He was native of a small town of French-Swiss descendants from the north of Argentina. He had prominent straight blond hair, snow white skin and brown eyes.
We met at an Airbnb in Buenos Aires, late at night. We were having a conversation about backgrounds and stereotypes that societies have regarding race, culture and physical attributes. And how being Latin marked us in one way or another: how messy we are, affectionate and familiar. These features are probably the ones that characterize us the most.
You don’t seem Latin, if we consider the American standards from the films. I’m proper Latin! I laughed. Mmm, no. Yes, I’m Latin, very Latin. I was managing to control my bursting laughter. I’m not saying no, it’s just that your blond hair and white skin are not typical Latin. But I am Latin. Yes you are because you were born in Argentina, but considering stereotypes, your features don’t really say you are, though obviously there are all sorts of people everywhere. What do you mean no? I am super Latin. Dear, you are white as milk and as blond as the sun, where’s your ‘Latin’? In this body of mine, he said while performing a seductive dance step.
As you might imagine, that conversation took longer that it should’ve. I wasn’t sure if my arguments failed, or if he was just going against me as a means of bonding with me. Pretty childish of him, if that was the case, considering the extent of our futile discussion.
The night carried on and around four in the morning they proposed to go dancing. I was exhausted, but eager to discover the hidden? charms of that Latin Lover. So, I was convinced by their plan and ended up at a house party in the Palermo neighbourhood.
The man took me around the disco by his hand, hugged me, tried to kiss me, invited me over for drinks, drove me around from the bar to the dance floor. I felt like a doll – well attended to, not going to lie – but it was all overwhelming. The only thing that gave faith of his ‘Latin-ness’ was his attitude: he was open, talkative, flattering and didn’t stop asking me for kisses. I didn’t know if he was naturally annoying, or if he was drunk, but to be honest I can’t stand clingy men. He was either madly in love, or he was just born annoying, but it seems like he wasn’t understanding that I wanted no kisses from him. I want to go to bed… alone. Not with him, like he proposed.
After some dance steps, the seductive Latin Lover said to me: come on let’s carry on with the party somewhere else. At yours? I ask joking raising an eyebrow, in reference to a previous invite from him. No, to the DJ’s house, he’s a friend of mine. No thanks, I want a taxi to take me home. I need to sleep. Come on baby, you look beautiful tonight, I want to share this night with you. Some other day, I’m sorry. Noooo, come on, don’t ruin this night for me. I’m really sorry, but I’m really tired and need some sleep. I get in a very bad mood. I’ll get you in a better mood at home, he whispers close to my face and with a tempting smile. I burst out laughing, and he followed. I wasn’t sure if I should yield to his creativity or listen to my body’s demands.
In the middle of the street, while waiting for my cab, the Latin Lover held me around my waist, pressured me against his body as if a soundtrack of our lives played along with that moment. With only a vague understanding of what was going on, a lifeless mind and an exhausted body I hugged him slapping his back. Abruptly he got away from me, took my face between his hands and gave me a kiss on the lips.
That gesture confirmed that he was Latin. A Latin Lover.