I’m extremely attracted to him. But I don’t want to have sex with him.”

“Why not? You say you are attracted. What is the problem?”

“The problem is that is exactly what he wants. He is chasing me to get sex. Once I give it up, he’s gone.”

“But the boy seems like he likes you.”
“Now” I pointed out. “He likes me now. He likes other girls too. I just don’t trust him.”

“And so, Alfie is a better choice?”

“Alfie is someone I trust. And even if he leaves, I know I won’t hurt like I will with Fran.”

Sometime during this conversation, Alfie came by to kiss me hello. He looked cute and boyish. Someone I might have actually wanted to date. Tanned, toned and earnest.

I wanted to have my Argentinian cake and eat it too.

 Good Boy – Wednesday

That night, Fran disappeared on me again. I felt down.  He was right by me! He was on the other side of the wall! And yet, he didn’t care what I was doing or where I was. He didn’t care that I was hitting it off with another guy. The reality was that even though the game was fun, I just wanted to see him. I’m not the type to date two people at the same time. Date or fling, whatever that was.

“He is an asshole!” exclaimed Simone, sounding as French as ever. “Why he is not texting you. Better to stay with Alfie!” she said.

The other girls – Rita and Elvie, who spoke virtually no English like pretty much every Argentine I met, including my main characters Fran and Alfie, and who were now completely tuned in into my soap opera grinned at me as I walked out of the shower.

“There was a cute boy at the door looking for you.” Said Elvie.

I found Alfie in the patio.

“I wanted to know if you wanted milanesas.” He told me with a genuine look in his eyes.

“Aw.. thank you. “ I said. “I just ate.”

“I hope you are going out with us tonight.” He looked at me earnestly.

I was. Thankfully for my plan,  Fran never came into the hostel to have dinner, so now I was free to get away with my outing with  Alfie. A great guy, who actually came into my room to inquire if I wanted food. A part of me was disappointed though. I really expected to hear from Fran tonight. To know that he was interested and was not a player I didn’t trust.

So we ended up going to the club. I wore a dress and heels and Alfie was tall and built in a collared shirt. There were lots of girls, but he told me he could see no one else but me. And as sweet as that was, I couldn’t help feeling I was in some cheesy prom movie.

The cheesiness.. oh the cheesiness.

“That is so disgusting” said Simone. “I do not like this Alfie guy. He sounds so too much!”

Yet him and I danced all night and I almost killed my neck looking around for a shorter guy with the stupid face of Francisco. A few times my heart almost dropped – was it him making out with this girl? Touching that girl? I knew he might be doing the same somewhere else.I just didn’t want to face it. I missed him. My heart was not in the whole romance with Alfie, yet, somehow – it was him I ended up having sex with that night.

Ok, let me explain. We got into some stupid fight over paying for a bottle. Him and his friends were each buying a bottle and since I was sharing drinks with him, he assumed I also wanted to join in on the group ‘fun’ of buying booze. I thought that was completely tactless and anyways, he explained it was a cultural thing but I couldn’t understand it. After the fight, we both felt more honest and less perfectionist (on his part). There was a nice real part of him that I saw and as he invited me to sleep near him, I actually said yes. I trusted him, I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. He couldn’t hurt me, because while I did like him somewhat I had no fear of being too involved.

However, it was far from good. He was big. I mean, really big. Also, hard. Not just his penis, but all of him – well defined, muscular, sporty. Incredible, no? Who doesn’t want a tall, tanned, sporty Spanish looking man? But the sex was something out of a porn movie. Wham, bam. Wham bam bam. It mostly hurt, I didn’t relax or enjoy any of it. I felt like I should have been filmed. Afterwards, he passed out near me and I sneaked out of the room feeling like the cheapest woman ever.

I knew I chose the wrong guy. So what if he was safe? I still wanted Francisco. That night I fell asleep with thoughts of his his long eyelashes, bedroom eyes, slow smile and the sensual way he kissed me.

Bad Boy – Thursday

“Senorita” blinked a message on my Whatsapp.

I didn’t respond. Make him wait, for not getting in touch with me. Plus, how the hell am I supposed to respond to that?

Minutes later I saw him waddling over to my table. Why waddling? He sometimes looks like a penguin when he walks fast.  Awkwardly he said hi to Alfie’s friend, who was chatting with me and sat near me. We sat there hypnotized, our eyes never leaving each other’s .

“How was your night?” he asked.
“Great. Really good” I answered, showing with my secret smile that anything could have happened with me. Ironically I wasn’t bluffing.

“You seem busy” he said. He seemed awkward around me now that I was so poised, acting busy and like I had no need of him. We always played this game. He stood up. “It would be nice if you showed some creativity and invited me to go somewhere.”

“Ok” I smiled, looking up at him. “I will think of something”

“How about a lake?”I texted him as he left.

“Come over!” he answered back. I put some makeup on, my face literally glowing. Through the consistent lack of sleep, I looked fresher than ever. I suppose feeling and drama do that to you. Oh and vacation of course.

We took the car and drove up to the mountains of Mendoza. He held my hand in the car. The atmosphere of our so called relationship seemed to shift. Here was a guy who was spending his whole day with me. Would he do that with someone he just wanted to have sex with? He has not tried anything yet. He looked at me with real emotion in his eyes. This was something that couldn’t be faked. We lay by the water and just looked at each other, as he caressed my face and lifted the hair from my face. I loved being with him: the fresh scent of his skin, his full lips as he kissed me, the slow smile that spread on his face as he looked at me. I was falling for him.

….Saddly the water only looks blue from a distance – a metaphor for many things in life

On the way back, he suggested we head to the hotel.

“No” I said immediately.

“Why not? I like you. You know that, right? “ He looked at me, while keeping his eyes on the road.

You like me. You like other girls. You like everyone. I still don’t trust you.

Maybe that’s why he was so romantic with me in the car. In order to get me to sleep with him. And yes, of course I wanted to, though I just spent the night with another guy. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to do it by my own rules, at my own time. I knew that if we went up to the hotel and he disappeared, all the effort I put into playing it cool, into being different, into waiting it out would fail and he would hurt me deeply. I was too invested to just ‘have fun’.

“So what do you want?” He asked.

“Let me think about it” I said.

He dropped me off and I ran up to my room, pretending not to see Alfie. Alfie was leaving the next day and here I was, completely ignoring him. I sat on my bed.

“What do I do, girls?” I asked my roommates who lay on their beds listening to yet another story of mine. I hoped I wasn’t annoying them. But I guess I replaced television somewhat.

“But you want to have sex, Mia” said Simone. “Why not do it?”

“Because I still don’t trust him! What if that’s the only thing he is after?”

“But you want the same!” exclaimed the Argentines in unison.

“Yes! But I want it to mean something. With Alfie, it was something I knew I wouldn’t regret because I wasn’t so invested. Here, I like the guy. I mean, I really like him. If he disappears afterwards, I will feel horrible.”

“Then don’t do it. You just answered this for yourself.” Answered Rita, who after seeing photos of Alex, Fran’s cousin decided to join me for a beer at their hostel. I knew that meant I wouldn’t see Alfie but I was so preoccupied with thoughts of Fran I couldn’t care less.

Francisco greeted us coolly, no smile on his lips. He brought us a beer and while Alex talked to Rita, we sat in silence. He barely had two words to tell me and then told me that I was the one that was being boring.

“You know” I told him. “You being an asshole, a boludo, is not going to help you. I really don’t appreciate you acting like this.”

He somewhat nodded. Fran was a very conscious guy. He picked up on cues perfectly. He knew well what he was doing.

“Did you want to go watch a movie?” he suggested.

“Let’s go” I agreed. I just wanted to feel close to him, but his response to what happened today really bothered me. Lying on the couch, we started kissing. There was that closeness that we shared. What was the truth? When we were together it seemed we had something but I always had a nagging doubt it was all just for sex.

After falling asleep twice, I told him I was heading back to the hostel. He didn’t even pretend to smile. “You can stay with me if you want” he said. I ignored the remark and headed back. He blew me a kiss, his face as sour as a grapefruit.

Good Guy – Thursday

Frustrated and upset, I walked by Alfie’s table and threw him a quick look. Registering my presence, he immediately came up to me.

“Hey” he said.

“Hi” I smiled.

“You look gorgeous” he admired my red dress. Fran never even mentioned how pretty I looked. It was nice to be appreciated.

“Thank you” I hugged and kissed him on the cheek, thankful for someone who I didn’t have to play games with.

“Look, I’m sorry I fell asleep last night. I wanted to see you today but it seemed you were gone. I just felt like we never actually had the time to just talk.”

“Let’s talk.” I said. I kissed him on the lips, suddenly overcome with emotion for this genuine guy. I was suddenly tired of playing the guessing game with Fran and wanted something simple and straightforward.“Hey, you know, I’ve never been on a motorcycle. It would be great to get on one with you.”

“Sure” he smiled. He put a cask on me as I got on the back. “Hold on to me.” He pushed the bike back and off we went, riding around the half empty dark streets of Mendoza city. Glistening sidewalks, swaying palm trees, my red dress, my arms on his torso and his hand caressing my knee – all of it as if written from my dreams. It was beautiful. He was a beautiful person. Sadly, it was not him I wanted. 

We sat in the park talking about lives and on the way back he stopped the bike and bought me a variety of chocolates. We almost parted with a kiss, but still ended up having sex. I know it is weird that I spent the day and evening with one, then was off to have sex with the other. In a way, I wanted to feel power. I liked playing with two people, because I love the drama, because I enjoyed the thrill and because that kept me away from getting hung up on one of them. And now that one of them was going, I was left pining over the one that was left. Like I pretty much was all along.

Bad Boy – Friday

Friday he never got in touch with me. Alfie went off, not without hugging me and telling how incredible I was. Now I was no longer part of an intrigue. I was alone and so very crazy for Francisco. I looked at my phone the whole day, moving it from one hand to the other, turning it on to see if there are any messages I might have missed, my heart sinking a little bit more with nothing from him. And of course, there are your girlfriends who tell you that nothing will happen if you text him. So I did. And he invited me to the pool. And I played it cool and said I would see him later. And he called me a histerica – an Argentine term for a person who changes their mind a lot.

And he never got back to me after that.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything. There was a fresh wave of new tanned men in our hostel. One, Italian douche-bag Francesco kept on pouring more wine into my glass. But after forcing myself to enjoy what was out there, I suddenly couldn’t be around more people so I went up to my room and lay there, staring up at the ceiling and resisting the strong urge to cry. It’s kind of hard to with a lack of privacy in a dorm.

This was ridiculous. I mean, who was he for me to cry over?

It was the fact that he was seconds away without the need to see my face, to touch me, to spend more time with me before we both left. The fact that he would go to a club and meet another woman. The fact that I would never sleep with him again. I finally fell asleep and woke up early in the morning with thoughts of it.

Bad Boy – Saturday

Sitting at my laptop, I got a message from my Argentine girlfriend. I recounted her the story and called him a jerk for disappearing like that. She put a different spin on the situation, telling me that he actually seemed like a decent guy. Any other Argentine would have already given up and not invited me anywhere, yet he was consistent in his contact with me that that said a lot. I guess I wanted to be convinced so I didn’t think twice about messaging him.

“I’m translating my video from Spanish to English. Want to come over and help?”

It was better than the standard “how are you?” It made me sound independent and yet someone who could use his help. For some reason, sending this message felt right. Just because we didn’t see each other, didn’t mean I couldn’t be the first to initiate contact.

He answered back in an hour.

“I always want to help. Be there right away.”

He was swimming in our pool when I came down. I made breakfast and he joined me in the kitchen, looking over at what I was doing.

“So, what is the plan tonight?” I asked, scanning the kitchen for a pot.

“Well, I was going to spend time with my cousin. Unless you have another plan” he waited expectantly.

“You can spend time with him or you can spend the night with me.” I blurted out. This was completely unlike me. This time, though, it felt like I was making the choice to be with him, not vice versa and it no longer made me feel like a victim.

“Which one would be more fun?” He flirted.

“Depends on your definition of fun” I answered back neutrally, not meeting his eyes. I knew I had a certain power over him. I could feel his attraction for me. For the independent, fun and playful girl I was when I was with him.

He laughed at the reply.

We watched the unedited copy of my video about “Argentine smooth-talkers” with a serious face.

“I don’t agree with how these guys pick up women.” He finally said. “In my opinion, in order to get a woman interested you shouldn’t comment on broad things like beauty. Lots of people are beautiful. Instead, you should focus on a specific personality trait. Something that makes this person stand out.” He focused his eyes on me.

We headed to the pool, meeting up with his cousin there. I was scared to find out anything about last night and he was clearly interested in making me jealous.

“My back hurts” he told me “I think it’s from the girls of last night.”

The fact that he tried to make me feel jealous that obviously meant one thing – either nothing happened, or he wanted me to know something happened. Either way, I refused to get jealous and laughed it off.

He was into me.

It got clear in the pool. His eyes scanned me constantly. He would come over and kiss me. He would nuzzle his head against me. Lying next to me, his light brown eyes seemed to almost read mine. It was like we didn’t need to speak.

We did that too…

On my part, I continued being a bit unreachable. He commented later on that I would never stay long enough, always leaving him first to go swim or lay down. It was a trick of mine to show him that I was not his. That I didn’t depend on him. That he should appreciate my presence while I was there. In reality, I was scared that he would get bored. I’ve never known this fear with anyone else, but with him I couldn’t just let go and be. If he talked to any other girls, I would close my eyes or switch my attention to something else, so he could see I didn’t view them as competition. Always he would come back to kiss me in front of them,seek me out or smile at me. He pushed the jealousy just far enough without making me feel angry.

We decided to meet for drinks, so I got ready and put my dress on. They were still shirtless, eating pasta, when I came in. He stared at me, finally saying “wow”. I told them they could come see me when they were ready. I would be drinking at my own hostel.

I was playing a drinking game and checking my phone every two seconds when he finally showed up, dressed in a collared shirt and jeans. He sat next to me.

“So what is the plan?” he asked soon enough. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Yes” I answered simply. I wanted to, no matter what happened after.

He seemed to exhale a sigh of relief as if he was scared I would say no. He wouldn’t have pressured me had I said no. He never pressured.

The plan was to go to some swanky club on the outskirts of the city. I just wanted to stay with him, but it was Saturday and his last day so I agreed to it. But as we took separate taxis on the way to the club, me in the front seat, barely listening to the chatter of the girls in the back, I was no longer certain I trusted him again. What if now that he knew I was interested he would look for someone else? What if he was an asshole in the club?

On top of it all, the club was eighty percent women. Not just women, but beautiful women with careful makeup, glistening long hair, perfectly assembled clothing. I told myself to breathe – I had to believe I was hotter than anyone else. He was at the bar getting drinks and it irked me that he never asked me what I wanted. He was trying to make sure everyone was having a good time, but was all over the place. He would come and dance with me one second then leave to do something else the next. I felt second best. At one point, after his return to me, I pushed him away when he tried to kiss me. I was starting to get pissed off and I didn’t want to be.

After this, he pulled me away from the crowd and we danced together, under the open sky of the club. Finally, we were together and I felt the connection once again.

“I hate you” he told me, his eyes on mine.

“Why do you hate me?” I asked laughing.

“Because it’s easier to say this than anything else I want to say.”

We took a taxi and told the driver to drop us off to a hotel on the way. They dropped us off in the parking lot. We spent all our money and on the taxi and he had barely enough to cover the hotel. LOVE HOTEL. That was the name. I’m not even kidding. We had no food or water and couldn’t stop  laughing at how ridiculous this all was. As our kissing escalated in the parking lot I joked that when the hotel staff would come and get us, we would be done. He looked at me.

“I love how much we have shared together. It feels like I’ve known you forever. ”

And yes, the truth is that by now we had a much stronger bond than Alfie had with me. It wasn’t romantic and perfect like it seemed to be with Alfie. It was just a real connection. It was completely imperfect, and that made it stronger.

Finally we picked up our keys. There was romantic music playing from the radio. Thank God for no rose petals. I asked him to please turn the music off as this was extremely cheesy. He seemed confident as he waited for me on the bed, but the whole thing was so pre-planned, that both of us were awkward. He couldn’t come for ages. He was going soft. The sex lacked the fire of our kisses.

“I’m sorry” he said afterwards “I’m just nervous”

“Nervous because you like me so much?” I teased.

“Yes” he answered simply.

It was ironic really. With Alfie and his words of romance, you would expect slow lovemaking. Instead we humped like two Duracell bunnies. With Fran and his lack of romance, you would expect the wham-bam sex. Instead, the experience seemed slow, soft (not just his penis) and close. While the sex disappointed, I loved that he enveloped me in his arms afterwards.

“I love sleeping with you like this” he told me.

However, it seemed like our time limit was two hours. We barely got a chance to cuddle and have sex one more time before we were asked to leave. On the way back into the city, I half slept on his shoulder as he caressed me, watching the sun rise over the mountains.

Bad Boy – Sunday

He came to see me after our nap in separate hostels. We went back to the pool and lay side by side kissing and looking at each other. Soon, he came to tell me they were leaving. He looked at me in the eyes, reading me and I looked back at him. We didn’t break eye contact for at least one minute.

Then we started kissing, ending up having sex in the bathroom, which I must say was a definite improvement over the Love Hotel as there was no more softness to be had.  We ate pasta at their hostel and he fell asleep, at which point I left.

After a short nap, I texted him to tell me when they would be leaving only to get his text apologizing for not telling they already left. I was angry at him for not saying goodbye.

“I hate goodbyes” he answered “but I am sure, actually I’m hoping I will see you in my city really soon.”

We talked almost every day for the next two weeks.

Protected: My “Epic” Romance – Part 1 (by S)

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Lust in Translation Part 1 (by R)

I’ll have a continental… And I am not talking about breakfast.

This is one of a few posts on dating men from other cultures or countries…
WARNING: if you are sensitive about stereotyping or mild xenophobia, I would stop reading now. That being said, it is all in jest and I am very aware that most of these stereotypes are purely coincidental.

I recently posted about the amusing experiences I had in The Summer of Tinder. But TSOT (it should be a film) was actually triggered by an unfortunate relationship and then going on a date with one of the most cliche stereotypes of all…

This is the story of cliché numero uno, the Italian stallion

Now don’t get me wrong…I am a huge fan of Italy.
Pizza, delicious. Rome, my favourite city. Positano, my favourite beach.
Prosecco, far more delightful than champagne and much more wallet friendly.

The men, on the other hand, I have been wary of … Having been a regular visitor to Italy and being a long haired blonde, I have had mixed experiences with Italy’s menfolk.

Yes they are gorgeous and just my type, tall, dark and handsome (I defy anyone not to like this in a man… one of my housemates only goes for blondes with blue eyes…ridiculous borderline racist behaviour!) However, the charm it wears thin. From the moment you reach the airport, “Ciao, Bella!”, catcalls, wolf whistles and other animal type sounds … All of which adds to the fantasy of the passionate Italian man who will grab you by the waist, simultaneously serenading you whilst throwing you onto a gondola (No, just me??)

But the fact walking in an Italian city for a woman is like perpetually walking past a building site in England (Oiy,oiy!)… It is too much. It ruffles me, it reminds me that I am very English, in that restrained and distant way. On the one hand, I’m flattered, on the other I want to remind them of their manners and not to get me started on public displays of affection. (I did feel like the ultimate prude during one night time stroll in Rome)

Anyway, as is often the case, I had good intentions. Look at the nice Italian men whilst on holiday and stick to the good old, useless English ones at home. At least you know where you stand.

Oh, hindsight, you are a wonderful thing…
An evening out, rather merry…Dancing at a bar after a famous Bristol event (one of many, one of the reasons Bristol is such a great place to be single, young or anyone I guess…)
Meet a man. In fact meet several… I definitely remember telling someone from Cardiff that I didn’t like his aftershave. He affronted, naturally, tells me it is Armani, I claim it smells like ASDA’s own (And I wonder why I am single?….)

Then there is a lot of dancing. Hot and sweaty. At some point, the Italian appears. I remember this part clearly

Me: Are you SINGLE? (loudly to compete with the music)
He: YES

That is the most important part of the conversation… the rest is brief. Apparently I tell him his dancing is 6/10 (again my flirting style is criticising and spot on!). Eventually my housemates decide to give up dancing and go get some chips. I agree… and give the Italian my number, he’s Italian after all.

He has the same name as my mum. So when I do get a text, three days later, it takes a while to compute. He offers a language exchange. I dither… his text is written in quite broken English. Can I deal with a date as a translator? Is it even a date? Due to a recent very short fling and the need to get over it, I decide (with the persuasion of a friend and several G&Ts) to go for it …
The day of the date arrives. I go for a pre-drink with a work friend who warns me this could purely be a language exchange. I, savvy as I am, have already googled language exchange and have discovered this basically translates to HOOK UP. This is good news… am I going to discover what I have always wondered about Italians? Roar…

The date starts amusingly. A man of similar height and colouring approaches me … (have I mentioned that this Italian is not the usual dark stud but a Sicilian redhead… (how on earth I managed to find the only redhead Italian in Bristol I do not know…) He smiles nicely, asks how I am. He’s quite cute so I smile back, wondering if that is a Bristolian-Italian accent (you know the one)… At which he realises I am not his date, and backs out of the pub faster than Usain Bolt…hmmm. I feel for him when his real date turns up (nothing like me, possibly blonde) and he ushers her into a different pub up the road.

The Italian arrives… not quite fireworks. But he is amusing, charming and buys me many drinks including quickly replacing one when I foolishly knock it over. We talk about history, law and our respective countries until closing time. He offers to walk me home. He kisses me on the cheek. I swoon when he says ciao. Italian stallion yessss….

So far, so buono.
But alas…the cliché ….
Firstly a text- He misses my hair (?) and the full moon is so beautiful, it is a sin I could not stay out longer…(I knew he’d mention the moon, just knew it!)

I find this odd, but reassuring behaviour. He had not seemed that Italian during our date.

If you are going to date an Italian, you kind of expect the song and dance of over the top compliments and passion right…

We arrange to see each other again. Much of the same. No moves are made… This is ironic as before I went out with him, I did some blog reading on international dating and one such post claimed a man would be ridiculed in Italy if he sat on the sofa with a woman and did not try to kiss her. We first sit on chairs, and then moved to the sofa. Still nothing but he did get closer… gradually. A shy Italian? I resisted the temptation to explain to him the sofa rule and wandered home, contemplating when the stallion part would be revealed.
A weekend of no texts. I was busy so I didn’t ponder too deeply on this until the Monday. Finally, I cave and message him again…
He responds asking me to check my Facebook

A request that worryingly reminded me of this irritating scene …

Cliché no 2 (less fun than moon texts)
A long message full of broken English… to summarise: He has a girlfriend

His exact words “I have a girlfriend in Italy”.

Not just in Italy though really is it… If you have a girlfriend, she is always there. I don’t follow that post code excuse…

Can we blame this guy…
That is not the worst of it … After explaining that he wanted to tell me because it is the right thing to do… No wait, that’s the moral thing to say…After explaining that he wanted to tell me because she was visiting in two weeks (!?!!), he suggested we continue to see each other. But if we do see each other, he would like something to happen.
You can imagine the expletives I used and I was in a shop at the time… French connection, I believe, rather appropriately.

SO that was my experience of the Italian stallion. On the cliché counter, he didn’t fare too badly.Singing, check (in public, very loudly, I was torn between hilarity and mortification)Cheating, check. Lazy, check (he found Black Boy Hill quite a trek) Jealous, check (self confessed jealous guy… which makes me wonder if the Italian women are playing around as much as their counterparts?) Food lover, check (he demolished a whole plate of garlic bread during our second date)

On the other hand, he was entertaining, very intelligent, liked Albert Camus and graveyards (the latter of which is a MASSIVE plus for me). He was very knowledgeable and managed to explain Milanese architecture to me, quite a feat and he managed to do it without me yawning, very impressive.

But the Lothario thing is impossible to get over. He told me defensively that it is what every man does. Which I am trying not to believe, otherwise that is some pretty unhappy reading for my fellow ladies out there.

This story is not quite over… but for now…
Ciao
Next in this series: Spanish Omelette anyone? 😉

For more, check out my fellow blogger here: http://theredlandrapscallion.wordpress.com

My Greek Hook-Up Story ( by K)

My best friend and I decided to leave Montreal for a two week vacation. We spent the first few days in Athens, went to Cairo, got traumatized and came right back to Greece to forget all about it.

Namely to Mykonos.

By that time it has already been nine days that we were out of Canada and I have not gotten laid yet. The blood was boiling inside of me. And it just happens that I got my period when we got to Mykonos. My dream of tasting a Greek man kinda faded away at that moment.

We rented this cute room/villa at this hotel on a hill about 10 minutes walking from little Venice.

The view was just dreamy! The smell of sea air, the mountains and the view of the turquoise water was incredible. Perfect place to fall in love/lust.

Once we got there, my friend Carla went to shower and I went to the pool bar to get our welcome drinks. As I walked through the opening, I saw these hot Italian looking men. So hot, they were probably gay. As I turn my head towards the bar my eyes rest on a good-looking bearded man behind it staring back at me. Jackpot.

While I’m sipping this whatever fruity drinks he made I am super aware of his eyes on me. He walks up and asks me where I’m from and we end up chit chatting. His name is Vasilis, he is Greek and twenty minutes later he is already inquiring about my plans for that night. Upon hearing my friend and I are thinking of hitting the party scene, he offers to show us around, throwing in “we can have a lot of fun together.”

I’m thinking this man either really likes me or he’s genuinely nice to hot tourists. I found out later that “we are gonna have fun” in Greek translates to “We are gonna have sex”. Me and my naive self. Oh well… What did I care? I knew nothing was gonna happen. It was my time of the month after all.

After walking around the beach and eating at a seaside restaurant with Carla, I was dying to go to the bar and see Vasilis, but it was already midnight so I figured “oh well… Another time.” Let’s see what Mykonos has in plans for us.

After a pretty crazy night out in Club Paradise, and a great start to the day at the pool, I was still hoping to see Vasilis. Instead, I see this other Greek stud. And I think to myself…. “Will I ever be able to stop falling for these Greek Gods?”

We have breakfast. He makes us freshly squeezed orange juice and adds some vodka in. Way to get the two hangover girls drunk again.

We rest around the pool, sleeping, enjoying the cloudless sky and the hot weather of Mykonos.

Then, in the corner of my eye, I see Vasilis at the bar, who seems like he sees me too. As I wake up from a nap after, I feel a little tap on my shoulder. I turn my head and guess what I see – Vasilis’ face looking at me with his big eyes, a drink in his hand.

“Hey K, this drink is for you. You never came to see me after and I was waiting for you”

“I was going to see you” I said “But it seemed kind of late”. That part of it was true.

After he left and I rested some more, I figured, hey this is my last day in Mykonos! I might as well go and innocently flirt with the bar boy. I will myself to walk up to the bar, giving a sign to Carla that I am abandoning her for an hour or so.

As Vasilis and I talk, I feel his eyes burning into me. He asks me what I’m doing tonight and I tell him I’m leaving back home.

“Oh no…” he says “I thought you were gonna stay longer. I could bring you to the beach and we could have fun there!”

“Yes I know” I sigh.

“You know, we can still have a lot of fun” he hints.

Ok, so I know where this is going, however I’m bleeding, but this is probably my last chance to get laid while I’m in Greece with a hot Greek man. I think “screw this” and grab his hand as I finish my cigarette. “Why don’t I call room service?”

I offer him to wait a few minutes then come up with a pretense of  giving me my phone charger.

I said wait a few minutes then you can come by and give me my charger.

As I leave the bar, I am walking slowly. When I am sure nobody can see me, I charge. I tell Claudia that I’m gonna be busy with the boy so she can tan somewhere and read a book.

Get to the room. Clean myself. Pick up the messy clothes scattered everywhere. Get ready to greet him in my bikini.

He knocks. Comes in. As I close the door, he grabs my face passionately and kisses me.

Ouf…. I’m in heaven. We keep on making out, then I realize I’m still on my period, so I have to tell him. I start laughing and he’s a bit bedazzled, so I come right out and say it.

He looks at me with his wide eyes “Are you serious?”

I’m thinking this guy is probably feeling like he has made a bad choice! First I gotta leave in two hours, and then this surprise!

But then he surprises me even more by offering “other holes!” I guess it’s true what they say about Greeks!

I offer to go to the shower instead.

We get in the shower. The window is open so you can see the mountains outside and the breeze is coming through. We have the best sex ever: it is passionate, unexpected and incredible!

As we finish, we dry ourselves, kiss, and I thank him for his “room service” which makes him burst out laughing. Before he left the room he told me to pass by the bar and say goodbye.

Truth is, I didn’t wanna say goodbye. I just wanted to stay in perfect Mykonos forever. My face was glowing so much, Carla looked at me and started laughing.

As I walk up to him to get my final drink, it’s sunset and my body is filled with all kinds of emotions. I feel like crying of happiness, because I had such a wonderful experience with this place. I give him one final hug and I leave.

As we’re in the car to get to the ferry and my mind is still in the clouds, I receive a message from Vasilis: “I will miss you. Hope to see you again :)”

Even though we are leaving this paradise, I’m in heaven.

By next day, I came down to earth. Through Facebook, Carla and I realized he lied about a couple of things. First he lied about his age. Twice! First he told me he was twenty two instead of twenty five. Then it turns out he is actually twenty years old. Way to feel like a craddle robber instead of a man eater I initially considered myself as!

Second it turns out not only does he actually have a girlfriend, after telling me he was single, but that they have been together for three years!

Don’t get me wrong, I was still on a high because of what I’ve experienced. But let’s just say that I felt bad for that poor little girl who trusted this man whore.

And the worst is yet to come. When I get back home and we chat, he tells me he is waiting for both Carla and I to come back because he would love to have fun together. By this time, I get the full definition of fun.

About the writer: Vietnamese, born in Montreal, 27, single, and living the life.

I Want to Read & Feature YOUR stories!

Hi everyone and thank you so much on your warm comments about my posts! It really meant a lot that you spent hours going over my extremely lengthy stories and even sometimes sat through my entire blog!

I have to say, I really  loved sharing these sometimes funny, sometimes emotional and oftentimes embarrassing stories. At first it was simply an outlet, since my friends got tired of me talking about it and I loved to! Later, it because a hobby, and from time to time, I actually noticed myself getting into these stupid situations as a way to get content for later. The Dutch story started like that. I was literally bored and I needed an interesting tale, which actually ended up being the least memorable.

This blog led to me to a bigger video project, which I wish I could share with you! It is now my main priority and takes LOTS of my time, but I love it beyond anything I have ever done before. Ironically, once I started the dating project, I also stopped dating. This brings me to the fact that yes, I love sharing stories, but besides having no time, I have NO STORIES! I am a single, boring girl with no more international dating.

A lot of you spent time writing your own personal stories to me and from the jumbled up version, they seemed quite interesting and worthwhile sharing, so I figured, why not create a community of international daters? If you have an interesting story to tell, email me at miainternationaldating@gmail.com. If I like your story, I will make sure to feature it on the blog. If not, I will ask you to spend more time on revising it in order to make it presentable (and relatable!)

Looking forward to your stories!
Mia