The Language of Love: A Lust Story
By Jeffrey Kieviet
She lifts her eyes and meets his. Shyly, she glances down and then up. He giggles with his goofy grin and gazes back at her. “Hey, Jeff. She’s looking at me, right? Like, I’m not making this up, she’s totally checking me out.”
I look over. “Totally. Go up to her and say, ‘Hello, my name is Bob.’” (Names have been changed to protect the identity of the guilty, even though in this instance, the guilty are proud of their culpability).
“What do I say to her?” By this point, she is very obviously undressing him with her eyes. They’re dark and piercing. This woman is attractive, slender build, dark hair, light mocha skin (ah, Ricky Martin. Those were the days). She wears an aqua-blue bikini top and one of those thin towel-wraps around her waist, very beach appropriate.
I repeat, slow and simple, “Say ‘Hello, my name is Bob.’”
He nods and timidly laughs. “Ok dude. Whatever.” And he walks over to her. They are out of earshot but she smiles and he politely shakes her hand. This girl is out of his league so I gather our group to watch and mock the eventual crash and burn. Not that Bob is an ugly or homely guy; he just doesn’t have the greatest skill set when talking to women. And it’s not for lack of confidence, it’s like he gets caught up and worried that he’ll say something stupid, which he will, and then he gets hung up on something that wasn’t really that stupid and it kind of causes him to snowball (in speech, not the sexual act). But this girl is laughing with him, not at him. He barks out a quick chuckle and yells out to me, “Hey buddy, come over here.”
Surprised, I come to his aid. “What’s up?” I say to him, then turn to her, “I’m Jeff, nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand too and she says, with a bit of an accent, “Maria.”
“You speak Spanish, yeah?” Bob asks me.
And then I get it, why she’s laughing with him, why he’s managed to hold a minute long conversation with her: she doesn’t understand a single word he’s saying. This is perfect! Bob has a tendency to be a bit much, somewhat boisterous and overbearing, but if you don’t understand what he’s saying, like if it were a foreign language or something, he would come off just energetic and passionate.
So he says these long bouts of cheesy dialogue, she turns to me, and I translate just the most basic concept of the thought. If I’d understood Spanish better, it would have been a normal encounter, “Hi,” “Bye,” “Whatever.” But now every mistake he makes verbally is just misconstrued as my poor interpretation, and regardless of how much they talk they are both still full of mystery (the greatest aphrodisiac of them all, why do you think Batman gets so many chicks?).
I’d just come from winning the break-dancing competition on the beautiful Cabo beach, a feat which couldn’t have been accomplished had the English bloke I’d danced-off against been so drunk he fell off the stage, so I was feeling good (my crew’s enthusiasm really set me apart as the best worst break-dancer on the sand). Actually, just being associated with me, Grand King of 2 Left Feet, probably got this girl’s attention to begin with, but seeing as I was with my lovely counterpart, Mags, she went for the next best thing.
After about 10 minutes of talking (during which only 3 real sentences were exchanged), Bob sacks up and kisses her. So Maria decides to come back to our resort. Now this is pretty ballsy, considering she’s alone in a foreign country (well, city. She was from a different part of Mexico [and not really alone, as far as I could understand it, her girl friend was chilling back at their hotel room, probably nursing a hangover]) and can’t really communicate with any of us. So Bobby starts thinking we’re all going to die, she’s too good looking and likes him too much for this to be real, so it’s part of some elaborate plan where she follows us to our room, and then 60 thieving Mexicans (it’s not racist because we were in Mexico) pop out of her purse and rob us of all our booze.
But no harm comes to anyone involved, we hang out at the pool, drink in our room, and she’s making out with Bob pretty much the whole time. She even gives him a cute little nickname, “Borachito,” which I think means “Little Drunk Boy.” Then things get complicated. We’re all planning on going into the city to party at a “discotech,” which, if I remember from Spanish-1 is basically the word for “club.” Like, dance club, Studio 54 or whatever, not club like something Teddy Roosevelt used when beating the redcoats to a bloody pulp in order to stop the Confederates from stealing all our gold (I was worse at History than I was at Spanish). So we spend a good hour trying to figure out how to meet up with Maria later in the city. Through a series of childish drawings we manage to establish she’s at the Marriott by downtown, so Bob and I decide to meet her there and then meet up with our group to pop-off at the clubs. Bobby walks her down to the buses and kisses her goodbye, imagining this is the last time he’ll see his little Latin love.
We continue to party for a couple hours in our resort room (this place was awesome, we did nothing but drink and sit out in the sun for a week straight [there were bug bites and bloody eyebrows, but we’ll leave these for another time]), and then get ready for our night on the town.
Bob and I part from the rest of our crew once we get to downtown, and stumble around trying to find the Marriott. I forget the specific problem (aside from the language barrier which made it really difficult to ask for directions), but there was something like 2 Marriotts in the city, like one was the hotel and the other was the resort or something, but after another hour or so, we find the right place and look around the lobby. At first, I’m thinking this Maria totally lied (and after a few hours with us, who could blame her?). But Bobby finds her around the corner, applying make-up in the lobby mirror (enough make-up that at first I didn’t realize it was her. I was all, Wow, Bob already picking up another one, but, come on, he’s not that good. No offence “Bobby”), and instantly they lock lips.
I don’t know how well she knew the downtown party scene, but she gets us into a club for free, and eventually we collide with the rest of our party. We spend the night drinking, dancing, and bar hoping, at some points literally. There is this one club that has like a New-York-fire-escape vibe going on. Kind of like what the set for RENT would be, but in a bar. There are poles and bars (like, metal rods, not drinking bars) jutting out from all the walls and ceiling. I do a little gymnastics/pole dancing, and then we head to our (soon-to-be-favorite) drinking spot where they have dollar-shots of tequila. Cheap, watered down tequila, but it did the trick.
Then we come to the moment of truth: “Hey Jeff, what is she asking me?”
I listen intent(drunken)ly. “She’s asking if you want to go back to her hotel.”
“I told you it was too good to be true. There’s no way her gang could hide in her purse. They’re back at her hotel, that’s where they’re going to rob & kill me.”
“But you don’t have any money.”
“Oh, right. Can I borrow like 5 bucks so I can get a cab home?”
I give him $20. “Now you owe me $46.” While he can rack up a debt quickly, he’s always good to pay me back. “Go to this chick’s hotel, take care of business, and come back safe.” We write our resort name and room number on a piece of paper and send him on his way.
And that was the last I ever saw of good ol’ Billy Bob. One could only hope he ran away with Maria (“I just met a girl named Maria” – RENT [Theatre major. Maybe I should have studied History of Spanish]), and they have a bunch of little mocha babies on some pot farm in beautiful Mexico, probably a beach city. But more than likely, he was killed by her gang and they used strips of skin as counterfeit pesos.
Naw, just kidding. He came back relatively intact, shared all the inappropriate details, and was threatened on facebook by her boyfriend. I know what you’re thinking, she had a boyfriend? Why didn’t she say something before? And She seemed like such a nice lady. I think she told us this several times throughout the day & night, but, let’s face it: I’m not the world’s best translator.