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.
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.