John grabbed my hand.
I leaned into his ear. “What’s he saying?”
“It’s a song about a sexy woman who drives him crazy.” John’s warm breath on my earlobe sent chills up my spine. “I thought it seemed like a good choice for our first dance.” It was our first real date, though we’d skipped dinner and the movie and went straight to the club for Latin dance night.
“Oh.” I looked away with a blush.
John pressed my palm flatly into his tiny hand. “Just follow my lead.” We stood eye-to-eye with our shoulders squared; John was just 5-foot-6 and probably weighed 155 pounds—baggy clothes and Dr. Martens boots included. His butt was smaller than mine, which was reason enough not to go out with him, but there was something intriguing about dating a guy that didn’t require standing on my tiptoes to kiss him. Prince is only 5-foot-2! I reminded myself.
Our noses nearly touched. “Like this.” John glided our hands to shoulder level, elbows bent at a ninety-degree angle. I felt like Jennifer Grey being led by Patrick Swayze for the first time in Dirty Dancing. John slid one hand down my rib cage. My chest thumped to the beat of the music, the thrill of a new experience intoxicating me. I instinctively placed my left arm around his neck as he moved his arm around my waist. His soft neck was cleanly shaven and smelled spicy in an exotic way … very John. I inhaled, savoring his scent.
“Make me look like a regular,” I whispered over his shoulder. “Help me blend in.” I’m a white girl living in a Latina world.
John pulled back and looked me in the eye. “Hey. I like it that you’re different.”
I whirled my eyes, feeling my blonde curls glowing like a neon sign.
John pressed his hand against the small of my back, bringing our hips close together. Suddenly, he launched our bodies into cadence with a lively rhythm I didn’t know existed. We rocked back and forth to the music, moving in large circles. The baggy legs of my jumpsuit ballooned around me as we picked up speed, gliding on the dance floor in unison with the rest of the moving crowd. From head to toe, his body movements flowed like fine silk, draping every beat. Like most Cuban-American guys I’d met, sexiness oozed from every inch of John—the groomed goatee, full lips, perfect nose, dark-brown eyes and light skin. He was so hot, his accessory choices couldn’t even turn me off—the plastic comb in his back pocket, the thick, gold chain around his neck and the matching ring on his pinky finger.
Beads of sweat glistened on my chest and forehead. “How am I doing so far?” My thoughts hopped from concentrating on not stepping on his toes to wishing another gringa or two would appear from the shadows, making me feel less like an outsider.
John smiled. “Bien. Muy bien.” We stayed locked together on the dance floor bouncing to the fast-paced music, until my damp blouse stuck to my back. I closed my eyes and savored the thrill of a Latin vibe.
I laced my fingers tighter with his. “I’ve lived here way longer than you, and you’re the one taking me new places.” Our eyes met. “All I’ve done is give you a tour of the dry storage closet.” We both started giggling. John and I had met his first day on the job at The Cheesecake Factory, of course, the epicenter of my social universe. Don’t shit where you eat? I didn’t know how to start a relationship anywhere but at work. It felt so comfortable, easy, right. After Matthew told me about his top-secret wife, I’d waited tables sixty hours each week, throwing myself into the service of strangers. Work was my coping mechanism. I didn’t yet have the energy to put my heart out there again, and picking up extra shifts meant less time to think about how Matthew’s marriage had shaken me to the core. John was patient, persistent, sweet and at the right place at the right time—my job—which was my lifeline to the world.
John bounced to the beat. “I haven’t had this much fun since Los Angeles.” He laughed, brushing my long, curly bangs behind my ears. John had just moved to Miami from Los Angeles, where Cubans were a Hispanic minority—very different from Miami. He was born and raised in a middle-class LA suburb. He had fond memories of the LA Zoo and sweeping valleys of Southern California. I tried to find our common ground without over-sharing what had happened between Matthew and me.
“I haven’t had this much fun since Kansas,” I replied, grinning. My response shocked me. K-State sorority dance routines and frat parties had become distant memories in less than a year. Even though I’d had so many new experiences in Miami, I didn’t realize how much I’d missed dancing until John taught me how to merengue.
At the end of the song, he twirled me around like a jewelry-box ballerina, tucking his bottom lip behind his teeth. He shook his head while his eyes scanned me from toe to head.
My eyelids fluttered, shooing away his unspoken compliment. “I’m glad this is our secret.” My hand squeezed his. We’d been talking at work for a couple of weeks, but I’d kept it professional and discreet.
“They’re going to find out sooner or later because we’ll be doing this many more times,” John said with a playful purr. “Who cares?”
I let his words sink in as we danced. Did I really care? John wasn’t like the other busboys. John never stood in the main bus stand talking with grand animation about the ladies’ boobs at table twenty-two. And he never called out “Oye, Mami!” when I walked into CocoWalk’s back hallway before each shift wearing my white tank top. During tip-out, he never pinched my butt or hugged me for uncomfortably long moments like the 5-foot-1 busboy Pedro, who was married with four children. John’s first words to me were “Excuse me, Miss,” as he’d carried a tray of clean coffee cups past me. He’d grabbed stacks of dirty plates from my arms during shifts until his kindness was such a turn-on that I’d eagerly accepted his invitation to take me dancing.
John pulled back and wrapped both arms around my waist. My eyes flew to his. I felt like the Space Shuttle Discovery was about to launch from the pit of my stomach. He pulled my body closer, and my lips locked onto his like a magnet. His kiss was soft, yet forceful. His mouth tasted like Big Red gum, which my father had always chewed, and I’d detested until that moment. John’s palms cupped my jawbones. He began to stroke my cheeks as his tongue moved with mine, first slowly and gently. The energy from his fingertips shot into my torso. The sensory overload from the music, cinnamon and passion barreled through me. Lost in that moment, I wouldn’t have cared if he got demoted to dishwasher. My hands fell to my sides, as he continued to caress my face. The kiss was as magical as my daydream lip-locks with Lorenzo Lamas from Falcon Crest.
When I thought he was ready to pull away for air, John simply breathed deeply through his nose and pushed his lips harder against mine. The boy had moves as sexy as Fabio before he sold out to I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. John’s facial hair tickled my chin and upper lip. I’d never kissed a man with facial hair, but the roughness added a sensation to his passionate kisses that had my hips shaking like Shakira’s.
With that dance floor kiss, John had me addicted to his touch. I’m still not sure how kissing a Latino didn’t make the list in 100 Things to Do Before You Die. The name of the merengue song playing that night? I have no idea. Most merengue songs, with their pulsing cadence of horns, sound so similar to me. But I do know that hearing the first verse of “Suavemente” which was released in 1998, always steamrolls my brain straight to the memory of that night on the dance floor with John. Years later, I translated the lyrics to “Suavemente” online and discovered just how fitting that song was for our relationship: John was asking me to kiss him softly. He wanted to feel my lips, kissing him one more time. The exhilarating sensuality of a Latin lover’s steamy besos fed the deep desires of a needy girl with an icy father. My high school make-out sessions with gringos were fast and furious, marked by wild, rogue tongues and fleeting lips (except you, Lance). I’d always wanted more kisses, more hugs, more attention—then came John. His lips were practically cemented to mine, and it made me feel warm and wanted. He never pulled away first. My mom and dad only shared the pecking-bird kisses in front of my broth
er and me. I never really saw them cuddle each other, and they didn’t really cuddle with us either. John fed my affection-starved side.
I experienced so many firsts with John. My first full-blooded Latin lover transformed me into a completely different woman. I craved empanadas and plantains. Despite my distain for coffee, I sipped on cortaditos before night shifts with John. I even invited him to my apartment for a home-cooked meal. Cooking for someone special—cooking for anyone—was something I’d really never done in my life. Growing up, my mom had cooked for us every day, including a full breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs and toast most mornings. Rather than help Mom in the kitchen, I’d watched Dynasty or played Atari with my brother, so my stovetop prowess didn’t extend beyond a box of Hamburger Helper. Yet I felt compelled to prepare a meal for a twenty-four-year-old Latino who lived at home and had a simmering pot of arroz con pollo waiting for him every night when he got off work.
John arrived at my front door right on schedule for our first dinner date—another way I could tell he wasn’t a native Miamian—and greeted me with his usual, “Hey, Sweetheart,” followed by a warm, endless kiss, replete with both hands cradling my jaw bones. My knees got shaky. Every nerve in my body felt scrambled, as his tongue chased mine and his fingers trailed down my arms. The smell of marinara sauce and gooey cheese filled the air.
John glanced down at the hem of my short, blue sundress. “Don’t you look cute.” My grin grew faster than Chia Pet. I looked down at my bare feet on the carpet, feeling my cheeks flush. I pushed my spaghetti strap back onto my shoulder and scurried back into the kitchen.
“Smells delicious, Baby.” John rubbed my bare shoulders. I kissed him on the cheek, then grabbed an oven mitt from my top drawer. Hoping to impress a far more cultured man than myself at the dinner table, I’d found inspiration in a brick of Italian Velveeta with a baked spaghetti recipe on the cardboard box. What can I say? I was twenty-one, and the most exotic meals my mom cooked were roasted squirrel and fried spoonbill.
John circled me in the kitchen, sneaking kisses and touching my hair, cheeks, shoulders, and arms while I bounced from duty to duty: grabbing silverware from the drawer, setting plates on the table, lighting candles. Whether in private or public, I could barely take a breath without John petting, hugging, squeezing or kissing me—except at work, of course. John showed me he cared with his touch, not with an ink pen like Matthew. I felt like a newborn baby ushered into the center of his affectionate world. And I wanted more.
He took my hand and led me over to my glass-top dining table in the kitchen, then pulled out my high-back chair. As I served a mound of baked spaghetti on his plate with two forks, he poured some Riunite D’Oro (today known as Riunite Trebbiano-Moscato) into my new black-stemmed glasses, which I’d purchased as a birthday present to myself. Riunite was the only brand I’d remembered from liquor stores back home, so I’d decided to buy the pretty, gold-tipped label for our special occasion. Little bubbles fizzed in the glasses.
Crap! I silently cursed myself for not realizing it was a sparkling wine when I’d bought it. I had no idea how any wine would taste with spaghetti. My house wine was still Sauvignon Blanc, but I’d usually slurped it down like a cocktail. The time had arrived to start appreciating the marriage of wine and food—especially with a local guy who shared my love of music. The limited food and wine pairing seminars at Cheesecake had only covered mainstream wines—Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling, Chardonnay, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon—and mainstream dishes, like Chicken Piccata, Pork Chops and Filet Mignon. I must have been really confident about our relationship to guinea pig him with an untested recipe and a new wine on our first dinner date.
I raised my glass with a smile. “To new beginnings.” The bubbles tickled my tongue, and flavors of sweet peaches flooded my mouth. I looked over at John’s face flickering under the candlelight, then back to our dinner plates. It was a far cry from swigging Boone’s Farm in the front seat of Emily’s truck in high school. The only time I’d ever felt so civilized was dinner at the Chart House with James. It had been too long.
“Oohhhs” and “aahhhs” flew from his mouth after the first bite. “This is delicious, Sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I love it that you cooked something I’ve never had before.” He reached over and petted my hand. A toothy smile swept across my face. I leaned forward and kissed him. I’d successfully straddled yet another aspect of our cultural divide.
Shop talk quickly ensued, as it always did when dating restaurant co-workers: biggest tip of the shift, worst customer of the day, longest wait for a table, tally of hung-over servers that shift.
His eyebrows scrunched. “Are Marco and Pedro still bugging you?” His tone was jealous; I found it quite cute.
I twirled my pasta with a fork and spoon. “Not really.” My eyes stayed on my plate. “It just takes so much energy to ignore them, you know? I wish I was better at being a bitch but I’m not. I don’t like having enemies. I don’t like conflict.” Marco still played with Gabriela’s hair in the back hallway before work. Alicia still snarled at me in pre-shift meetings. Mark kept over-sharing the gory details of his threesomes with a couple he’d found to replace Robert and Jessica. The environment was about as comfortable as wearing corduroy jeans in July.
“It’s like the set of a soap opera there.” John rested his fork on the edge of the plate. “I’ve only been there a month, and I can barely stand it.” John had never worked in a restaurant before and didn’t realize drama was always the daily special. Because John was thin, Latin and knew how to dress, he also had to endure hungry looks from one of the servers, Rupert, who referred to John as the “sweetest strawberry shortcake on the menu.” Rupert carried a Louis Vuitton handbag, wore Versace cuff links and could have easily beat out Thom on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. John took a long sip of the wine. “They act like a bunch of teenagers. Life isn’t just about partying and getting laid. There is a real world out there.” He scoffed and stabbed his fork in the pasta. I nodded like a Southern Baptist at a sermon.
John’s sharp words instantly sprayed clarity over our work environment. When I’d arrived in Miami, I’d thought I’d meet lots of people like me: college students working hard to graduate and land real jobs. I’d made many friends from all corners of the globe who talked big dreams, but the exiled men with degrees from universities in Cuba were still emptying bus tubs, the servers who said they were going back to college had not enrolled for fall semester—except James, who’d already moved to Gainesville—and the models still hadn’t landed the big contracts with Ford. Few of my coworkers were moving onward and upward.
His nostrils flared. “Everyone there seems to have forgotten about their dreams.” He tossed one hand in the air. “Their lives are in limbo. We are sweeping floors and taking out other people’s garbage for Christ’s sake. It should be temporary. They should aspire for more in life.” His eyes fixed on mine as his voice boomed. My head kept bobbing as I spun spaghetti into a perfect ball on my spoon. It was the most motivational speech I’d heard since Richard had nearly fired me.
John wagged his head. “I just can’t take it anymore.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it hard. “I need to be doing what I was born to do.” I looked at him with caring eyes. We’d never really talked about dreams before, other than chartering a boat and sailing to the Bahamas.
“What’s your dream then?” I lifted my wine glass to my lips. Two years at a junior college in Los Angeles was the extent of his higher education, which worried me. Our relationship centered around a shared love of dancing and public displays of affection. He’d ticked two key boxes. I just wasn’t sure he was career-driven enough to become husband material. And I couldn’t be in a relationship for a month without contemplating marriage.
“I want to make a difference in peoples’ lives.” His brown eyes danced around my face. “I want to be an emergency medical technician.”
I grinned and nodded approvingly. The question was a test, and
he’d nailed it. His desire to save strangers made him even more attractive.
John continued to gush about a classified ad he’d seen for a job at a 911-call center, the perfect training ground for an aspiring EMT. Wait. He’s leaving me? I stared into my half-empty wine glass. My heart sank at the thought of not seeing his smiling face in the dining area.
“So when are you going to move onto something bigger and better?” He leaned over to my chair and kissed me, then pressed his lips softly to my forehead. “You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have determination. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
I blushed and looked down at the last spaghetti strings on my plate. I squirmed in my seat. I’ve never been comfortable receiving compliments. If I was so pretty, then why did every guy I date shit on me? When I was younger, I don’t recall my parents ever telling me I was pretty and smart and that I could do anything. Nobody seemed to believe in me, so I had to learn to believe in myself. When it came to school and work, believing was easy. My physical attractiveness was another story. I let John’s words work magic on my thoughts. Well, that and the alcohol. Bigger and better back home was working at the mall in Joplin, Missouri. Three years later, I was living in a tropical paradise, spending afternoons rollerblading on the boardwalk of Key Biscayne. How could my dreams get any bigger right now? I took another gulp of wine, letting the citrusy bubbles coat my mouth. Maybe John was right. Did waiting tables with people who spent their days sipping Mimosas at News Café do anything to advance my dream of being a writer?
I lifted my chin and turned toward him. “Graduating from college is my dream.” I swirled my glass. My state residency had been approved for the fall semester, and my checking account was finally stocked with enough cash to cover one semester’s tuition at Florida International University. My sights were set on nailing a 3.75 GPA. Once school started, there would be little time for having fun. Just thinking about the long road to my diploma made my head hurt. I slurped the spritzy wine.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 16
