Morals

It was a long night. I was cansado. Muy, muy tired. The sort of tired that makes your knees numb after a night of dancing on cheaper than you should have purchased leather-soled shoes. But, there was someone. When there is a woman with such melodic hips on the dance floor, you forget about the knees. You forget about many things, because those hips, those hips.

The invitation back for a “night cap” comes as a welcome surprise. Other than dancing circles around my “competition” and easily having the best mustache in the club, I didn’t do much talking. There were smiles and wise cracks, but, like I explained, I was tired. I still do not understand from where the term “night cap” comes, but I have always been a fan. Of any cap really. Morning, afternoon, dusk, whenever.

The first thing I saw upon entering her apartment was a flag of Venezuela. I like Venezuela. I believe there is something special in their water because the women do not disappoint. I believe that the United States wouldn’t have political issues with Venezuela if Hugo Chavez were a beautiful Venezuelan woman.

The night cap started, as all night caps start, with a tour of the apartment. A tour. Why is it that women find the need to give me a tour when I am invited back to their place at three in the morning? Si, it is polite, but come on. Why the tour at three?

We then made it to the most important room in the house, the bedroom, when I was violently pushed onto the bed. Venezuelan women are not only beautiful, they are also strong. The night cap was becoming one of my favorites as my new amiga straddled me on the edge of her bed as her skirt eased up her sides. Did I mention that I like Venezuela?

I embraced her like this for a bit with my eyes closed until I made the error of opening my eyes. In the beginning, it was not an error. It was beautiful. To see an olive-colored sun kissed Venezuelan gyrating on you is a blessing, but my peripheral vision once again was there to haunt me.

I saw something horrid out of the corner of my eye. If I had kept my eyes closed, things would have been perfect. Even Hugo Chavez would have slapped me on my back and congratulate me on a job well done. But no. I, for some reason, had to open my eyes. Me, being curious by nature, wanted to see her room. Why? I don’t know. Because I really could care less about her room, but, at this moment, I wanted to see what adorned her walls. It ruined it.

I have to go.

“Que? Porque?”

I forgot that I have to do something early tomorrow.

“Are you serious?”

I was serious. Unfortunately, when I opened my eyes, I saw a man staring at me that took away all desire to be here with this woman. I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the morning. I couldn’t do it.

I ran back to the bedroom to snap a picture for you:



You see, I cannot be in the bedroom of a woman with a picture of an Argentine on the wall. No matter how much of a cult hero he may have been, I could not bring myself to continue. Not now, not ever.

To be with El Guapo, one must be free of all things Argentinean. I do, however, think back and remember her flower-covered satin skirt and black high heels and wonder what could have been…

Sabes, sometimes, I am a true idiota.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Punch in the stomach

“Hey, man! What’s up?”

It is early and I’m tired. I find myself watching the flashing white man without reacting in my usual way. The cold makes me more tired and for a moment, I forget that I’m supposed to blink.

“From the other night. The Super Diamond show. We met your friend.”

En serio? It is too early for me to hate Miguel. I know that he has once again made my life a little too interesting for my taste. Monday mornings are not meant to be eventful. Monday mornings are meant to pass by until the coffee kicks in. El Guapo does not like to speak on Monday mornings.

“Yeah man, some show. Good times afterwards too.”

This man with the too blue shirt was balding. Bueno, it seems like it was his decision to keep the quarter sized clump of hair on the center of his forehead. The rest of his hair hadn’t received the notice because it was no more. But, the quarter-sized piece of hair held on. It wasn’t ready to go.

“You should have come man. It was fun.”

The look on the man’s face… I hated myself a bit at that moment for allowing my friend to make this man’s face move in such a fashion. His face made the expression of someone who had lost his soul. He would make eye contact for a fleeting moment before speaking, while staring at an unknown spot on the pavement.

Threesomes. I have understood the novelty of the act, but have never partaken. Not once. Nunca. Never. Why not? Because I am Guatemalan and do not share.

But El Guapo, two women at once? Come on. Do you know how amazing that would be?

No. I have no idea and I will never know. The threesome is the invention the French. A true lover does not wish to take his attention away from his partner or wish to share his partner with another. Me? I do not share.

Do I not share because I fear the effect that mi Guatemalan love would have on two women at once? Bueno, I have thought of this, but no. I do not share. Ever. Because when you share the love, it makes someone look like this man.

I had no words for him. No words of mine would take away the feeling of getting punched in the stomach repeatedly. I nodded and thought about the anonymous commenter making a crack at my perhaps giving him a $20 bill. No. Not today. Money isn’t going to make this guy, this chap feel any better.

When another man is with your woman, any woman in your life, even one of your past, it changes the part of you that cares. I can do nothing for this man who was only trying to make his woman love him.

I can do nothing for him. Well, I could always punch Miguel in the stomach.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Kentucky Woman vs. Sweet Caroline

“El Guapo, trust me.”

I do not always like it when Miguel gets that look in his eyes. It’s a strange look, not unlike that of the cheetah I’ve seen on television.

“Trust me. It’s going to be amazing. Just trust me.”

I do not like it when he tells me to trust me several times. It makes me want to not trust him. Similar to when people begin sentences with “no offense or anything,” I automatically begin to not trust him.

So tell me again. This is a band that charges $22 to see them play someone else’s songs?

“Si, but you don’t understand.”

And then while they are charging you $22 to listen to them play someone else’s songs, they also dress up like this person?

“Si, but you don’t understand.”

And this “band” is vocally plagiarizing songs written by a guy known as the “Jewish Elvis”?

“El Guapo, shut your boca for two seconds and pay attention to me. Women, bueno, American women, love this type of music. I guarantee that this place will be full of the nieves. The ratio is going to be amazing. AND, please pay attention to these words, we will be the only Latino men there. I promise. Te lo prometo.”

I left Miguel to do some research on this Jewish Elvis. I checked out this song called Cherry Cherry which is pretty much a catchy song that repeats and rhymes words like move and groove. Interesante. Then I listened to Sweet Caroline. My, what a catchy song. So I realized that Neil Diamond songs were not songs for a thinking man. Bueno, I realized before this, that these songs were not songs for men at all. Mi amigo was right. This place was going to be crawling with women.

We arrived at the 9:30 club to find that we were indeed the only Latin men there and, gracias Miguel, the crowd was easily made up of 80% women. I would like to thank whomever sent the memo to Miguel.

The band was made up of 6 men who all wore rhinestone shirts and had some sort of sideburn activity. Many were balding and perhaps a bit overweight. The great thing? It didn’t matter. These gringas loved the way they moved and sang. The band was fun because they didn’t take themselves seriously. Yet the women, I believe that by the end of the show, they all wanted to make sweet, magic love.

One gentleman in the crowd, who for some reason felt the need to speak to Miguel and me rather than the 900 single women in the club, told me that it was “cougar central.” I had no idea what he meant by this and wished for him to take his green shirt and halitosis somewhere else. He kept reminding Miguel that he was going to “pull major ass” and how American women like to be “thrown around by Latin-types.”

It was during Kentucky Woman that I told him a particular woman had been staring at him.

“Oh, that’s my wife. Look buddy, truth be told, she wants me to ask you if you’d be down for a three way. Interested? She’s crazy in the sack and has always wanted a Spanish type.”

I had no words then and I really have no words now. I just looked at the guy with a look puzzled enough to send him back to explain his failure.

“Did he just ask you for a threesome?”

Si.

“Turned it down? Did you see her? Idiota!”

And I sat there as mi amigo sauntered over towards the couple. Yes, he sauntered. I saw the look in the woman’s eye and quickly realized that Miguel was not interested in a threesome. I then saw the look in the man’s eyes when he realized he was going to spend the evening watching poker on television. Latino men do not share their women.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Blaming the Mexican for the Sweater Vest?

Sweater Vests. Can someone explain this to me please? I do not understand.

It’s a piece of clothing that is meant to protect against the cold weather, but without the sleeves. It is like someone woke up one morning and said, “Man, it is cold outside, but not that cold. I do not want to commit to a full sweater because then my arms will be too warm.”

So then, there are people out there with long sleeved shirts and a sweater, which for some reason is usually a red or brownish tint.

Was there a sale on sweater vests that made them just too good to pass up? Is this happening anywhere else or is it just DC that has sweater-vest fever?

I will tell you this. You will never see a self-respecting Latino wearing a sweater vest. Nunca. Jámas. Do you know why? Because we commit. We commit to a theme. We don’t do the half sleeved world of fashion. If a Latina woman is wearing something tight, everything she is wearing is tight. We commit. If we are cold, you are more likely to see us wearing rabbit fur-lined everything (hat, gloves and socks). We commit.

Wait, I just thought of something. There is one Latino out there that I’m pretty sure has sweater vests: Alberto Gonzales.

For those of you who do not know, Alberto Gonzales is the attorney general of the United States. The very moment I heard of Mr. Gonzales being asked by President Bush to be the President, I thought, “Great, now he has a Mexican to blame for something.”

I knew, I really truly knew, that some were just going to be licking their lips for something else to go wrong in the Bush White House. Why? Because they were then, able, to finally, blame a Mexican.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hell, I don’t know. The Mexican did it!”

Why not? It’s so perfect. Blame the brown guy. Ave Maria…

I bet some wish that Gonzales was around before troops were sent into Iraq. “The Mexican told us there were weapons of mass destruction.” “It was the Mexican who said that, not me.” “Whoa, don’t point your finger this way, it was the Mexican.”

But what do I know about politics? Very little. I do know, however, when the game “blame the brown guy” is being played. The last to be picked in elementary school dodge ball Tom Tancredo must just be loving this. Tom Tancredo, he does commit, but he totally wears a sweater vest.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Green Beer

As you may have guessed from my name, I am not of Irish descent. I was not blessed with pale skin, red hair, or freckles. My people do not get burnt by the sun, name their children Danny, or center their meals around the potato. So, what could I do on Saint Patrick’s Day? I drank. I drank heavily.

One does not know the power of St. Patrick’s day until they find themselves throwing up green beer in an alleyway, then going back inside for more.

Why must they make things green? Green. The color of mold. The color of things gone bad. On this day, green food is good food. Praise be.

This is the day that every Caucasian, no every person is able to say and wish and hope that they are Irish. What is it that we celebrate? I truly have no idea, but an old Irish man told me that it had something to do with ridding Ireland of snakes.

“Snakes. St. Patrick the country of Ireland from the snakes! Buy my friend a drink!”

When I say that this gentleman was Irish, I do not know this with certainty. He had a strong drawl, a Guinness mustache and eczema. He could have been from West Virginia. I do not know, but he bought me a beer and taught me of St. Francis. Turns out St. Francis also converted many pagans over towards Christ. I guess that’s a good thing. I will drink to that.

Imagine me, a gorgeous Guatemalan who was blessed with not so pale skin, inside a very Irish bar in the middle of “dancing” Irish dances. Why the quotation marks? Because jumping up and down while bringing your ankle to your waist is not dancing. It’s a standing seizure. But, it turns out that the redheaded ladies seem to enjoy seeing two Guatemalans do their version of the Riverdance, so on this St. Patrick’s day, I Guatemalaneded it up. It was glorious.

“Where did you learn to dance like that?”

Did you like that? My grandfather was Irish.

“Oh yeah. You look Irish. What was your grandfather’s name?”

Francisco, I mean, Francis O’Douls.

“Oh, O’Douls. That’s hot. I like that. You must be a Black Irish.”

Oh, my little sweet red-haired princess, I’ll be anything you want if you just keep talking to me. Then, of course, the green beer that had settled nicely in my stomach expressed its strong desire to escape my Guatemalanness with a belch. A green belch. My little redhead didn’t take well to that, but luckily my shirt was green.

Green vomit does not stain a green shirt. But a belch, bueno, a belch ruins even Irish foreplay.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

High School Classmate

“Nothing?”

Nothing.

“Because you don’t like them?”

Si. That’s about right.

“They have good wine.”

I wouldn’t know.

“Good steak too.”

I doubt it’s any better than what they make here.

“Hmmm. Leather goods. They have really good leather goods.”

I’m not in the market for a whip right now. I’m ok.

“Do you think you’re better than them?”

Them? Yes, I am. Only because they think they’re better than me which automatically makes me better than them.

“Why again?”

Because anyone that thinks they are better than another person is automatically placed beneath that person.

“Because of what?”

Rules. Rules set forth for being a decent human being.

“How about people who go around talking about how good looking they are and how great of a mustache they have? What about them?”

Guatemalans are in a category of their own. God himself decided to make all Guatemalans amazing looking. This cannot be helped. Do not hate the Guatemalan people because God prefers them. It is not our fault.

“What do you think God thinks about Argentines?”

I think he places them in the same category as Albania.

“Was that the first country you could think of that started with an “a”?”

No. I thought of Afghanistan, but I think God likes the Afghanis more than the Argentines.

“But Argentina is better than Afghanistan in soccer.”

Oh yeah, I guess they were too busy kicking the Russians out of their country and being oppressed by the Taliban to get much practice in for soccer.

“I think God likes the Argentines. Have you seen their women?”

Yes.

“Didn’t you date an Argentine back in high school?”

No.

“Yes you did. You did. I remember. You lost your virginity to an Argentine.”

No, that was Ricardo.

“Oh no. That was you. Now it all makes sense. I get it now.”

I get why I haven’t made any attempt to see you since high school.

“Didn’t it go down on a water bed during the 4th of July or something?”

I no longer wish to have this conversation.

“You love the Argentines…”

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Ladder

Ladder.

“What?”

Ladder. Say ladder.

“Ladder.”

The “d” sound you just made? In ladder?

“Yeah?”

That is the same sound as the “r” sound in Español.

“Really?”

She proceeds to say ladder over and over again. Then she started to say words like Ramón, burrito, rápido, rápidamente, and aburrido.

“Estoy muy aburrida, El Guapo.” (I’m very bored, El Guapo)

Oh, I’m sorry that I’m not amusing you. I’m turning you into a professional Spanish speaker. You really sold me when you said, “Ramon wanted a burrito rapidamente.” That was great.

“You think that was great?”

I was very impressed. Muy impresionante. I like how one of the first words you chose to say after learning how to say the ere was “burrito”. That was nice. It made me have a good feeling about you.

“Oh. I see. You’re making fun of me. Are you going to make a joke about how I’m racist because I said “burrito”? Are you going to shoot me another sly smile? Are you going to run your fingers through your hair again?”

Not now I’m not. I was going to run my fingers through my hair and shoot you a sly smile, but if it’s not going to have any effect on you, then I don’t want to waste my time.

“Oh, you’re not wasting your time honey. It totally works. It’s doing the trick. I just want you to know that I know what you’re doing.”

And to think I just thought you were another girl attracted to mustaches.

“Yeah… Who your age has mustaches?”

It is nice, no?

“Yeah. You actually pull it off. Estoy muy MUY aburrida. Vamos El Guapo. It’s my turn to teach you something.”

And so it was. El Guapo is back.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Papaya

I don’t understand. What do you mean by that statement?

“I just don’t like papayas.”

That makes no sense to me. How can someone not like papayas? You must be eating them out of season.

“No. I’ve had them during different times of the year. Even in different countries. I just don’t like them. I think it’s the texture I don’t like.”

The texture? You don’t like the delicious papaya because of the texture? What is the texture?

“It’s stringy. And they have those sticky, black, round seeds in them. I don’t like the way they look.”

Stringy. Sticky, black, round seeds. Because of this you don’t like the delicious papaya?

“Why are you making such a big deal about this?
---
“What do you mean she didn’t like papayas?”

She said she didn’t like the texture. The seeds were black and sticky.

“The texture? What does that even mean? Why does she care about the seeds? You don’t eat the seeds! The seeds don’t matter! You scoop out the seeds.”

That’s what I tried telling her, but she said something about not liking to eat something that touches sticky, black seeds.

“But the papaya is delicious! Maybe she’s had it during the wrong times of the year?”

Yeah, no. She just didn’t like the papaya. I tried to cover all angles.

“So what happened?”

I’m not sure I can be with someone who doesn’t like the delicious papaya. I could not even have a conversation after that. I started wondering that maybe she didn’t like the delicious mango or the tamarind. I just couldn’t do it.

“Guava.”

What about it?

“She probably doesn’t like them either. They have seeds inside. Coconut. No seeds, but she probably doesn’t like the texture of the coconut meat either.”

I hadn’t thought about the coconut. I love coconut.

“Who doesn’t? She probably doesn’t! This whole conversation just put me in a bad mood. I’m going home. I never want to meet her.”

Miguel will never actually meet this one. I will likely never see her again, but she was nice. That is, if you like the papaya hating type.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

My Mr. Wendal

I hate the nighttime. I fucking hate the nighttime. Too much quiet. Too much darkness. To much time to think. I’m tired of thinking. Fuck thinking.

Tonight, the moon was out and it seemed like a good night to go for a walk. It seemed like a good night to go walking when it was too cold, too dark and too late to run into anyone. A perfect night to go out for a walk.

The steps on the sidewalk sound different when it’s cold. The leather soles seem to stay less time on the ground as they step away from the cold. With the wind blowing in your uncovered ears, you suddenly begin to walk to the beat of whatever song is playing in your mind. The Ramones, for some reason, are in my mind. I do, however, want to be sedated.

“Brotha’ man. You got a dollar?”

Brother man. I have, for some odd reason, always wanted to be called “brotha’ man.” I saw the gentleman trying to escape the wind in a doorway of a boarded up house. Brother man. I think it was that Arrested Development song from a long time ago.

I gave him a twenty.

“Damn son. A twenty? I was gonna say “penny for thoughts”, but I ain’t got the time.”

I chuckled. I did.

No worries mi amigo. Buy something warm. I wish I had more, but that is all I have.

I show him my empty wallet.

“Don’t be taking out your wallet boy! You some kind of fool?”

Yes. The best kind.

“Boy the moon is out tonight! You best be careful.”

Yes sir. It’s time I go home. God bless you.

I haven’t asked God to bless anyone in a long time, but it just came out of my mouth. Strange.

“Thank you brother. Remember, life is gonna happen no matter what you want. It just gonna happen. No sense in fightin’ it. Just let it happen and try to smile as much as you can. Ain’t all dark corners out there.”

This coming from a man who was now escaping the wind in a doorway. Ain’t all dark corners out there…

He’s right.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Cutting Corners

Mi amigo Alberto recently purchased his first house. He has been talking about getting a house of his own since we were 18 years old, so this was a big moment for him. I was very happy that mi amigo had worked so hard and had achieved one of his dreams.

We all have dreams, but it’s interesting to note that very few of them actually come true. I will tell you that his eyes beamed with pride as he showed me around. It is nice to be around someone who has accomplished a dream. It is a good vibe that puts you in a good mood.

“El Guapo, these last several years have been tough. I’ve put every extra penny into the bank and cut corners everywhere I could.”

It was funny that he said this because he was the friend who would drink the grocery brand soda or maybe order water when we went out to dinner. I hadn’t paid much attention to it until he actually pointed it out.

“I actually hate the generic cola. It tastes moths and radish. I can’t wait to start buying actual brands. I’m tired of Terry the Lynx cereal.”

I was proud of mi amigo. Maybe his bad moods could be attributed to drinking something that tasted like a flying nuisance and a root. Mi madre told me that everything that is worthwhile is hard. Alberto has had a hard road and he got to where he needed to be. I left him with the rest of the guests and went to visit the office (bathroom).

I won’t get into the details of my trip to the restroom, but when I went to reach for the toilet paper my heart stopped. What in the name of San Luis Abispo is this? One ply? En serio? He is cutting corners here? One ply? Why? Why would you cut corners here?

Generic toothpaste. Fine. Generic cereal. Fine. Hell, even generic Q-tips is fine. But here? Toilet paper? One ply?

This particular “brand” was so cheap that it didn’t even have the perforations to make a nice, straight tear. Look, I like to have a nice, straight tear. Now, the tear is all over the place. Look at this… I just made a 45 degree tear. What’s the use of that? Now I’ll have to use more.

Is this made of a thin cardboard? Are those pieces of sand? This is not going to be good.

It wasn’t good. It was hell. I understand cutting corners, but this? No. No person should save money like this. When I go to a restaurant, hotel or office and I see this type of toilet paper being used I cry. I cry holy Guatemalan tears. I cry because I realize that whomever bought the paper didn’t respect me, the customer. Why would I want to go somewhere that didn’t respect me?

Now I understood why Alberto was always in a bad mood. In his attempt to cut corners, he crossed line. Toilet paper is something that touches a delicate part of your, well, of your soul. Well, maybe not your soul, but if your behind is unhappy, then your soul is unhappy. So, it could be said that your behind is the gateway to making your soul happy.

Ask any proctologist. If your ass is unhappy, you are unhappy and then your soul is unhappy.

I believe that the makers of cheap toilet paper own stock in Preparation H. It is a conspiracy.

I walked out of the restroom and punched Alberto in the face.

Cheap bastard.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: The Preparation H website was a bit too much for me. The company actually took the time to make the site interactive. Yes, you can actually see what anal discomfort looks like by moving your mouse over the pictures. What will the marketing geniuses think of next?

Wondering at 2 AM

I know it’s cliché. But when I look at the stars, I wonder if you're looking at the same time. And maybe, maybe you’re thinking about me when I’m thinking about you.

That lull in conversation when your eyes draw upwards at the sky and you pause, you pause whatever you’re doing to look at the stars. I wonder if you’re looking at the same time. And maybe, maybe you’re thinking about me when I’m thinking about you.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

The beginning

My neighbor got a new job and his cable got turned back on. It’s about time. I almost called Comcast to actually pay for cable. Then I realized that I’m a resident of DC and it’s my God given right to get free cable.

While I was watching TV a commercial came on showing that, wait for it, Disney was going to release Peter Pan on DVD. Now, normally, I could care less about the DVD I was going to be forced into buying for one of my little cousins, but Peter Pan, well, Peter Pan was special to me.

As I sat there watching the commercial, I remembered a moment in my life that I hadn’t thought of in a while. One of my first sexual thoughts was to the Peter Pan movie. Yes, to a cartoon. To Tinkerbell. Dios, I’m so glad I write anonymously…

You see, throughout the movie, Tinkerbell gets spanked in the ass for her fairy dust. I have no idea why that did something for me when I was but a kid, but the thought of people spanking the girl in the green mini-skirt did something to me. You know, the “No mama, I just don’t want to stand up right now. Si, my legs are asleep again.” type of thing.

After having this memory, my mind wandered to other moments in my young Guatemalan life that brought sex into my mind before I even knew what it was.

Annie.

Yes, the musical. But it was a movie, so back off.

Anyway, I was a kid when mi madre took me to the theater. Early 80’s I believe. I remember the scenes with the girls, who at the time seemed so much older than me, dressed in rags.

I for some reason had visions of breaking into the orphanage and saving all of them and being their hero. I didn’t even have a mustache to hypnotize them with, but I imagined swinging from a rope through the windows and saving each and every one of them. From their rags. They would be with me, El Guapo, for ever.

Then there was She-Ra and that crazy little cat that always had to ruin everything; the girl in El Chavo that always wore that mini-skirt; that cat woman creature in Thundercats…

But Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell will always be my first. The one that made me realize that I will forever live a life where I chase women.

If only they all wore those little mini-skirts and had magic dust come out when I slapped their bottom. If only…

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo