Main image
10th September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

So there I was, hanging out at the pub crawl, which combined six hostels in Madrid into a potentially massive gang of party-goers, instantly turning a bar into a hotspot, at least for the forty-five minutes we’d be there. Tonight, maybe there were forty, the overwhelming majority dudes, many vying for a shot at the girl (me) wearing a hot-pink, tight, curvy one-shouldered dress. I hugged Dan when I saw him, the host I’d met a year previously, now without the pubic-hair-looking soul patch. Good-looking guy with a neato British accent.

The guy I was most-interested in was a tall, built, dark and handsome guy, who accompanied a more refined young Rafael Marquez-look-a-like (definitely worth checking out) and a beauty-challenged friend. But they didn’t pay attention to me, so I figured they were the typical dark dudes salivating for blond chicks.

A short, in-shape polite American – meaning he needed to up his game and not just be the nice guy – chatted me up for awhile before setting his eyes on easier prey, some giggly Spanish chicks who were merely 5’s.

The beauty-challenged dark guy chatted me up, danced right up to me with me looking the other way, and asked to dance with me. To which I responded, “I don’t dance with people.” I could have continued and said, “Be more original, actually learn to dance, and pick someone in your league.”

He finally went away. Shortly thereafter Rafa Marquez Jr. came up and talked with me. Very good-looking obviously, but I thought he was still trying for a blond fix but I might be his third or fourth choice so he was taking a shot. As I don’t like being anyone’s second choice, that wasn’t going anywhere. He was also in many ways, too North American, meaning lacking charisma.

Then went Rafa.

Then came the guy I liked, the big guy. But man did he come on strong. First, taking my hand as if he were waving a magic wand and I was to follow his lead. I hate that. I HATE that. It’s like taking ownership of a horse when you don’t know how to ride. And you can tell immediately with how they take your hand. From above your head, usually they take your left hand, which means they don’t know shit. No social dance has that hand hold. I’m a dancer, so don’t give me this lame shit.


There has only been one time when a guy taking my hand started and ended fantastically. An Israeli guy who looked and dressed Italian with his longish black hair and who was trained in Latin dance. But he took my hand expertly – in fact, both hands, his palms up and low. YES! Thank you! Man that fucker could dance. He managed to dip me, holding me over his leg and lifting my entire body off the floor with grace.

Back at the pub crawl, the big guy stuck to me like glue, so much so that I needed to escape to breathe. And I went to the bar and indicated I wanted to mingle. But there he was still by my side. He was cock-blocking himself, which I will talk about in another post called The North American cock-block.

It was only when we started a somewhat heated debate about socialized healthcare that he started to interest me. Ah, the brains have it. Then the tides turned, he backed off, and I was like, yes, I like this guy.

It was later when he told me the ugly friend had called dibs on me, so the others weren’t supposed to express interest in me at all. The big guy purposely ignored me and I felt it. Then when ugly bombed, Rafa Jr. called dibs. And finally came the big guy – I’ll call him Layman pronounced Laymahn. I mean, it all worked out, but weird.

It just goes to show you that just because a guy doesn’t express interest doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. My own man when we met treated me like nothing. He told me later he thought he didn’t have a chance in hell so he didn’t even try. But geez, he could have cracked a smile when he met me. I think he gave me a 1/100-second glance and mumbled, “Hi.”

Let me say dibs is stupid. Had that not been in place, Rafa Jr. AND Laymahn might have been able to take turns, in a much more provocative way.

Leave a Reply