Danger

Paola Mendoza

I met F. in 2015. I was studying for a master’s degree in science in Monterrey and for the month
of June I was scheduled to stay at the University of Manchester in United Kingdom. It was the
second time I would cross the pond, the first I went to Italy because I won a contest with an
essay on the ceramic industry and the environment.

F. was one of t were fifty-something students from all over the country who participated in the
stay abroad. To be honest, it didn’t strike me. Physically I did not find it attractive or maybe it is
that my eyes settled on an ordinary boy, besides that he went with the group of hinks and I, the
city girl, could not hang out with those funny accent hinks.

I saw him again in 2016, when everyone had already returned to their home and, as the bonds
that were created in Manchester were sincere, we decided to meet in Mexico City and he offered
his place to stay.

He lived in Iztapalapa, inside a neighborhood. The place was a mess F. his brother, and a rommie
share the house. Besides, I’m super clean and neat.

That afternoon more friends came, we started drinking beer in caguamas, smoking marijuana and
getting ready to dive at night.

I stayed in his room with a friend. He had a wooden desk full of books, papers, traces of weed
and half-baked joints. Shoes everywhere, curtains that looked like they’d never been changed
The floor felt sticky and I didn’t even dare ask if the sheets were clean.

Every time I have the chance to visit Mexico City I have to visit the Pink Zone, we walked there
late at night. At that time I was the life of the party and the one who always proposed to a men’s
club or those smelly crummy bars, and uncertain genre people.

1
We arrived at a nithclub, it was not crowd, the background music was reggaeton. I danced like
there was no tomorrow. We asked one round after another and at that very moment, with the, I
felt the happiest woman in the universe friends I had made overseas months ago.

The epic touch of that night was when a lady who was already in her 50s wearing a dangerously
tight dress got up on stage I guess she tried some sensual moves ,she looked wasted, then she just
slipped, leaving half his body off the stage. The waiters ran to her aid and I hid in F. ’s chest so I
could mock in peace. Between the laugh, the beer effect on the body and the pressing feeling that
we owned the night, we kissed. And what a kiss! He told me "let’s go home" and I couldn’t agree
more.

But in the way home the magic faded away as a friend began to cry for her ex, and she didn’t
stop all night complaining, drawing the courage and pain she hadn’t spoken for months. I had to
sleep with her to make her fall asleep, and I was the one who fell into Morpheus' arms earlier.
The next day I had to go back to Cuernavaca, where I lived at the time, and F. and I never talked
about that kiss.

I never saw him again after. I was aiming to return to Manchester to study for a Phd. I was
focused on finishing my master’s degree early and didn’t want to have a relationship with him or
anyone else. I had him on social media and I saw that he went to León for a while and he was
traveling, but since it wasn’t to share everything he did, I was never really aware of the recent
updates of his life.

Last year he spoke to me about an instant messaging app. He sent me a screenshot where I was in
an app to meet people. To fuck, the truth. He said he was about two kilometers from where I
was, I asked him if he was in Monterrey and he said yes, because of work. As a good Regia I
took it for a drink and we met the next day in Barrio Antiguo.

To be honest, I was in one of the best moments of my life. I was finally over the pain of ending
up with my best friend, the man I thought to have a family with. I had my reading challenge and
I had almost thirty books in the year.

I was on therapy every week. I had no intention of sleeping with F., or falling in love, for me I
was the guy I met in Manchester and that’s it. He was attentive when I was in Mexico City and
now I had to do the same.
We went to a small bar for dinner, there was live music, on a terrace, it was burning outside , so
the cold beers where what we really need. He began by asking me what I had done in all that
time, and as I have an ego that needs to be constantly fed, he had myself talking about my
adventures in detail. He kept looking at me and smiling, and I realized that, despite feeling
comfortable, his attention intimidated me. F. opened up and told me what he had done, situations
that he lived very similar to mine. And as I spoke my eyes went from his own to his mouth, then
to his hands, to his neck and I surprised myself wanting him, but not because I wanted him to
fuck me, it was the desire to hug him and with that gesture to say "here I am, you are not alone, I
understand you". I listened to him speak and wondered "is this real?" because after what I was
learning in therapy about myself, what I want, what I "need" it took me (and still) to believe that
someone would come along smart, emotional and intellectually, that I would like to hear, to
admire, to provoke me to go into the kitchen to make flour tortillas by hand. And now in front of
me was this dark-haired man of Arab descent who was getting me wet just by talking.

We got out of there, I asked him what he wanted to do and he told me that since I was crazy and
partying, he wanted proof of that. I took him to a gay bar where there’s drag queen show. That
night there was a tribute to Yuri so we gave ourselves the fun of life. We dance until we sweat.
On the screen they announced the dark rooms in the basement and he says "come on", I told him
no, arguing that they had told me they were very dirty. He insisted, went to check the condition
of the place and when he returned I gave him a kiss and we escaped to a dark room.

The sex was better than I imagined. I don’t know how long we were there, an hour or two, which
seemed short to me. And here I change to the present time because, even though I enjoyed it at
the time, I still feel the same.

I like the taste of his skin, his sweat, I like to feel his moustache when I kiss him and the touch of
his hands so that my body does not separate from his. I like his brown eyes, his hairy chest, the
random tattoos on his arms, the texture of his back.
But I liked seeing him that night while we were having sex and understanding that he was
enjoying it as much as I was. That the desire to keep us company was mutual.

He asked me to stay at the hotel with him. They had no other rooms available so I stayed at the
one where the company had rented to him where one of his coworkers was already asleep.

We went in to bathe, soaping between kisses, wiping ourselves with caresses. I gave myself up
as if I were in love, as if he were the man I had shared many yesterdays with and wanted to have
for my mornings. There was no part of his body that I didn’t touch or explore, and when we were
exhausted, we lay in bed. I snuggled into his chest and wished the night would never end. That
that wasn’t just another adventure, because by the time I was almost thirty, I was tired of going
from bed to bed, exploring belief systems and personalities that didn’t fit in with mine.

In the morning his partner was surprised to see me, but said nothing. He enlisted to come down
for breakfast. We had sex again, we sweated, we stripped the bed and we laughed as if we were
inexperienced, having a nervous breakdown and hiding it behind laughter.

When I was on top of him I remembered my ex. We had very good sex and I assumed that
thinking about it was because the separation was still recent. What surprised me was that F.
asked me what had happened to me, as if I had noticed, and it’s not that I’ve changed anything. I
didn’t want to tell him.
How do I tell a guy I just fucked that I was thinking about someone else? Everywhere I looked, it
was unethical. However, he insisted, causing me to grieve, and between a nervous laugh and my
little head saying "don’t do it!" I told him I remembered the other one.

He was not surprised, he remembered his ex too. After all, his las relathionship and mine where
similar.

And he kissed me. He fucking kissed me! And I couldn’t forget it.

We said goodbye and he also told me something I could not forget: You’re a bitch, Paola. Please
don’t stop being like this.»
Later that day, he told me that he had already landed in Mexico City and we continued chatting. I
kept going over in my mind the images of that night that led me to enjoy as long ago I did not
enjoy the feeling of being young.

I returned to my normal activities, but these changed, as a new factor was integrated: talking with
F. every day. He would send me pictures of what he was doing, tell me about such a book, such
an experience in his life, with his family and I did the same.

A week after that meeting I told him that I missed him and that I didn’t want to shut up what I
felt, that I was tired of having to hide feelings or make them up so they didn’t seem
"exaggerated", scare him and leave. He missed me too. He sent me kisses in the wind and songs
to feel his company. In the talk the next day I told him that I would like to try something, that I
was aware that distance is a bitch that wasn’t going to help much, but I wanted to try. Meet him,
let him know me. I warned him not to cook, but with me he would never lack books, laughter, or
knowledge. And he agreed to it.

In September I went to see him. I spent ten days of vacation that for me were eternal. We smoked
a lot of weed and fucked under the effects. He sang Peligro by Ely Guerra and Wish you were
here by Pink Floyd. Between the fascination of my skin colour and the sensuality with which
Mexico City welcomes me, I decided I wanted to stay there. But as a good Mexican, I had this
fear of talking about it and that I would be labled as exaggerated, as "intense" because that’s how
they make us feel, or at least me, for expressing what I want.

On a Saturday we walked in the center touring. By about six o'clock in the afternoon, we got into
a bar, and between one beer and another, I was wasted One of his brothers and sister-in-law
arrived. He told me that we were going to keep the party at his brother’s house, and before
leaving the bar he warned me that maybe there would be a girl and they were something in the
past, so in case she came to say or do something, just don’t listen to her, that he was going with
me and nothing else. I accepted it, but as we were walking to her car, I thought: "Why are you
taking me with her? Do you want to see her? Why don’t you go better alone?" And I stopped,
told him I didn’t want to go, that I didn’t feel comfortable, that I would stay there in the center
and later go home. He got angry, asked me not to go along with it, but since I’m more stubborn
than shit, and when I decide something, there’s no power to move me, I didn’t go.
He came back the next day. I was bringing a raw one that was killing me, plus I felt guilty. The
conversation we had was more or less like this:

— What happened last night? - he asks.

— I don’t even remember it.
— How convenient that is!
— Did I get too intense?
— I’ll put it like this - he paused and sighed- No, you know what? I’m just being cruel.
— "Sorry," I said, crying.
— Why are you apologizing? It’s no use at all.
— Excuse me, please, excuse me.
— Look, let’s just forget it and pretend like nothing happened. We better stop it, and please
don’t be that intense. The last thing I want is a toxic relationship.

That day he went to Queretaro for work and I rented an Airbnb. I stayed one more night at my
favorite place. Ah, because yes, despite being Regia and having this blessed pride in my state,
the CDMX is my safe place that I love so much that I don’t want to go live there because I know
that magic would end and I would end up hating it.

I sent him a message thanking him when he was at the airport and he replied wishing me a safe
journey.

On my way back I was liquidated from the company where I worked because almost all the
projects were stopped and there were staff cuts. I had scheduled another trip to Mexico City in
November to take the UNAM entrance exam (I’m studying Psychology online). In that time I
worked helping my writing teacher at the International Book Fair in Monterrey. I met authors,
editors, I criticized some books and several of them encouraged me to open a publishing house.
My teacher had invited me to work with her several times and told me that I was an editor even
though I didn’t study letters, what I know, I learned in courses, workshops and on my own.

But between that and not knowing what wasmy next step in my professional life, I started

to find out what I needed for an editorial.

My psychologist, who is my heavenly treasure, had recommended two books for that trip,

Tomb song and The world. The first one I found in a bookstore in Coyoacán and that same

day I started it, I finished it. The prose, the content, the voice of the narrator made me fall in love
and I said "I want to write like that someday." The second one I found on the penultimate day I
was there, in a Hidden bookstore south of the city. I had to take a light rail to get there and they
told me they had long ago stopped printing those copies and it was the last. I wanted to see F.,
because walking in that place reminded me of how much I missed him. I spoke to him

the excuse of returning a book he had loaned it was an old classic, he really liked that book. The

fear of freedom from Erich Fromm. He asked me to take it to his office, but when I get there he
didn't I was there. I gave him Tomb Song, because I wanted him to have something of mine, I
knew he was going to enjoy it as much as I did because it's the kind of books that make us drool.

When I returned to Monterrey I decided to quit alcohol. I did not want, nor do I want, to lose
someone again important for not knowing how to control myself under the effects of drinking,
especially when I'm working on controlling my emotions. I went back to an engineering
company because the money from the liquidation was not going to last long and I have invested
in the Editorial so much that I already have five people working and ten authors who have
published and will publish this year.

Personally I am focused on my physical, mental and emotional health. I understood that,

although I did screwed up with F., he was also unfair and did not see that there was a difference
of opinion and that we did not have He had to agree and I was not forced to do what he wanted. I
understood that guilt I felt is due to the social belief that was implanted for many years for
women, in which they must be silent to keep the man happy because if he leaves they are alone
and there is nothing worse than a single woman . That is why we have always get corned, even if
we don't agree. We have silenced what we feel, what we desire, what

We need, for fear of making the dude angry, to scare him and leave.

I understood that my opinion is worth a lot and whoever does not know how to respect it can go
to hell.
Some time later he sent me a message thanking me for the gift, because it was just what

He needed and loved the author so much that he went to buy more books from him. We no
longer have communication as before, because, although it hurts to admit it, he is obstinate like
me and when he says something there is no one who can change his mind.

But of course, I also miss him. I miss the intense talks and full of substantial content that

cause mental orgasms. I miss feeling admiration from him and admiring him.

If I had the opportunity to see him again, I would sing to him:… and in the ecstasy of a kiss, I
imagine more than that and I ask you to stay.