Recently, I divulged on my one and only IRL Tinder encounter, which ended as pathetically as it started, because I realized that I was using a hookup app without the intention of hooking up. Go figure. But my enigmatic craving for experience didn’t stop there. I felt a thirst for more stories and more experiences, which is how I found myself again in a similar situation. However, this time, I was in Mexico.
As I may have mentioned before, I’m graduating from UC Berkeley this year. Apart from the intense senioritis I’m experiencing, this also means that this past Spring Break was my last Spring Break ever (bring on the tears). What else to do but have the most conventional, “college MTV Spring Break” ever in noneother than Los Cabos. Also known as Cabo.
Picture every stereotypical Spring Break you’ve ever seen on TV. Or depicted on music videos. Or even just Spring Breakers (minus the guns) and that’s pretty much Cabo for you. It’s exactly what you imagine. In the six days I was in Mexico, I saw topless college kids doing body shots of tequila off of each other. I saw wet T-shirt contests and “booty shaking” contests. I ran into many Cal students. In fact, I’m pretty sure half of the spring breakers there were from California. I felt like my friends and I were the only Mexicans around, apart from the locals.
Most of the nights we went to the same club. Squid Roe. By the end of the night, I noticed people being escorted out of the club with someone they had presumably met that night. I have never witnessed hookup culture in its rawest, purest form. It was as if everyone in the club was just trying to get laid. Maybe Mexico — not the real Mexico, but the tourist Mexico — is the best place to do this. You meet someone who becomes increasingly more attractive after a few drinks. You leave with said person. Then you go back to your own hotel and never expect to see this person again, especially because you’re in Mexico and your cell doesn’t work. It’s like Tinder minus the smartphone. Was that what dating was like before?
Anyway, before I knew it, I was one of those people being escorted out of the club by someone I had just met hours before. I don’t even remember his name, but I remember the accent. English. Drunk English. In the cab, he asked me, “Do you want to go to my parent’s house or my hotel?” I didn’t understand the question so just responded, “Whatever!”
Twenty minutes into the cab ride I wondered if I was going to be taken into the middle of Mexico and murdered. But the promise of sex lingered in the air of the cab and intensified with every mile; his hand inched up my thigh; his British accent got stronger. I tried to combat it by diverting my attention to the cab driver, chatting with him in Spanish. Then we pulled up to El Dorado. I would later find out that his parents are loaded because they own a fast food chain. They have this vacation home in Mexico that’s in the same neighborhood as George Clooney and Michael Phelps’s getaway houses.
And like that, I found myself in the vacation home of a fast food tycoon with a twenty-something film student. Also, I was more than thirty miles away from my resort (a $40 cab ride). There was literally no turning back. I was stuck and my buzz was dissipating, so I crept into the guest bedroom with him and took off my heels because his parents were probably asleep. We had to be quiet. It felt like I was sneaking into my high school boyfriend’s parent’s house.
I couldn’t help but to let out a suppressed giggle when we entered the bedroom. What the fuck are you doing Alejandra was all I could manage to think. The lights were brighter in the bedroom than in the club. Too bright. There was a pillow that read “We had sex here,” on the bed. Too foreboding. My head felt dizzy as he grabbed my waist, so I said, “Hold on, I have to pee,” and quickly took refuge in the bathroom. Right above the toilet was a stylized photo of him as a preteen, jumping in midair, caught in slow motion. I sat down on the toilet and God answered my prayers. I started my period. If this wasn’t a sign, I don’t really know what would be a sign.
So, I got out of the bathroom, looked at him meekly and explained my situation. I sensed mild disappointment, but I felt a huge wave of relief because I didn’t want to sleep with this guy and had felt some fucked up obligation to do so by following him home. But it was fine. We talked for a while, then we both fell asleep.
I woke up before him, still in my black dress, and didn’t really have anything to do. I walked around the room which was practically a shrine devoted to him. The walls were covered with his pictures. Him as a baby, as a toddler, with his sister, with celebrities, wind surfing, and playing guitar. Being in this room was the most intimacy I had felt in a while. One that extended beyond sharing a bed with this person. While gazing at his pictures, I had an awakening: I wanted to be in a different room, covered in photos of someone else’s childhood, so I left. That feeling still hasn’t gone away. Hopefully someday soon I’ll wake up in a bedroom devoted to someone else and stay.
Featured Photo Credit: Flickr user Nenortas Photography
Small-town West Texan girl turned Bay Area brat, when I’m not romanticizing my next love affair – or thinking about eating a grilled cheese – I’m knee-deep in academia (sometimes referred to as Netflix). Now in my Senior year at UC Berkeley, with a double major in Film Studies & Rhetoric, I can’t help but to contemplate what the next move is in my life; usually taking the form of writing endlessly about my feelings, which I have a lot of, by the way. Meanwhile you can catch me around local cafes, venues, or art shows, meeting new people and places in a constant search for inspiration. For inquiries, contact: [email protected]