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While out with my new Spanish girlfriends at a local bar, it didn’t take long for me to notice Señor Guapo perched front and center with his friends. ” My friend Laura grasped my shoulder with as much force as her tiny frame would permit.
Every few minutes, he threw me a sly smirk to let me know that he had noted my entrance. ”) The man’s once-flirtatious eyes opened wide as if he were shocked that I could speak. “Don’t you know that if you approach a man, you are seen as easy game? ” Laura, I believe, most closely represents the prototype of a “traditional” Spanish woman: She prepares herself for an evening stroll as if getting ready for prom night, she never allows her “availability status” to last longer than her previous relationship, and she profusely fans herself to prevent the sweat marks that are the inevitable result of Málaga’s 90-degree afternoons.
Faking interest in a nearby jukebox, I remained glued to the floor, my pride scattered in pieces around my feet. The idea that approaching a man should be equated to sexual promiscuity makes my gag reflex quiver.
Our conversation had barely suffered a pause since Estebán appeared by my side earlier that evening.
Now, he looked at me from across the table, pouting like a puppy whose owner has denied him one last treat.
Pleased with myself for having held out so long, I finally spilled my digits. Unknowingly, I committed my next Spanish courting blunder: I accepted.
No sooner did Estebán and I make plans, then our plans were abruptly cancelled.