Spain won their match today against Portugal. Talking sports, gross, I know, but since the Latino turned on the match the other day during sexy-time I haven’t been able to stop watching. Anyway, seeing the red and yellow flag reminded me of my time spent in Spain…
FLASHBACK I was teaching English at a private academy for mostly low level 30/40-years-olds who were only taking the class because their boss was paying for it. My smallest class consisted of 2 people, their names were Roccia and Edgar. Roccia, a 34-year-old single woman with a bowl cut and braces, was taking English class so that she could get a raise at work. Edgar, a 33-year-old adorable and gay screenwriter, was taking the class to freshen up on his English before he headed to live in New York for 6 months. Roccia was a nervous bitch and Edgar was sweet. The two of them actually hit it off well, and so did I. One time when we were working on the past-tense, I had a conversation with Roccia about her weekend:
“Where did you go this weekend?” I asked slowly.
She looked at me confidently and said, “I went to the BITCH.”
I got nervous and turned red. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“The bitch. Sabes, la playa!” she replied in Spanish.
She was trying to say “beach”, but couldn’t pronounce it correctly. I embraced the mispronunciation, like any non-trained teacher would do, and rolled with it.
“So how was the bitch?” I asked curiously.
“The bitch was hot,” she said while fanning herself with her notebook. It’s so true that when you are learning another language you become a lot more animated to compensate for your low vocabulary. I acted like Ricahrd Simmons for the first 6 months I lived there.
“Was it a nude bitch?” I asked.
She blushes from the inappropriate and crude question, then smiles and tilts her head down. Like a kitten, she says, “It was not a nude bitch, but I go before to nude bitch.” The rest of the conversation swirled around nude
I love Spaniards honesty.
We woke up and decided to have morning sex. While things were getting hot and heavy I noticed his hand creeping over towards the nightstand. The Latino grabbed the remote and pressed the power button. He turned on the World Cup, Mexico was playing Argentina. I smiled, realized just how strongly everyone else in the world feels about soccer, and then pumped even harder to finish things up before the first goooooooooaaaaaaaaal!
Oh boy, I hate myself for having these feelings. I didn’t want to text him today, to see if he’d text me, which is absolutely ridiculous. I always preach to my friends that if they feel like texting someone they’ve just started dating, then do it. What have you got to lose? If you come across as too involved too early, then fuck ‘em. They should like the fact that you’re thinking about them. But today I was being hypocritical and refused to text him. The entire day I checked my phone. I felt about 100 phantom vibrations. Finally, around 10:30 p.m., I said “Fuck you Jim, you dirty vagina, text him.” So I did. Then there was the waiting game. It wasn’t long, maybe an hour, and for that hour I was livid. I thought, “What’s his problem? Oh, is he too good for me? He’s probably out fucking the entire world. This clearly isn’t going to work out. How am I going to tell him?” By the time my panties were all in a bunch, he texted me back and suggested that we meet up tomorrow. Holy fucking shit, I don’t like this part of dating. I don’t like acting like a fool. I’m not a fool. Or am I? Is he playing me? See, here I go again…
- NeNe: Hey, what time do you work tomorrow?
- Me: I start at 5. Why?
- NeNe: Well, Markie and I are going to have a candlelight vigil for the 1 year anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. We’re having it around 3. He actually died at 12:15, but we can't meet then.
- Me: (trying to act interested) Where?
- NeNe: Out back, by the linen bins.
- Me: Oh, that’s cool. But that’s not really my thing. I don’t think he was… Um, it’s just not my thing.
- NeNe: (disappointed and obviously upset) Oh, no worries.
- Note: My co-wroker NeNe (52) is a sweetheart and I really respect her adoration towards one man, but under no circumstance was I going to hold a candle, bow my head, and have a moment of silence in the back of The Cupcake Factory next to the linen bins for Wacko Jacko. He was good, but not that good. Now Titus, the silverback Mountain Gorilla of the Virunga Mountains who died last September 14, is another story.
I went on a date last night… Steak and whiskey… We fucked. So as we’re lying in bed, spooning each other (I’ve got my arms wrapped around him), he begins to doze off and I’m trying to decide if it’s appropriate to pass a little gas. All that steak and arugula salad started brewing. But, it was the first date and I decided to be a lady (even though my thighs were burning from the sex) and hold it in. Just then, as his butt is nestled into my groin, he farts! I didn’t know what to do. He straight up Dutch-oven“ed” me. I felt the vibration all over my groin. Lying there, letting it settle, feeling violated, I thought of violently pushing him off. But then I thought to myself, “relax, you wanted to do the same thing.” So I just laid there and marinated in his filth… Then he rolled over onto his back and began snoring like a god damn lion. Really loudly. I was like, “You pig!” as I stared at him sound asleep. Then I thought of all the women who have to deal with this on a regular basis with their husbands… And put up with it! My Mom did. My sisters do. So instead of hating on it, I just accepted it. I need to accept more in relationships; otherwise I’ll be single for the rest of my life. My curse is dismissing relationships before they even start. So I’m going to work on that, even if it means a lifetime of Dutch-ovens and snoring.