I was waiting. Well, I wasn’t simply waiting, I was keeping myself occupied with a glass of chilled rosé. Actually, to tell you the truth, it started as just one itsy bitsy glass; however, as the minutes turned into hours, my glass was replenished two, three or maybe even four times. It was almost 1:00 am and I was still waiting. For the Mexican. Another troublesome garçon or, perhaps in this case I should say, chico. It was during this waiting that, after 4,369 days of living in Paris—and many, but not quite that many boy stories—I’ve finally decided to start this blog. Get ready, pour yourself a glass of rosé … this is how the latest tale began …
A Mexican in Paris? I know what you’re thinking… I was in the land of charming seductive Frenchmen, what was I doing with a Mexican? Nevertheless, the landscape of men in the city of amour is dotted with a fair amount of handsome foreigners, and it seemed like I had found not one, but two Mexicanos, in the span of just two weeks … and one was now about to move in with me …
I’d met both in typical Tigresse ways. The first Mexican, a tall slender Mayan-looking one, tried to pick me up as I was waiting (again!) in a bar for the Turkish boy to appear (he’ll have to wait for another story). The Mayan was so adorably insistent that I couldn’t resist giving him my number. The Turkish boy finally showed up. He was as lame as ever, so when the Mayan sent me a text message a few days later, I agreed to see him. An apéro seemed harmless enough.
We met at a café near my work and after about five minutes (all right. more like 15), his hand deftly crept across the table in an attempt to hold my hand. Yikes! Where did that come from?
“I’m Latin, I can’t help being affectionate!”
Sigh, I’d heard that line before. It was ‘officially prohibited’ to quell Latino passion impulses. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted a clingy Latin lover, but on the other hand, I did want to practice my Spanish, and he was rather attractive. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to give him a try. A little summer fling?
After going out with the Mayan twice, I quickly realized that there were several flaws in his summer-fling candidature. Firstly, he tried to get in my pants immediately (hold your horses, conquistador!). Secondly, he was doing a chef apprenticeship and started working at the crack of dawn (ugh, not really compatible with a night owl). Lastly, he was a big fan of French classic rock (not my thing at all). I had hoped to be serenaded sweet Spanish love songs, not Claude François tunes (oh yes, that’s him in the photo). This was not going to work out.
So I decided to do the right thing: cut him off ASAP instead of cowardly not returning his calls. Having only gone out twice, I thought shaking him off by text message was entirely acceptable. I made something up about getting back with my ex, and then wished him luck and clicked send. He actually believed me thinking I was going back to the Turkish boy (no merci!). He replied, saying that he understood, and would let me go on the condition he could see me one more time. I meekly agreed. Back at the bar where we’d first met, I nervously downed three (small) glasses of red wine while he tried to convince me to go back out with him. I eventually managed to escape to the birthday party I was going to, the Mayan ‘giving’ me until the following Wednesday to decide. Four days to decide? I didn’t need one more minute of reflection—my mind was already made up … and ready to wander elsewhere.
Relieved, I eased into the birthday party, immediately getting a new glass of wine to help me shed the memories of the Mayan. I hardly noticed the time going by (or the amount of times my glass was refilled), and somehow it was already time to go home. That was the plan, at least until two newcomers arrived at the party: a girl accompanied by a terribly handsome stranger… (continued in next post)