Let's Get It On

Making Out. Of course, you all want to know about my lustful, luxurious, Latin, love life. Most of you have inquired coyly, what kind of conquests I have under my belt, how Francisco the Latin Lover is doing, what is it like kissing in Spanish or how many Mexican hearts I’ve left broken and dead in my glorious wake. But I have news for you- it is pretty much non-existent. An’ by preety mah-uch, I mos ascertainly mean- NADA (I know you all miss the sassy Puerto Rican). So, while I’m not doing any of the above, I am definitely seeing pretty much every one else do it. Imagine being the third wheel on a date. Constantly. In every moment of your entire life. Well here, in Mexico, I have a front row seat to the hottest make out sessions in town. At least three times day, in fact. When we first started dating, I used to think my ex-boyfriend and I made quite the scene as we hugged and smooched down the stiff, serious streets of Washington, D.C. I often felt sorry for passerbyers as we nuzzled and fawned all over each other, Seinfeld “Schmoopie-woopie” style. But we didn’t care, damn it. We were in lust and had to express it right then and there. And apparently so is all of Mexico City.

A Walk in the Parque. While I’m sweating, and keeping my booty in shape during my morning runs in Parque Mexico, usually at least one teenage couple and one middle-aged couple are getting it on on the cozy, covered benches. Hot. As I dodge leash less dogs and burn off the six avocado and onion tacos from the after-party last Saturday night, I also have to do everything in my power to not scream, “Get a room, you yahoos!” Unfortunately, I don’t know how to translate “yahoo” in Spanish. The park is the most graphic experience as they usually take one of two positions (or both if I’m doing several laps around the park and I get to be the viewer of several stages in the dry humping session): either the guy is leaning against the post at the side of the bench and the girl is facing him with her legs draped over him like he is her effing saddle for her Kentucky Derby prize stallion; or, the woman will be seated on the bench and congenially hosting lover boy’s head, nuzzled nicely in her crotch region. I have noticed that in the park there is actually less kissing and more dry humping. It’s a different story on public transportation.

Come On Ride the Train, Train. Taking the metro is always an exciting adventure. There are roaming vendors blasting music and selling everything from gum to coloring books. While waiting for the next train, lovers, usually up against a wall rather than discretely off to a corner, participate in something less than a kissing session. It usually involves brushing noses and staring deeply, and closely, into each others’ eyes- so much so that they’ve gotta be cross-eyed. But when the train approaches and every one makes a ruthless dash to board, the said couple will enter together and find either some seat to share and swallow each others’ faces (directly across from usually a middle-aged man or grandma with her grandkids), or an awkward place to stand and make out. The first option is always interesting because is usually involves lots of tickling and perhaps even an accidental bang of a head on the window. Which I always enjoy. The seats are laid out so that four people could sit down and converse, so less than 2 feet away some poor soul has to avoid looking straight ahead in order to avoid being called the pervert. The standing option has its risks as trains in Mexico make screeching halts with little notice. Additionally, unlike the sitting option, there is usually little to no breathing room because we are all squeezed in like chickens in a cage at Tyson’s poultry farm. I had the wonderful experience two days ago of sharing a vertical holding bar with a couple, only a tad older than the lovely Sally and Dave Bennett, peck each other over and over and over. Now the Metro is loud enough so that I would have to blast my iPod when listening to it in order to hear Bono croon, but as this couple swapped saliva, I could hear ever g-d slop and slurp. I was beyond annoyed.

Pesero, wha?. See above. Thankfully, I have seen a trend that the said pair-bond reserves the back seat, so that the only folks really forcibly viewing this scene are their seatmates and the car behind the bus.

I’ll Drink to That. Oh the luxuries of booze. How we all miss the good ol’ college days of drinking into oblivion and making out with someone you wouldn’t look twice at in your Sociology seminar. While I have to admit, there are plenty of Mexican men to look twice at, that is if you are even so foolish to look away in the first place, there are also plenty of the less Mexican model-ish folks doing all kinds of making out at bars. Now Mexican bars make the crowd at TomTom’s look light. They pack ‘em in, as I’m quite convinced there isn’t such a thing as fire code regulations in this country. So, as I am trying to squeeze my way through the mass in order to purchase my Coca-Cola con limon, por favor, eye flirting with a couple suitors along the way and desperately avoiding eye contact with the rest, I usually come pretty close to practically joining these alcohol induced make-outs. It is a lovely experience as I balance my soda on the way back to my friends and try not to get swallowed in the process.

Buen Provecho. Mmm… Mexican food is some of the best in the world. I will have a separate entry simply devoted to the topic of food, and the consequential expansion of my love handles. And while there is nothing more hopeful than seeing two people madly in love, I do not want to see that shit while I’m about to bite into a blue corn tlacoyo smothered in chipotle salsa and topped with cheese and nopales, all for about 70 cents! Good lord, I love my life! But I digress. Restaurants are a grand place for romantic candlelight, intimate lighting and, of course, food sharing a la Lady and the Tramp. But those cartoon puppies had to keep it G-rated for their 1940’s Disney audience- Mexican diners do not. Add ice cream to the mix and you have your self, at least PG-13. Now, I am the first one at a dining session to offer samples of my entrée, but sharing ONE ice cream cone, at the same time, is not acceptable behavior, People. For crying out loud, I am on the most meager stipend and I can afford to buy my own cone. If you want a lick, fine, try my dulce de leche and coconut combo, but for god’s sake, not at the same exact time I’m licking it!

One is the Loneliest Number. If Italy was where I witnessed the most amount of public lovers quarreling, Mexico is where I am witnessing the most amount of lovers loving. I don’t know, maybe I am just bitter. I can’t lie. Sometimes I fantasize about sucking face with my very own Mexicano. How exciting it would be to swap spit with Pablo in the middle of the Zocalo, as kids try to peddle chiclets at our feet and the smell of tacos permeates our rendezvous. At times I think it would be nice to inhale the scent of a bouquet of cheap roses on the metro while I shyly pretend I don’t want to receive the onslaught of poking, prodding, and other such affection that Juan here is showering me with. How romantic it would be to go to the market with Rodrigo, pick out a ripe passion fruit and then feed it to each other right there- where we bought it- as people push and shove past us trying to buy their families some damn dinner. And yes, I’ll even admit that dry-humping Carlos at 8 o’clock in the morning on a wooden bench in Parque Mexico would sure beat sporting an old college tee, my bed-head hair thrown back in a pony-tail, and dripping wet with sweat as I make my seventh lap around the kilometer-long path. But for now, when I see such public displays of affection, I will look the other way, roll my eyes, steal judgmental glances and then go take a cold, cold shower.