In which fate intervenes and I have the epiphany I’ve had many a time already.
After a few days of no communication with the BF – during which a macabre variety of reasons for G’s lack of contact entered my mind (fell off the roof at work, suicide over missing me, flash flood, etc) I finally received a call from my so-called beloved. We talked, tears were shed, love was declared, and phone cards expired. So after three days of nothing, we had a brief conversation, and he didn’t call back. His vitals verified, I walked back to the table, realizing that the freedom I’d felt over the last few days was now gone, and we’d be talking, yet again, every day. Constriction wrapping up my body like the snake that bears its name, I joined my comrades B and M back in the Zocalo where I chugged my dollar Coronas for a cheap, quick buzz. Gotta love the high altitude.
Just as my new compatriots and I are forced to talk about diarrhea with alarming frequency (though I’m just a spectator – I have yet to suffer Cholula’s Revenge firsthand, although I’m shoving manhandled elote down my gullet as often as I can), we’re also forced to share intimate life details. Or I am, anyway. It’s pretty hard to explain, especially to people you’ve only knows for a couple of weeks, a life philosophy that circulates around a potentially wrongly translated tattoo (the energy of the lineaments of gratified desire lead to truth…).
In other words, how can you say that while you truly love your boyfriend, you hate the idea of having a boyfriend, not for feminist reasons but for abstract and absurd ones, and that you want to have sex with other people because it’s your life force and MO, and also you’re just always cachonda? I thought I was doing a pretty good job. The alcohol helps with justification. You can rationalize the nonexistence of global warming with enough Jameson – at least, the Bush administration tried.
In the middle of my dirty dissertation, my phone rang again.
“Hello, Fate? Yes, how are you? No, just hanging out…no, I’ve never been to Cholula at night. In an hour in front of the Oxxo? Perfect. Ciao.”
And thus, quicker than I could say Adultery, I had a rendezvous with L, friend of a friend of a friend, from Guadalajara studying in Puebla, had drank together one Christmas in New York.
Now I wasn’t expecting anything, but I was in a mood, I felt slim, I applied eyeliner in the bar banyo. And, as B pontificated: “You’re meeting him at eleven PM in front of the convenience store. That’s a Mexican booty call, my friend.”
A couple of beers later and we were in a salsa club somewhere between Cholula and my apartment. The three days of Latin American Dance I’d taken at La Ibero had not prepared me for the intense moves that were slashing across the dance floor in a smoky explosion of trumpets and twists. But I can hear a rhythm and shake it to the music if my life depends on it, and goddamn is salsa good foreplay. By the time the band went off and the signature 3 am electronic music came blaring on, his lips were on mine and I only had one though running through my mind: Carpe Penem – seize the dick.