We kiss. It is sweet. It is erotic. I touch his hair. It is thick. I hold his hand. I play with his fingers. He plays with mine. It is sweet. It is erotic. I flip over and he spoons me. He squeezes me tight. It is sweet. It is erotic.

He plays an opera. I can’t remember the name. I’ve heard it before. It adds a dynamic to our tangoing energy I’ve never experienced before. We are dancing in bed. With our clothes on. I roll on top of him. He rolls on top of me. He pretzels my leg with his. He runs his hand over my belly, and under my sweater but he doesn’t go further. Still a gentleman. I’m still a lady.

He pulls my hair. I pull his. I bite his neck. He scratches my back. I moan. I purr. I have transformed.

“Like a little kitten,” he says with that voice that puts me in a trance.

How long can this go on? We are adults. Adults eventually move on to adult things. I can’t be a child for too much longer.

We will get naked, even though I said we shouldn’t. We break the rules. Why? Because…well, I’ve been breaking them for too long. I can’t go backwards. I want to go forward. But I promised myself. I promised that this time I would go slow. A lady who goes out on dates and talks before kissing. Learns about more than one man so she can choose the best.

I am fooling myself. I am a lion and I can’t be tamed. I don’t want to be tamed. Maybe this means I will pay bigger and harder consequences later in life. I will be 40…my looks, my body fading…my self-esteem crushed and thrown into a gutter…because I wasn’t patient enough to allow the right man to come into my life…kneel down on one knee, and ask me to travel with him for the rest of our lives…before giving my naked self to him.

“A man is motivated by sex. You gotta hold out on him until you get what you need and want in life,” says my mother and all the married American women.

I don’t want to travel with an ape. I want to travel with an extraterrestrial. And if sex is my only bargaining tool, then I am an ape too.

“It is on your feet, not off them, that you will attract the right danna,” says the older geisha to the younger one.

I tell myself that I used my mind and soul - not my body - to bring this man into my life. He is here. I am here. I want to get to know him better. And this tango in his bed is achieving that goal.

My sweater comes off. His sweater comes off. His pants. His shirt. He is soft underneath. Like a baby. My pants are still on. I didn’t wear underwear.

“Can I borrow a pair of yours?” It is ridiculous, but at least it’s something to keep me covered. And it just seems fun to wear his boxers.

It is easy for him to crawl his fingers underneath. I try to maintain my whole “lady” thing, but I’m already half naked in his bed on our second date.

“What a slut!”

“A prostitute that doesn’t even charge!”

“No,” I say, to the judgmental aunts, cousins, sister, teachers, after school TV programs…

I am just a human having a human experience. If I were with a man that wasn’t treating me right, then yes, I am a slut. If I were with a man that can’t speak my language or connect with me mentally,  then yes, I am a slut. If I were with a man who was trying to be something he is not, then yes, I am a slut.

But this man is worthy. I have chosen to spend my time with this man. This is how a lady lives her life. She makes conscious, deliberate choices. And I chose this man to direct me. Because he is sincere. He says what he means. He is not trying to bullshit. He is not just “putting the moves on me” so he can get a quickie and then be on his merry way. I could doubt his motives. I could mistrust him and think in my mind that he just wants to use me and leave me. Maybe that is the truth…I don’t know what is in his mind. But it’s not my job to know what is in his mind. I only have to know what is good for me.

So when he held me close, in an embrace that felt like we’d been together for a thousand years, and said, “I want to be inside of you,” I had to say no.

“I can’t. If we do that, then I’ll fall in love with you. I don’t know how to separate sex and love.”

“Really?” he said. He sounded more surprised than disappointed. I already knew why. In Europe and every other country in the world, sex is “no big deal.” In the U.S., we have a Puritanical view of sex. And if you are a Puerto Rican girl, who grew up with a strict Christian grandmother, who forbade my mother to wear make-up or anything fashionable (although, my mom broke all those rules. Go mom!)…well, this cultural DNA is inside you. It is deep. It takes a lot, a lot, a lot of yoga to free yourself from this ideology…although, even the yoga sutras teach that sex is a sacred, spiritual act between two human beings.

And, given that definition, I could definitely have sex with Sharky B…because I already feel a spiritual connection with him. And all would be fine.

My problem is the “lenchak dynamic” that ensues post-coital ecstasy. That feeling that you can’t live without the person…that your entire world revolves around this person to the point that you forget who YOU are and all HIS needs take priority over yours. Then you start to expect things from him. You get impatient. And then you become half a person instead of the full, whole, dynamic human being that you are meant to be.

I don’t want a man to be my sole source of happiness. This is not healthy. I would like to EVENTUALLY have a man fit into the FORMULA: Family + work + spiritual life + travel + making art + love = my happiness.

But to define myself according to him…it just doesn’t work well for me, and it has never worked well for any of the men I have been with. No man likes a needy, wimpering little girl by his side. He wants a woman. Full grown. Content in herself and not constantly in need of his attention to make her feel like she is worth something.

There will be no intercourse this night.

So we sleep. He holds me tight. Our energy feels peaceful in this moment. I feel like I am supposed to be here. He snores. I turn him over. He stops snoring.

He traces the curves of my body with his fingers. I know he loves my body. I love my body. It is nice to share with a worthy man.

In the morning we roll around naked. He puts his fingers inside. Uh oh. He is inside me. But just his fingers…if it were his dick…then what? Why do I make a difference about these two different body parts? I’m just not ready. That’s all.

We take a shower. He licks me. He gets down into the tub and I am above him, goddess like. I look down at him. He is worshipping me. I have never been worshipped this way. He loves women. I don’t blame him. We are so multidimensional. I feel beautiful.

I want to please him. But he moves my hand away when I try. Maybe I’m not doing it right. Maybe he doesn’t like that. Maybe he isn’t ready, like I am not ready for penetration. Maybe nothing.

We get dressed. He ties a green bracelet around my wrist. If it means anything, it means I am his.

Our responsibilities await. I have to go to the bank. He has a meeting.

I walk into the living room. Sharky B’s roommate is there. His little dog, “Prince” comes out, and I fall in love. His little legs send me into a fit.

We walk to the elevator.

I touch Sharky B’s orange scarf.

“Do you want to get some breakfast?” he asks.

“Do you have time? You’ll be late for your meeting.”

“Of course I have time for you. I…nevermind. I don’t want to say it.”

“It’s OK. Don’t. Words can’t capture it anyway.”

We eat stale bagels and drink bad coffee, but my whole sense of being feels balanced. I feel normal. My eyes are wide. I feel like I can see more clearly.

“I feel so good,” I tell him. He looks pleased that I am. He tells me about a friend who got an investor for his broadcasting company. I am shocked. But I always knew despite the news on NPR, the money is still circulating…just not out in the open. He asks his friend on the phone if he needs any writers. This is so sweet of him. To think of me.

I point out Canyon Ranch across the street. “Oh! It’s right here. I was just talking to a friend yesterday about the spa.”

“Yeah. We can go there some time.”

He is talking in future tense. My belly feels full with honey. I will see him again. Though I have no expectations with this man, it still makes me feel good that he would like to see me again.

We drive over the Causeway, through Miami Shores. He shows me homes he would like to buy. Every other one is for sale. He will soon have his pick. I have no doubt he will get exactly what he wants.

We drive up Biscayne, past Greenwich Studios. It is not for sale, but I have a destiny there. I have no doubt I will get exactly what I want.

On the radio, Diane Reem promotes a Valentine’s Day series about love, romance and heartbreak.

“Heartbreak,” Sharky B repeats, almost stealing the word from my mind. “It doesn’t feel good to have your heart broken.”

It is almost like a warning to me. But maybe it’s not. I read into things wrong quite often. He has had his heart broken. He has surely broken hearts himself. I have had my heart broken more than I care to count. And I have surely broken hearts myself.

Sharky B pulls up to my condo and I lay more loving kisses on his face and lips.

“If you get bored later, gimme a call. I’m not doing anything tonight,” he says.

“Um…not tonight. I have plans,” I say, though I would really rather have another adventure with him.

I get out of the car, he backs up…I open the gate and look back to wave and smile at him. I think about the power of patience, and I realize I am supposed to have other plans tonight so that I have time to process the precious moments of these past two nights…and then build on them the next time I see him.

Baby steps. Turtle steps. Organic, slow-cooked, not fast food…

no touch-and-go…
more like touch and touch again…

touch a different angle…
then flip it upside down and touch it over there…

the multidimensional love affair.

“What does that mean?” she asked in earnest.

“I am a control freak. I have to always know what I am doing and where I am going at all times. But this hasn’t brought me happiness. The times I have been most happy are when I am not trying to control things. When I just flow.”

When I am traveling I flow. My senses are at their best. I am present. I am aware. And why can’t I be this way on Planet MyAmi? Just because I’m not hopping on a train every 3 days doesn’t mean I’m not traveling here.

And so, I decide to continue writing this chapter. I feel relief to still be with him. I didn’t feel finished…and now, here I am, riding in his passenger seat. My legs start to shake. My heart beats faster. My natural desire to control is in full gear.

“Look at my hand,” I tell Sharky B.

“What’s wrong?” he says. He chuckles. He tells me there’s nothing to be nervous about. And I try to breathe like I did at my yoga class just a few hours before.

We pull into his parking garage…into his personal parking space. He points out his motorcycle collection. We ride the elevator up to the 7th floor. We walk into the living room. I hear a small dog bark.

“My roommate’s dog,” Sharky B says as he takes off his shoes. I take off mine and hang my scarf and jacket on his dining room chair. It is a typical Florida style apartment. A living room in the middle, a small, walk-in kitchen with two bedrooms flanking each side. I make myself comfortable on the floor in the living room. I lie on my stomach and check out his books. You can tell a lot about a person by his or her books. Design books. Lots of them. He is an artist.

“Is this where we’re hanging out?” I ask, even though I know it’s not. And I go into his bedroom. It is a bachelor’s bedroom. Huge computer screen on a desk. Full-sized bed and a futon for chillin’. His bathroom is connected. His watercolor paintings framed on the walls. Plastic action figures on shelves. It is comfy. And I’ve stopped shaking.

He tells me to pick a movie. I don’t really want to. I’d rather he play some music. And paint me. But maybe it’s too soon for that. I’m such a plotting, conniving bitch.

“Ok, I’ll pick a movie.”

I know it’s important to choose the first film you watch with a man. I don’t want to pick something full of sex…cuz then, well, ya know…I don’t want to pick a psychological thriller that is too heavy and puts me into moody contemplative mode…I don’t want to pick a sappy romance, cuz then I’ll just feel cheesy…what then? What? He says he likes foreign films, so I go to that section. “Ma Vie En Rose.” Nah. A bunch of others I can’t remember. Nah. Nah and Nah.

“Do we have to watch a movie?” I ask. “What do people do besides watch movies?”

“Plenty of things,” he says.

My back is to him. I keep browsing the Netflix films.

And then I see, “The Art of Travel.” An American boy who finds out his fiance is cheating on him with his best man and decides to go on his planned honeymoon alone and ends up traveling for a year through Central and South America.

Aha! It fits the theme of the week. And I choose it.

“If it sucks, we can stop it, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the beauty of it,” Sharky B says.

Such is the nature of life, isn’t it? We create stories in our lives and choose the characters who will be in them…and we can end those stories at any moment, just by using our God-given ability to choose. It is sad that so many people are stuck in stories they don’t like and don’t know how to end.

The film starts off with bad acting…but a good premise. When the gringo lands in Managua, Nicaragua, I feel energized and excited thinking about how I felt when I arrived there. And I was thankful that I was with someone from Central America rather than a gringo who is a BIG FAT target. We blended. We flowed. He led. I followed. I had complete faith in him. I never doubted him.

We ceased to tango this way after a year on Planet MyAmi. I couldn’t follow him anymore. He wanted to focus on A-S-Ses and I wanted to focus on architecture. Our paths separated. And I had to continue on my own…until it crossed with Rabeat…until it separated again…and now it is crossing with Sharky B…for how long, I don’t know.

As I lay next to him on his bed, with a healthy space in between us…the giddy shakes had traveled into my belly. I felt like I needed to pee. So I went to the toilet. Not much came out. Ugh. What is wrong with me?

I wash my hands.

I return to the bed. I try a few different positions. I can’t get comfortable.

Sharky B turns on the music and mutes the film. “Paper Planes.”

“Oh. Oooh. Yeah. It is much better this way,” I say. I think of Diplo and MIA sitting in front of a web cam producing this song that would get nominated for a Grammy. It’s a video on YouTube that Diplo posted after MIA told a journalist that he didn’t have much to do with the famous track that is featured on “Slumdog Millionaire.” It’s not nice to diss a co-creator after your paths have separated. Artists have a code to love each other forever, even if their moment in T-I-M-E together has passed.

The fluttering in my belly has stopped.

This movie is dragging on and on. When will he reach for me? When will he hold my hand? I have learned that if I want to be happy, I must be patient. I must not be the aggressor. So I wait. And wait. I go to the toilet again. I wash my hands. I go back to the bed. Shift positions 8 more times.

“Your writing is refreshing. Honest. It took a lot of courage to send to me…that was definitely a turn-on.”

I can feel the heat through the phone. Even his voice sends me into giddy shivers.

“Well, we should do it again sometime,” I say.

“Tonight?”

“Um, maybe. I am going to yoga. It will be over at 8.”

“I’m going to see ‘Slumdog Millionaire,’” he says. “It should be over around 9. Is that too late? I’ll be in Aventura.”

“I live near Aventura,” I say, but then I wonder if we will end up on my sofa. No, it’s too soon. Too early. Get to know him better before it becomes sexual, I say to myself. But I know by seeing him tonight I’m already walking into Pandora’s Box.

He calls at 9:39. I am lying in my pajamas watching “Witchblade.”

He suggests going to the Shoreclub. “Or maybe we can just get a bite?” This sounds better to me. We did the South Beach thing last night. I want to know more about how I feel alone with him. He says he’ll be here in 10 minutes.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. It’s cold outside so I wear my boots and scarf. My jacket is missing buttons, and my sweater and jeans have holes. I just washed my hair after yoga. I will leave it messy. But I do put on a little eyeliner and powder…it’s not nice to be a complete ragamuffin…although I haven’t had a manicure or pedicure in years. On Planet MyAmi, where every Urban Mermaid is coiffed to the nines, I like being a little bit messy. Because in the end, it’s my mind that is my strongest superpower.

He pulls up to my condo building in his sporty car. I chuckle at the juxtaposition of the car and my blue collar ‘hood. It’s these contrasts that I love the most about Planet MyAmi.

I am where I am supposed to be. And he’s taking me for an adventure.

We drive down Miss Biscayne first.

Then up Miss Biscayne.

The nervousness hits me unexpectedly. Hey! What happened to my centered, zen thing? I find myself worrying about where we will go. What if we go to a bad restaurant and then all the momentum built up from last night fizzles into…much ado about nada nada nada??? Ay. Shit.

I decide to leave the choosing up to him. I did my whole assertive power woman thing last night. Tonight, I’ll let him be in charge. If I have faith in him, I can follow with confidence.

We pull into a strip mall that I’ve passed on many occasions, but never felt compelled to explore. OK. I will follow.

We check the doors — they are closed. I feel a sense of relief. We’re about to get back into the car when a waiter comes running outside saying, “We’re open, we’re open!”

Back inside, we’re about to sit, when Sharky B says, “Maybe we can just look at a menu.” He takes a glance and says, “Nah. I don’t think so. Maybe next time.”

We leave and he tells me that’s why so many restaurants don’t do well. “You’ve got one guy who’s doing his job and another saying, ‘We’re about to close man, what are you doing?’”

I hadn’t even noticed this, but it all makes sense. It’s the story of Planet MyAmi - yin and yang out of whack. But I am just following his lead. Letting him make the decisions. My brain turned off. I smile to myself.

We keep driving and he happened to mention he loves Thai food, and I spot a restaurant off the Causeway. It is appropriate to speak up now. So I do.

Turns out they are open until 11. The sweet waitress takes our order immediately. We eat Tom Yom Gong…J orders Pad Thai.

“You’ll never believe what I found today,” he says.

“What?”

“Well, I’ll show you later.”

Later?

We learn how to say, “Thank you” in Thai. “Khorb koon” if you are a man. “Khorb ka” if you are a woman.

He is a man.  I am a woman. Yang and yin. We are in sync.

Our conversation is limited. Not as lively as the night before…but I don’t care. The conversationalist doesn’t care for a change. Because just being with him seems to be enough. I have plenty of time to get to know him. To hear his stories. I’m no longer interested in talking for the sake of talking. Silence allows the other senses to do their job. I am focused on the taste of my soup. I am focused on the warmth of my tea. This must be the Virgo in me.

He likes the sticky rice with mango I ordered. I tell him that I am not much of a cook but I enjoy making desserts.

“Coconut flan. Pumpkin flan. Vanilla flan. Pine nut pie. Strawberry empanadas.”

Am I trying to impress him? Yes. I shut myself up.

Our meal is over too soon. We get into his car. Maybe his surprise will prolong our meeting.

“What was it that you found today?”

“Oh,” he says, and reaches for something underneath his seat. He hands a pink package to me.

“What is it?”

“A dildo,” he says. I laugh. But I’m also surprised because the gentleman moved into porn territory. But it’s obviously not a dildo. And if I’m that uptight that I can’t take a joke, then I don’t belong in public.

It is dark, so I can’t read the writing on the package. A glimmer of light from the street illuminates the words, “Pink Sugar.”

I laugh. “Oh! Wow!” I am surprised. I am delighted. I am floored that he thought of me…in such a way that…he might actually “get” me. This gift shouldn’t mean so much. But it does. He is so smooth.

He is driving back to my condo now to drop me off. I wonder if we will kiss. Yes. We will kiss.

He pulls up behind my Dragonfly. I turn to face him like a big nerd and say, “OK, I won’t do the clumsy lip thing this time.”

Before I know it, I’m leaning into him, my foot pushing into the passenger door. His lips are thick. He opens his mouth but his tongue doesn’t come out. Just lips. And that thing happens to me. The roller coaster dip down into the belly and then loop, loop, loop before speeding down to my toes. And back again. And forward again. He bites my lower lip and I moan. Uh oh. Oh no. It’s over. I’m done for. I will keep going.

But then he stops. Still the gentleman. Giving me a taste of him. Letting me give him a taste of me. I’m still a lady. I say something nerdy again, like, “OK, thank you. Until next time…” and I step out of his world and into mine.

He drives off this time without waiting for me to go inside. I search my bag for my keys. They are not there. Oh! They must have dropped into his car!

I call him. “You have to come back,” I say. “My keys are in your car.”

I sit on the stoop and I wonder what it all means.

He pulls up smiling. “Come. Let’s go to my place. We’ll watch a movie.”

I hesitate. A movie means sex. I am not ready.

“Don’t be scared,” he says. “I’m not going to rape or kill you!”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you.”

I’m worried about me. When I like someone I like someone. When I don’t like someone, I don’t. And it is so rare. There’s timing. There’s circumstances. There’s energy and chemistry to consider. The math is right. My keys leaped out of my purse because I was supposed to continue my adventure with Sharky B.

“We can go to French Tuesday, if you’d like. There’s good networking there.”

“French Tuesday?”

“Yeah, it’s at the Gansevoort Hotel. We could go.”

Is he asking me out on a date? Oh. Ooh. Yay! I say, “Sure, why not?”

We are walking to our cars in the parking lot, and I think that our night is coming to an end when he says, “We can take one car. I can drive, if you’d like.”

“Oh. We’re going to French Tuesday now?”

“Yeah, it’s happening now.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize…”

And so we hop into his sporty car.

“Do you go 144 mph in this?”

He smiles. “Sometimes.”

Uh-oh. Am I on a South Beach date?

As we speed across I-195 and I watch Boomtown Fever twinkling across the bay, I think, “Yes. It’s another story. I like it so far. This one is interesting.”

He points out the skyline, too. Without me saying anything.

“Those houses over there are nice,” he says, pointing to the mansions on the bay.

“But a bad investment. It will all be underwater soon…not to be pessimistic…”

“No, you’re right. It’s happening.”

We dance to bad trance music. We drink champagne in a faux Louis IV velvet lounge. We social network with French professionals dressed in smart suits.

“Hi, I’m Sharky B,” says the virtual architect as he shakes hand after hand.

I meet his best girlfriend, who is beautiful and shapely and dating a Keyword Rat.

It’s a market research extravaganza, but I choose not to focus on it. I am an Urban Mermaid having a human experience, not a Femmebot scanning the data for connections and correlations. The more I watch Sharky B in action, the more the Frenchies fade into the background until we are sitting side-by-side, and my black pants are touching his designer jeans.

“What do you think?” he asks me. “Any prospects?”

“Yes,” I smile into my champagne glass. “You are the most interesting person here. I’m interested in you.”

“Well, I get all my work word-of-mouth,” he says.

“What do you smell like?”

“You mean my fragrance?”

“Yes. It’s ridiculous.”

“Blue Sugar. An ex-girlfriend gave it to me.”

“She’s brilliant,” I say.

My face softens. My heart softens. He knows. He puts his arm around me.

I say, “Thank you,” because I am tired. I have searched 23 cities over 15 years for home. And I want to rest.

But it is time to go. This is as far as the touch-and-go goes.

He drives me back to UVA.

I tell him more than once what a nice time I had. I am clumsy when I hug him and kiss him on the side of his lip. I thank him again and he waits until I have started up the Dragonfly. An AMC Classic, allowing me to be a lady.

He drives up Miss Biscayne, but slows down so we can wave to each other through the windows of our moving machines.

I am an Urban Mermaid, and I’ve fallen in L-O-V-E with Sharky B.

—

Unused quotes:

“Latin women are more carinosa.”

“White women are mechanical.”

“Romantic love isn’t something that lasts forever. It can be a moment shared. Like this.”

I get a table with Miss Biscayne behind me. Always my friend, always backing me up. We both have a new look after 5 years of renovations.

We”ve been around a few more blocks since Boomtown Fever.

He says he’ll be there in 5.

And he is. It has been 3 years since I met him and I didn’t know if I would remember him or the details of his face.

I notice his eyes first. A light, nutty brown, maybe even hazel, set against a tan, smooth face. Rugged facial hair in a messy sexy way. Is that possible? I might be trying too hard to paint a caricature of a heartthrob.

But he is. A heartthrob, I mean. Because I immediately feel warm in his presence.

“It’s chilly, isn’t it?” he says.

The irony strikes on my hardening Urban Mermaid heart.

“That’s why I chose a table near a heater,” I say and point to the thing two tables away. “But you look like a big B-O-Y who can handle a little nipple in the air.”

Unfazed and without a smile, he pulls out a printout of the questions I emailed him last month. Straight down to business! I am impressed. This is not a date. OK. Shift gears.

“I thought about most of the answers to your questions,” he said.

“Excellent, I brought my video camera - to capture the audio, I mean.”

“We could use my iPhone.”

“OMG! There is an app for the iPhone that will turn it into a recorder? I don’t have any apps on my iPhone…”

“What? Why?”

What kind of Urban Mermaid am I anyway, without apps on my iPhone? Look at that. I’m already learning from the virtual architect. He’s so cute, too. And he smells good. What is that smell? It’s sweet. We watch a video he edited about his trip and I wonder if our energy is tangoing like the couple he shot in the park.

Yes. I am aware of it. Doesn’t look like he is. Or maybe he is just being a gentleman. He was consciously containing his sexual energy when he greeted me hello. This isn’t the norm for B-O-Yz when they are around me. Usually they are disgusting and sloppy and act like sex pests. But not him. He might be an AMC Classic. And so, I am intrigued.

He reports the data on Buenos Aires:

Two-bedroom house: $1,400

Tons of bohemian jewelry made by the skilled artisans. I notice his wrist covered with bracelets and three of his fingers with silver rings. He is a Virtual Gypsy.

A good meal with coffee and dessert for $12. Best salmon at someplace I can’t remember…So good he had to go back twice. Blood sausage, beef…everything “organic.”

I must be spaced out at this point…watching him talk instead of listening…it’s weird how I blank out at the details about food.

I am drawn in by his descriptions of the club scene - the “touch-and-go” culture (what we know as “one night stands”).

He says as a result the women are very hard. There are special club nights after a day at the office where everyone gets drunk and hooks up.

“Do they hook up right there or do they get a room?” I ask.

“Oh…well, if you want to get into gory detail…I guess they get a room since most young people still live with their families. It’s too expensive in Buenos Aires for single people to get their own places.”

“So cars, hotel rooms, other people’s homes…”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

But the virtual architect is a gentleman
and he steers the conversation to less salacious fare.

We talk about the economy of Buenos Aires. The film “Nine Queens/Nueve Reinas” that enlightened the rest of the world of the hustler culture. And I think to myself, “This is all cities.”

“There was tons of graffiti everywhere. Freddie loves Natalia…My gang rulez…blah blah blah.”

“Nothing political?”

“No. Not that I noticed.”

“Hmmm. That’s odd.”

The architecture is French and Italian, he tells me. As soon as you get off the plane you feel like you’re in Europe. Buenos Aires isn’t really part of Latin America, he explains, and the beach he went to wasn’t particularly inviting - dark dirt sand and foreboding dark blue waters…the kind you find in Maine. No wonder. Argentina is on the opposite tip of the Earth, after all.

He says he would like to ride his motorcycle down to the tip one day.

“By yourself?” I ask.

“Maybe I would go with another friend of mine who has a motorcycle.”

I fantasize about being that friend. Or the Urban Mermaid riding on the back of his motorcycle, my arms wrapped around him, nuzzling my nose into the back of his neck that smells of…what is that smellllll????? It’s driving me nuts! My salad is good, but I want to eat HIM! Ugh!

Our interview officially over, the conversation circles back to me.

“What brought you to Planet MyAmi?” he asks.

“Oh. Um. Well, I met this Virtual Gypsy on the back of a bus in San Francisco and we traveled to Mexico City, to Puerto Rico, to Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala and then landed here.”

“I met a girl this way too,” he says. “I was madly in love with her.”

I think of the girl he showed me in his iPhone photo album…the one “who wanted to get married…” juxtaposed with water paintings he created while in art school.

“So what happened?” I ask.

“She left me for someone else.”

The irony is now piercing me in my hardened heart. The Manu Chao song playing in the restaurant seems to get louder.

Que hora son mi corazon
Que hora son mi corazon

The virtual architect is less affected. Perhaps his heart is hardened too. “And you?” he says, taking a swig of his beer in a way I felt I’d seen before in some other place, in some other T-I-M-E.

“It’s really a tragic story. But, well…I was a socialist. And I became a capitalist.”

“Huh?”

“Um. Well, I was interviewing all these people for Boomtown Fever. I was a sponge. I absorbed the mania. I wanted to buy My First Place.”

“He wasn’t supportive?”

“Not really. I had to drag him to look at properties. He just wasn’t interested. And when a woman has to drag her man around like that, it’s not good.”

“No. It’s not,” he says matter-of-factly.

“So I bought my condo on my own,” I say.

“What about the love?” he asked.

Is this guy for real? Is he really asking me this? I wake up everyday asking myself this. And that smell. Is it getting stronger?

“There are many kinds of business people but there are two colors of courage: there are people who want to climb mountains and there are people who choose to walk in valleys.  You are in the former category. My suspicion is that you are probably a very effective sales person, otherwise you would have not gotten as far as you have - the talent and desire are there.”

Planet MyAmi B-O-Yz just don’t talk this way. OK. Maybe I’ll follow up with the architect.

“I’ve made lots of progress on the art show,” I say nervously into the phone. “I’ve got three partners…it’s definitely going to happen…do you think you still want to sponsor it?”

“This economy, you know…”

Yeah, I know. That’s what everyone says lately. It’s a bunch of bullshit. I was hoping to land a $90,000 sponsorship from the architect since he has known me for six years and knows that I am a hard worker.

Then he says, “Hey, if you dress up in that devil costume, let me know.”

My heart sinks. I hoped, hoped, hoped the architect wasn’t another skeezy Planet MyAmi B-O-Y trying to stare at my A-S-S.

I take a shower. I stand under the hot water.

I try to wash off the insecurities. I need a scrub brush. Exfoliating soap.

Every B-O-Y leaves a nasty stain on my weary heart.

Leave me the way I was before
But you’re already in there
I’ll be wearing your tattoo
I’m already in circles and circles and
The girl’s in circles and circles and circles again…
Got to stop spinning!

I step out of the shower and dry off with a white towel. The mirror reflects a woman. With breasts, hips, and as I raise my leg, I see the source of all my troubles.

I have another meeting. This one is with a virtual architect.

Somehow, it feels like I’m getting ready for a date. What should I wear?

He is good looking. He is not American. He is wealthy. Is he spiritual? Is he a slimy Planet MyAmi B-O-Y just looking for asses to pound?

I bought real estate and it doesn’t seem so much like a dream.

I started a business and I work more than I play.

I have no man. My so-called friends always want something from me.

My father said he didn’t find his place in the world until he started working for the NYPD in his late 20s. Shortly thereafter he met the woman of his dreams.

“When I saw her, I just wanted to be with her,” he says to me sitting across our kitchen table in the house of his dreams on a four-acre property in Central Florida. My parents’ American Dream.

I look in the mirror. Who do I see? I come to no conclusions.

I do a yoga pose.

I read about perseverance in the Book of James.

I lay on my floor and cry.

The Dance of the Urban Mermaid to Kode 9 & Spaceape’s dubstep track, “Backwards,” shows our evolution, swimming like tadpoles in a stream of consciousness, walking along the bottom of the sea like crabs until we could swim on top of the water. But then we got fancy and started butterflying like dolphins and our egos got the better of us…and when that happens, we find ourselves swimming breastroke backwards, falling down, and starting the process all over again. History repeats, repeats, repeats itself like a DJ scratching a record, and the Urban Mermaid finds herself caught in the next hurricane of MyAmi, spinning and spinning, going nowhere because she only sees with her eyes…