“Just a kiss. Just that” — Crystal said, while holding my hand, repeating the mantra one refusal after another. I had already told her about the girlfriend. I had already said I couldn’t do it. I had already tried to make it back into my apartment, and we were now standing in front of my door.

I sighed deeply, got close to her and kissed her forehead. I then turned around and went into my apartment, closing the door behind me. She stood outside the door. Inside, I paced around like a gerbil on amphetamines and tried to relax by meditating aloud (“fuckfuckfuckfuck!! fuck!”) and making dents on the walls with my fist.

This may sound like bullshit, but I am perfectly certain that there was a time when I was a nice guy. When I took the road less traveled. When I not only knew what The Right Thing© was, but actually did it.

Prancing around in my diminutive apartment, with Crystal standing outside my door, I realized that that time had come and gone.

I opened the door.

I grabbed her by the waist.

I pulled her in.

This would be the time when I’d tell you that it wasn’t worth it. That as I lay in bed with her, snakes sprouted out of her ass and choked me in the guilt of my wrongdoing. That images of my innocent girlfriend flashed before my eyes and I burst into tears, unable to achieve an erection. That the police tumbled down my door and handcuffed me before I made a move.

But that’s not what happened.

I won’t go into details, but I will say that the sex was great. At least from my end. Early on, when she flawlessly installed my contraceptive using only her teeth, I realized I was in for a learning experience. Being rather callow at the time, I’m pretty sure that most of the enjoyment of that evening stayed on my side, but we both had fun.

I never got caught.

That was not the first time I cheated on Diana. I wish I could say it was the last one. For what it’s worth, she was cheating on me too, but that in itself changes nothing. It just means that we were both being assholes to each other, and doing a great job of it.

I never had sex with Crystal again. I never cheated on another girlfriend, either.

— sergio on January 10, 2005     Comments (4)

Back then I was wide-eyed, thin as a whistle and had a long mane of shoulder-length hair that I wore hunched up in a ponytail. I regularly donned square-toed harness boots and dressed like a reject from the local crack-smoking blues band (it was the late nineties, so bad taste and crappy clothing was de rigueur — this was way before The Fab Five).

I was on my own in México DF, one of the world’s largest cities. Half a block from my place, prostitutes fought for floor space with drug dealers. I shared my minuscule corner of the apartment building with two strippers, their cousin and a prodigiously licentious gay dude who would rotate boyfriends as frequently as I changed my underwear (roughly every three days).

Let’s-Call-Her-Crystal was a blonde bombshell with a body to die for and deep, unnaturally blue eyes that were perpetually covered with the wrong shade of makeup. She lived next door and worked the night-shift as a pole dancer at the Golden Club. To be honest, I had barely noticed her until the day she slipped the note under my door.

It flew into the air when I rammed the door open and ran out (a custom developed in response to Mr. Guevara’s notorious fixation with punctuality at Journalistic Integrity 101). It was written on a yellow post-it and said simply:

I’m your neighbour. I’d like to meet you. My phone No. is ####”

By this point I knew James (boyfriend-grinder) well enough to know that it wasn’t him who had left the note, so that left one of the three neighbours, whom I had noticed just enough to know that two were utterly hot and the other one was so-so. After school, as I punched the numbers on a payphone on my way to work, I reflected that it was a bit like playing russian roulette, with slightly better odds.

On the phone, we agreed on going for coffee that night. When I dropped by I realized I had lucked out. Crystal —forgiving the excessive makeup she was so fond of— looked stunning.

After talking for a while over coffee, she started coming on to me. I was sweaty, nervous as hell and didn’t quite know how to react (I think this was precisely what attracted her to me, and it is a charm I have completely lost over the years). We came back to her place, where she opened a drawer and pulled out a magazine (“Buenísimas”) which featured her as the centerfold. As she flipped through the pages, showing them to me, she told me how pissed off she had been at the photographer because of the main picture in her pictorial, which almost showed nipple. Hard as I tried, I could not conjure up thoughts of anything but thankfulness toward the guy.

At that time, I was struggling to maintain a very troubled long-distance relationship. On our last time together, we had agreed on giving it one more try. This was deeply ingrained in my mind as I ruefully avoided Crystal’s come-ons…

   — This entry will be continued next week.

— sergio on January 04, 2005     Comments (21)

On the sixth day of christmas, my true love gave to meee…

• 6 John Wayne movies…
• 5 Clint Eastwood westerns…
• 4 Shirt underoos…
• 3 Star Wars DVD’s…
• 2 Sci-Fi books…
• 1 “swiss army” cologne…
• And a haardcover of the Little Prince!

I also gave myself a few nice threads from errorwear and elsewhere (a few less geeky ones). Good bounty this year.

How was yours?

— sergio on December 29, 2004     Comments (6)

I own a Cancer Protection insurance policy. No shit. It will give me a considerable sum of money in the event that I find myself ailed with any form of Cancer known to man. Any, that is, except those pesky ones that people actually get sick from.

I’m not kidding. The exemptions clause on my policy is not only bigger than the rest of the contract. It makes “War and Peace” look like the puny, trifling pamphlet that it really is. It mocks the Encyclopaedia Britannica with derisive superiority whilst sitting on its throne and sniffing coke off the tits of a ten-dollar hooker. This clause is spread across several pages because, were it all written down on the same piece of paper, it would undoubtedly create a gravity well, collapse into itself, become a new universe and eventually spawn a civilisation of purple flying monkeys who would develop space travel, invade Earth and sodomize all of humanity (which, although presenting the undeniably amusing prospect of bunghole rape-age of whatever lawyer came up with said document, would —in all likelihood— not be fun).

But now for the 1 million dollar question: Why do I own this insurance? — Indeed, why do I pay a monthly fee upwards of 10 american dollars for it?

If you don’t know the answer to that, dear reader, you are surely not a regular, so allow me to introduce myself: My name is Sergio, and I am an idiot.

The reason that I own this policy, is that, put in simple and elegant terms, I have the strong, determined volition of chocolate pudding. On acid.

The lecherous, ass-raping, mother-fucking motherfuckers over at ACE Insurance Company of North America (mexican branch) called me about a year ago to let me know that American Express had the forethought and good judgement of violating my customer agreement in order to provide them with all of my data for this incredibly nifty new medical insurance against Cancer and other stuff (I take it that the other stuff provides coverage against earth-faring aquatic sea monster attack in the event of Global Marine uprising led by Aquaman, Namor or some other self-appointed king of the Sea — on Sundays only). And they were practically GIVING IT AWAY!

There is a very good reason for the existence of customer information non-disclosure clauses. It is to protect blabbing, drooling idiots from themselves. It is a very worthy reason. Those of you who were anointed —whether by divine hand or genetic lottery— with the gift of Common Sense should, like Superman, use that mighty power for good. You should strive to use it in the help and defense of those of us who, alas, are not so fortunate! I am sorry to say that in this respect, YOU FAILED ME.

The conversation between the salesperson (henceforth known as the Hellspawn) and me went more or less like this:

HS: Mister Villarreal! I have here your credit card number, home address and other personal information. I just need your confirmation to fit you with our Cancer Insurance Policy.
SV: Umm… no, I don’t really…
HS: Need I remind you that I have your home address?
SV: But, really! I don’t…
HS: (in hellish guttural shriek that promises to rain death upon the living) OH, BUT YOU WILL BUY IT, BITCH! YOU WILL BUY IT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!!!
SV: (in full battle cry mode — otherwise known as sounding like a 5 year old scared to death girl) Aaaanngghh!! Leave me alone! Yes! Yes I want it! just leave me aloooone!!
HS: That is all we needed. You will be receiving your policy… soon (insert hellish laughter here)

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

I recently waged a fierce, bloody and drawn out battle to get rid of this insurance policy. I am thirsty, wounded and mentally exhausted from it, and I’m still not sure if the dragon was slain. More on this later.

— sergio on December 27, 2004     Comments (10)

We’ll call her… Gabrielle. Gabrielle is smart, slender, tall-ish, and totally off her rocker. Just my type. (I met her through match.com — incidentally, I was the one who contacted her). We’re having a fairly nice date, when I ask her:

— “So, what do you do in your spare time?”
— “Lots of sports! I also practice professional weightlifting and capoeira”

Upon hearing this, I nearly spilled my beer all over her lovely “I *heart* ME” shirt.

Holy shit! I’m dating Batman!!”

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I find something incredibly arousing in dating a woman who could kill me seven different ways with her bare hands (and screw Darwin! He wasn’t going out with queen of the Amazons here!).

The night goes on, and I’m really getting the impression that this girl likes me. She’s sending all kinds of signals, and I’m picking up on them like I have the Arecibo telescope mounted on the top of my head (ok, on my penis).

After a few beers, I take her home (which is on the other side of the city). When we get there, she asks me:

— “Do you want to meet Sonya?”

Sonya is a humongous boxer bitch she shares her house with. They sleep together, too (talking about dogs in English is awkward).

Sonya jumped into my arms as soon as she opened the door. Somehow, dogs always trust me more than people. That may be due to the fact that dogs have a tendency to be stupider than most people.

So you know the story. I played with her, she slobbered on my arm, lied down on her back so I could scratch her belly… jumped excitedly, tried to hump my back (I think she has a bit of an identity problem), and generally was all over me. All the while I’m thinking about doing the same things to her owner (yes, the back humping too… No, don’t ask).

The scenario was playing great for me, except for one minor detail:

I am Sergio’s colossally inflamed Bladder…”

That’s right. I was about to shed a tear from strain. That’s usually the point when my internal organs raise their voice and let their opinions be heard.

BLADDER: I’m dying here! DYING, I TELL YOU!!!

No problem, right? I’m at her place, right? And so I asked her:

— “Say, could you let me come inside for a spell, to use your bathroom?”

All my years of experience with dysfunctional relationships and unhealthy spousal mistrust did not prepare me for her answer:

— “I don’t think I’m ready for you to get to know my place yet”

BRAIN: Huh?
BLADDER: LET ME AT HER!!! I KEEL YOU BITCH! I KEEL YOU DEAD!!! DEAD I SAY!!!
BRAIN: *takes a look at biceps on the woman, calculates distance between her and door, decides against that particular course of action*

And then she smiled apologetically and held me close. You know the way. One of those hugs where your whole body comes in contact with the other person’s, and you can feel her touch all over. Those who know me may have anticipated that this is where it all goes to hell…

PENIS: Heeeelllooo, everyone!
BRAIN: Oxygen! Oxyy…
PENIS: Wow! Did you look at those LEGS?
BLADDER: Nice of you to drop by to the party. Where the hell have you been? I’m DYING here!
PENIS: Wow! Did you look at those LEGS?
BLADDER: Will you consider my feelings for once, asshole??
ASSHOLE: Hey! Leave me out of this! I don’t plan to be involved in this at all.
PENIS: They’re like… LONG! and STRONG! Wow… legs…
BLADDER: Shut up! SHUT UP! The both of you! I swear to god, if I go down, I’m taking you both with me!!
PENIS: And the boobs! They’re not really big, but boy, they’re perky! Niiice boobs…
BLADDER: That does it! I’m going nuclear! REMEMBER KEH-SAHN!!!!

That’s when my brain kicked in for just enough time to decide on an alternate course of action.

— “So, thanksalot ihadagreattime illcallyoulaterokbye!”

I gave her a quick peck on the lips and hightailed it to my car with superhuman speed.

Having absolutely no idea where I was, I just drove down the first big street I found. Eventually I made it downtown, where my bladder informed me that unless I found the prospect of peeing through a catheter for the rest of my life particularly appealing, I should stop.

BRAIN: Do you know what happens to the guys they pick up peeing on the street? Do you? They end up spending the night in jail with a cellmate named Bubba! That’s what happens!
BLADDER: Command post ready for launch! Commencing in 5!… 4!…

I brought the car to a staggering halt in the middle of a dark street and ran for the nearest tree, where I got down to business.

BLADDER: O-OOOHHHHHH… YESS…
PENIS: This is *so* not what I was looking forward to tonight…
BLADDER: YEAH, BABY!! LIKE THAT!! GIVE IT TO MEEEEE!!!
PENIS: Hey! Is this going to end anytime soon? I’ve got serious contemplation to do, you know?

At that precise moment, a truck that looked suspiciously of the Federales turned the corner on the block i was standing.

BRAIN: Shit!
ASSHOLE: Noo, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed, boss. Everything’s a-ok down here!
BRAIN: Shut up, asshole! Everyone else — Abort! Abort! Emergency retreat!
BLADDER: OH. YESS! YES! YES!
PENIS: Zipper alert! Zipper alert! THE ZIPPER IS UP! I REPEAT, THE ZIPPER IS UP! Disengage!!
BLADDER: OH MY GOD YESS!!! YES! Like that, bitch!!
PENIS: …
PENIS: fuck

The truck went past me and I saw it was just some guy with his family.

To recap: At the end of the night, I ran the risk of rupturing my bladder, anal rape by a guy named Bubba, back rape by a dog named Sonya, and peed myself a little.

Will I go out with this woman again?

PENIS: Hell yeah! I mean, did you look at those LEGS?

— sergio on December 22, 2004     Comments (15)