Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

The Salsa Debacle

It all started when the light turned green. At first I thought it was a Hindi movie soundtrack; it was loud, trumpety, and whiny. Maria fast-forwarded to track three, “her song,” and adjusted the volume to effectively make it the loudest Salsa song ever played on a car radio. Maria rolled down the windows, whiplashed one of her arms through the innocent public air, sang along obnoxiously, and began thrashing her knees like a Martian on meth. I had a sudden flashback of Rodman. She’d had one too many, so since I’d only consumed three drinks in a two-hour span, I drove her white Camaro to the “after-party” at Punchline’s place.

It was all about timing with Maria, a 40-year-old divorcee from Columbia. While dancing at the club earlier, a pathetic string of 22 and 23-year-olds had hit on her. Most cougars don’t go for anyone under 25—guys that young don’t know how to do or say anything right. Since I’m a master with such women, and meet their age requirement, I dropped in on her at just the right time, which resulted in a couple drinks, shitty dancing, a make-out session, and a fight to break away from her clingy friend (which we temporarily won). And now we were driving raucously down Balboa Boulevard at two in the morning, noisier than a Mexican space shuttle launch.

Punchline conveniently had a guest bedroom with a king sized bed. After grabbing beers from his fridge, Maria and I retreated to the room.

We were still undressing when her phone began ringing. “Just ignore it,” I told her, biting on her lip.

“I can’t. My friends are worried about me.” She sat up and fished her phone from her purse. She didn’t even say hello. Her Columbian friend was barking on the other line, chewing out Maria in dangerously rapid Spanish.

Maria laughed. But it wasn’t a good laugh; it was a guilty I’m-acting-naughty laugh that always resulted in closed legs and suppressed passion. By the time she had finished her Latina banter, my boner had softened like a melted Snickers bar, and Maria slammed her head into her pillow, acquiescing to her friend’s desires.

Though soft, I was still devastatingly horny. I relaxed for a couple minutes to allow time for the somber halo of cockblockage to dissolve. I asked Maria about her living arrangements and plans for the upcoming week. When I decided I’d done enough nice-guy work, I made my move again. My efforts beyond kissing were thwarted with hand swipes and that same damn laugh again. It was over. I rolled over and crashed.

I awoke the next morning to noises of thunderous urination. At first I assumed it was Punchline, but I didn’t recall his trickle ever being that commanding. My friend McBride has a theory that the more powerful someone’s toilet urination sounds, the larger their pee-hole is, hence a bigger dick. He even admitted to peeing on toilet walls to avoid pee-hole judgments. (But that’s OK—sometimes I do that too.). If this theory were true for vaginas, then Maria’s vagina was the size of a baseball mitt.

She returned to the room fully-clothed and lay down. We talked for a bit, and I learned about her life back in Columbia and transition to the states. Fascinating. Caressing followed. I finally got her tits out, but she was rather shy with her cuddling. American cougars usually let their desires take control of them. Still unfamiliar with South American women, I decided to take the reins for her. I grabbed her hand and placed it on my cock over my boxers. It remained there for another ten minutes, with no escalation except gentle rubbing. I would have tried to seduce her by licking her neck, rubbing her inner thigh, and gently kissing her mouth, but my morning breath was probably kicking like Miyagi. Now that I was 100% sober, I could assess Maria’s looks, and yes, she was worth a follow up. I’d have to capitalize another time. Before throwing in the towel, I decided to test the waters. Just as I was about to whip out my cock to see where it would lead, her phone rang. It was the same friend, calling at the worst possible time for the second day in a row.

Although I took four years of Spanish in high school, I can only understand about 15% of the stuff coming out of a fluent Spanish-speaker’s mouth. Maria’s talking was so swift, however, that with her it was at 3%. The only word I understood was grande, which she said twice.

“What did you talk about?” I asked.

She laughed, a real laugh this time. “She was just making sure I was okay.” She paused, and then, “I told her you have a big dick.”

I perked up. “You did? You haven’t even seen it yet.” I smiled at her. “But thank you.” Grande!

“Yes, it’s big. I can tell.”

Coming from a 40-year-old, who had probably seen a minimum of 10-15 schlongs in her lifetime, I felt honored—especially after the debacle with the titty-fuck girl from a couple years back who told me my wiener was small. Either way, I would like to take this opportunity to give myself the award for Penis of the Week.

After texting back and forth all next week, we made plans to hang out the following Saturday. I had no intentions of taking her out. Ideally the plan would be: She comes over; we semi-cuddle on the couch and discuss each other’s aspirations with the pleasant waterfall of television in the distant background; we drink our way to a non-whiskey-dicked haze of reality, make out, and go to my room for wild drunk sex. Then I text her three weeks later, and we do it again.

Everything looked promising from the start. Over the phone she even asked if it was cool if she crashed, but then burst my cum bubbles when she announced, “It’s my time of the month. Is that okay?”

Instinctively, I answered, “Yeah, of course. Just come have a drink with me.”

Delighted with my response, she ended the call and said she’d be over around nine. I on the other hand, saw my night suddenly mutate into the likes of a middle school dance. But then I remembered her affinity for my horse cock, and I had visions of her ravenously slobbering all over it.

Things didn’t begin as planned. One, I forgot to restock the fridge with beer, and the only remaining options were three Coronas and four Coors Lights. Two, I had no limes for the Coronas, which resulted in heavy duty complaining. Maria claimed, “Corona without the lime is like a burrito without the beans,” which was the stupidest thing I’d heard since my pal Joe wrote jokes on ebay and tried to sell the punch line for 99 cents. 

As it was, I cracked open my Coors Light while Maria whined after each lime-less sip of Corona she took.

We were still in the kitchen and not even done with our first beer when the shit hit the fan. Maria had asked me a question about teaching, and in the middle of my ignored response, she blurted, “Oh! Do you know how to salsa?”

“Uh. I have some in the fridge, just a sec.”

“No! Dancing!”

“Oh. No, I haven’t taken lessons yet.”

Maria closed her eyes and made a ballerina move before speaking again. “I will teach you.” She set her beer down. “Take my hand.”

While I understand the importance of being “adventurous” and “energetic” to boost my attraction level, salsa dancing is 18,954th on my list of life passions. I’ve been to some fine Salsa bars while traveling through Spain, but not once did I enter that war zone they call a dance floor. Whipping hair, erratic spinning, and “rhythm,” isn’t my idea of fun, unless it’s during sex. I’d much rather slow dance to Sinatra and make fun each other with sensual ear whispering than twirl around willy nilly like overgrown children whiffing at the piñata.

I took Maria’s hand, and she pulled me in close. “Okay, now watch my feet and follow my lead,” she told me. I find it laughable when people “learn to dance.” If it doesn’t come natural, there is no hope. How can dancing be fun when all the moves are manufactured because someone told you what to do? I hated the Macarena when I was little, and I steer clear of anyone who participates in the Garth Brooks’ “I got friends in lonely places” cult dance. Way to go: you learned how to have fake fun and look like you’re a member of Shredder’s Foot Clan.

With one hand around her waist and the other holding her hand, I watched Maria’s shoes and began to make movements around the music-less kitchen. It was awful. Her feet went wide, mine came together. She moved left, I stepped forward. She dipped low, I stood there like a building.

She snapped at me. “No! You have to follow me!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“[Blah blah blah]”

“Oh. Okay.” Still looking at my feet.

She finally ended it and returned to the kitchen counter where she pounded the rest of her beer. After we cracked open a new beer, Maria came up with another brilliant idea: “I have to show you some real salsa! Where’s your computer?”

“Upstairs,” I told her, defeated.

My computer was already on, but I made sure to sit down in the computer chair first. Had she plopped down before me, we would have been watching videos for years. I pulled up YouTube, and she searched some salsa-ish key words. She didn’t like the first video, but when I clicked on the next link, she began gushing like a drunken kindergartner, pointing at the screen and yelling as if I couldn’t see it. “Yes, this is the one! Watch how they move!” she shrieked.

I watched as two Columbian dancers, a black dude and a hot senorita, twisted their bodies in perilous contortions. I bobbed my head to try and believe myself into enjoying it. Then I got ahold of things and realized I was homosexual.

Ten videos later, Maria forced me to dance with her, but ended it before the clip even finished because I couldn’t hang. Now past midnight, we were on our third beer, and since I hadn’t eaten anything in a few hours, I was feeling a healthy buzz. Maria had cooled off like a four-year-old after hours at the jungle gym, and I was building up a legitimate chubby bunny in my pants. It was time to get down to business.

Maria had to borrow one of my shirts for bedtime, so I gave her a blue MXPX punk rock shirt I hadn’t worn since ’02. She went to the bathroom to freshen up and returned wearing nothing but the shirt and a pair of ugly beige panties.

We got naked almost immediately, or at least I did. She kept her panties on to shield the kool aid factor. After making out and sucking on her tits, it was my turn. She started kissing down my body, starting at my chest and ending up in my crotch area—all the classic signs of an impending blowjob. But when she got to my dick, she sat up and began giving me a fucking handjob! “Es big,” she whispered, stroking poorly.

Yeah, so start gobbling! I remained patient for a while, trying to will her mouth to my manhood, but it wasn’t happening. Screw this. I tried to come up with the best way to put it. “Do you want to taste me?”

“I only do that to boyfriends,” she said unacceptably.

“Oh.” I was a goner.

A minute later, I pathetically jerked off all over myself while she watched.

After brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, I purposely decided not to wear my mouth guard. The dentist recommended I wear it because I grind my teeth at night—probably out of sexual frustration—but ever since I got it, I apparently snore like a fat guy when I don’t have it in because my teeth slightly separate to make up for the lost sliver of material, ultimately opening my mouth and causing a hurricane of noise to escape. Sorry, Maria.

I have distinct memories of getting shoved throughout the night. I don’t know why.

 

Epilogue

It’s hard to admit, especially coming from a guy who isn’t yet locked down by a girlfriend or wife, but the luster of “new pussy” is no longer what it used to be. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. In the weeks and months following the Maria handjob incident, I started getting back in contact with some old faithful fuck buddies. They were all solid 7s and 8s, and at least with them I knew there would be no sex act involving hands.

In the past I’d fuck girls once or twice, decide I was sick of them, and delete their number. Things have changed since those days. I currently have four different girls I’m sleeping with, though only two of them I see on a consistent basis (once every other week—they switch off); the other two (maybe once a month) are more about timing—either we’re both drunk or it’s Saturday night and we both happen to have no plans.

With sex now available when I want it, I no longer have the same desire to get laid every time I go out. The only problem with this is that lately I’ve been lazy about hitting on chicks. I’ll go to a bar or club, hit on girls, get rejected, and then think, “Fuck it, I’ll just have Jess come over.” I’ll hang out with friends the rest of the night and forget about women (until I’m super drunk, in which case I’ll start hitting on wild boars). As a result of this who-cares attitude, I’m currently in one of the biggest one-night-stand droughts in recent memory. I think the last time I had a real down-and-dirty one-night-stand was around Halloween. I can’t even remember the last time I got a rimjob. (Just kidding, of course I can.)

So I ask myself: Am I happier this way? Does having a given girl I can hang with at least once a week beat having that time to myself? Is their company worth it? Is the sex so great it beats masturbating? When I explore the root of these questions, the truth is I’m indifferent. As mentioned before, spending intimate time with girls is giving me some valuable long-term experience, but at the same time my life isn’t as unpredictable as it once was. Before, not having a fall-back girl instilled in me a sense of urgency to make something happen when I hit the night scene. Now with that safety net always there to catch me when I prematurely get sick of hitting on chicks, I meet less women, and of course, it makes for shittier (and fewer) stories and causes me to write about serious stuff, like the last four paragraphs. I guess it boils down to one thing: Bringing normal girls into my life has helped me grow as a man. But I must be honest: I miss those Maria nights. I miss the psychos.

  • Tony

    Hi Glenn.
    Good to see your finally “manning up”

    Cheers
    will miss the stories though as well.

  • Drewballz

    Nope. Just means you got strong ab muscles.

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