Sunday, April 22, 2012

Part Three: My Date with “The Spaniard”

“Babe, I have some bad news,” he said, his eyes still amazing, but now somber.

The bad news was that his company was reassigning him to another project. He would be leaving for Europe in a week. Instead of three months, we had seven days.

The only silver lining to this news was that he was expecting to be reassigned to project two states away; however, it wasn’t definitive. But with any luck, fate would bring him back to my time zone. 

We talked about how we could still each see other once he came back to the states. 

“Guapa (Beautiful), I’ll fly out to see you first,” he said. “This isn’t goodbye.”

He then continued to list all the ways we could stay connected – phone, text, email, Skype. Gotta love technology!

But I’m a realist and a bit cynical so when the loud, cranky voice in my head said, “Mmm hmm… We’ll see… Ya… Whatever,” I wasn’t surprised.

What was this anyway? We’ve only known each other for a couple of months, he wasn’t my boyfriend and this wasn’t a relationship. Or was it? The woman with no game (that would be me) didn’t know what to make of this.  

Then for the first time in my new post-divorce life, a soft, sweet, little voice in my head said, “You know, it’s possible. You could see him again. It could happen.”

Meanwhile, the loud, cranky voice replied: “Aw, she thinks she’s going to see him again. She’s so naïve.”

As we kissed goodbye that night, he held my face in hands and said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I was tempted to ask why he was thanking me and for what, but I’m learning how to shut my mouth, especially in moments like these.  Instead I chose to enjoy the moment and his hazel eyes .

When my mind wanders, it takes me back to this moment. The look in his eyes (remember, they’re amazing!) and his graciousness.

So we had seven days and the countdown was on!


A funny thing about fate… She can be a real bitch.

Three days later, I was bed-ridden with the flu. Every single muscle ached, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk. My throat was so swollen I couldn’t even take a sip of water. When I finally crawled into my doctor’s office, my fever had hit 102.

The diagnosis: Influenza, Strain B.

Recover time: 10-14 days.

Number of days until “The Spaniard” left: 4.

@#$% fate!

Our plans to see each other at least one more time before he left for Europe were crushed.

My window to see “The Spaniard” before he left the country was shortening. But I was determined to get better in time to see him before he left, even if we only got five minutes.

But it didn’t happen…


The night before he left and since I still had no voice, we texted furiously, trying to say whatever we had left to say to each other before midnight. Yes, midnight, just like frickin Cinderella. Since he was leaving the country, his U.S. cell phone was set to be shut off at midnight.

By 11:58 p.m. my fever was spiking and I could barely keep my eyes open until I got this text…

“Babe, thank you for everything, so glad you came into my life. I’m going to miss you very much, guapa, and your sexy curves. We will see each other again, I am confident. Te mando un beso muy suave (Sending you a soft kiss).”  

Then at 11:59 p.m., I got his final text…

“We will meet again, guapa, I’m sure of it. Un beso …”

I mustered just enough strength to write, “Me too, babe, me too. Besos (kisses)…” but I may have been too late. To this day, I don’t know if he received my last message. 

By the time I woke up the next morning, he was gone.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Part Two: My date with “The Spaniard”

So there we were making out like a couple of teenagers in front of his place. And it felt goooooood!

I had long forgotten what this felt like, to be completely aware of every sensation in your body is absolutely breathtaking, especially when you’re making out with a hot Spaniard. Your heart is racing, your entire body is tingling and your knees feel like noodles.

“What are we doing?” I ask, as we momentarily untie our tongues. 

“Well,” he says, “Let’s talk about it.”

At this point, talking is the last thing on my mind. But hey, can you stop kissing my neck so I can concentrate? On second thought, as you were.  

As he continued kissing my neck, I quickly process the situation.

Standing before me was a man who actually wanted to communicate and have a two-way conversation about what we were about to get into. And it was blowing my mind!

“We’re both adults,” he said, still embracing me. “You know how I feel, and here we are, in this moment.”

Then he continued…

“But it’s up to you, wherever you want to take this, it’s your decision, and I’m OK either way.”

Needless to say, we never made it to dinner.

Never, and I mean NEVER, has a man appreciated my body with all its curves – curves that I felt I had been cursed with – and all its imperfections like he did. Sensing that I was self-conscious about my tiger stripes (and I don’t have a lot of them, but, hey, they’re there), he ran his fingers over them and said: “Hermosa” (Beautiful). 

After not having dinner, we talked. Not once, not even prior to this night, did he ever ask me about what caused my divorce. For whatever reason, this struck me as curious. When I asked him if he wanted to know what happened (I know, I know, I’m a mood killer), he said…

“Lo hecho esta hecho. Lo que paso, paso. Todo lo que me importa es donde estamos ahora, en este momento.”


“What’s done is done. What happened, happened. All that matters to me is where we are now, at this moment.”

I found this so incredibly sexy that I wanted to kiss him. So I did. Which lead to…


You may be wondering what he was doing in the U.S. in the first place. I won’t go into too many details, but he works for a company with several offices in Europe. A major U.S. company contracted his company to work on a project, which is how homeboy ended up in my hood.

So I went into this knowing that he wasn’t here forever. This, whatever “this” was, wasn’t forever. He would eventually be going back to Europe in the summer. And I was OK with that. This was my first dance, my first post-divorce rodeo. (How’s that for a visual!) I’d been divorced less than a year and I wasn’t looking for forever.

So if this wasn’t forever, what was this? I think as women we tend to want to put labels on things. I know I do or at least “the old me” did. Looking back, I don’t feel that this required a label. “It is what it is,” I told myself.

But where do we go from here? What’s the protocol? Where’s the “Divorcee’s Guide to Post-Divorce Sex with a Hot Spaniard Who’s Only in Town for a Few Months?”

Not having the least bit of experience in this arena and since homeboy was so into communication, I asked him: So how do we handle this?

“Let’s keep it simple and see where it takes us. Let’s enjoy it while we can… enjoy each other, enjoy every moment.”

Damn, I think my panties just fell off again…

I know for some women, knowing a guy will only be around for a few months could be a deal breaker. For me, it was perfect!

Let me explain…

After being married for 17 years, I was truly enjoying my new life and independence. I was not in the least bit interested in a committed relationship. Dating? Yes. Companionship? Why not!   

I had a game plan. Keep it simple, drama free and just have fun!


As he caressed the small of my back, we calculated how much time we had left (three months) and talked about some of the things we wanted to do: Drive up north for the weekend, visit some local wine bars and check out an upcoming art festival.

This all sounded great. But reality hit when we talked about my schedule. I was only available every other weekend when my little one was with her dad. When she’s with me, I don’t go out. My time is her time. He said he understood, and that we still had plenty of time.

We continued to see each other, my schedule permitting. My daughter’s visitation schedule with her dad was basically my “Viva España” schedule. So when she went to her father’s every other weekend, guess where I was? 

When we met for our date one Friday night, there was some sadness in his eyes. As he stood there embracing me, my face was nestled his chest and I could feel his heart racing. I knew something was wrong. He finally looked down into my eyes and said…

“Babe, I have some bad news.”

To be continued…

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Part One: My date with “The Spaniard”

I have no problem in admitting I was nervous. I had butterflies. My hands shook as I texted my mom and a couple of friends of my soon-to-be location. I was on my way to a coffee date, my very first date of any kind since I was 15.

There I was, driving, hands sweating on the steering wheel, as I thought about the age difference: a forty-mumble-mumble-year-old woman about to meet a guy 10 years her junior. Ridiculous, I thought. How could he be interested in me?

We had been talking for over a month with him routinely asking if he could take me to dinner. And me, the novice, making excuses to him and to myself as to why I wasn’t available. Still questioning how he could be interested in a woman my age.

When I pointed out our age difference, he said, “It doesn’t matter to me so why should it bother you?” Touché. He added that he had no idea how old I was until I told him and thought we were around the same age. (Note to self: Unless asked, shut your damn mouth.)

On paper, he had the goods, plus he was from Spain (bonus points). Smart, educated, employed and smoking hot. But I wasn’t feeling it. No connection. No spark. No fireworks. When I think back to this date, I realize now that I was extremely nervous. So nervous that I don’t think I could have made a connection with anyone, not even William Levy.

Gratuitous William Levy photo
Mmm, William Levy… Ahem… Where were we?

As our coffee date came to an end, I remember noticing his eyes. I mean, I really noticed his eyes. I don’t have the words to describe his eyes. I wish I did, but I guess some things aren’t meant to be shared. That’s my only explanation.

As he walked me to my car, I caught him looking at me. In other words, he was checking me out. And he was smiling. That’s when the butterflies kicked it into high gear, which kick-started the stupidest conversation inside my head.

“What is he looking at? Did I sit on something? What am I doing? OK, we’re walking and we’re walking… Wait, where are we going? Oh yeah, my car, he’s walking me to my car…” 


At this point, I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been in this position in my adult life. Help!

Out of nowhere, this street-smart chic’s voice pops in my head: “You’re a grown-ass woman. Just chill, girlfriend… Tranquilo (Calm).”

As we start to say good-bye, I remember that at the beginning of our date, he welcomed me with a hug and a small peck on each cheek (very European, right?) so I was expecting the same gesture.

“OK,” I say to myself. “This is it. Hug, peck, peck, and you’re on your way.”

But instead of hug, peck, peck, he went for it. He went in for the kiss, but he was greeted by my cheek. I was caught completely off guard so when I turned my cheek, it looked like a deflected kiss, as in, “Thanks, but no thanks.” 

Trivia question: Who has two thumbs and doesn’t know when a guy wants to kiss her? 

How was I supposed to know homeboy was suddenly changing the game on me? What was I thinking? Glad you asked. Here it is…

“Damn, I think he’s embarrassed."

“Damn, I haven’t been kissed in a long time.”

"Damn, I’m old.“

As I drove home, I gave myself a virtual pat on the back for getting “the first one” out of the way and was pretty sure I’d never hear from him again… until I got his text message a few minutes later.

“Just to let you know, I had a very nice time, you have a beautiful smile, would be nice to see you again. Un beso (a kiss).”

Still, I was trying to make sense of it all. Did he “turn my crank” as my aunt so eloquently put it? I told myself and my inner circle that he did not. Thinking back, I was too nervous to allow myself to enjoy this. And I saw myself as too damaged to deserve it. 

But I got over it… 

We continued talking and texting over the next few weeks with him asking to see me again. Meanwhile, I was conflicted about whether or not I was ready for another date or if I wanted to see him again.

It turns out I did so I accepted his dinner invitation. We agreed that I’d pick him up and we’d drive to dinner. He’d made the reservations.

(Note to readers: Remember, he’s from Spain, doesn’t know his away around which is why I picked him up. Not that I have to explain myself!)

He greeted me. Oh yes, he greeted me. He walked up and without hesitation, pulled me to him and kissed me with such passion that my panties almost fell off by themselves. In my head, I could only hear one thing, “Oh shit.”  

To be continued…