We met on a Sunday around six in the morning at the turnstiles of the Capitolio subway station. That used to be our starting point for great adventures. However, that day we were only going to take one cart per position to La Guaira.
It was the first time that we went together and that way to the beach. We grabbed the first truck that appeared, without knowing its destination very well. Suddenly, we were among a bunch of guys, shredded meat patties and room temperature anise.
I remember there was an unforeseen event on the highway and the driver, with all his weekend drive, decided to take the old road. At some point, I think we were scared. We didn't say it but I'm sure it emanated from every pore.
Maybe that's why we were talking about everything and nothing to make the journey shorter. Acting "normal guy" was our surefire recipe for when we were in a tight spot. As soon as we saw a mildly blue landscape, I told him "it's a queer right here, get off."
Immediately the stuffed animal stopped me, «Mommy, the first one is always the public picnic area». "Never mind, my king, we love warm water." Indeed, the beach was not the most beautiful that my eyes have seen, but at 18 or 19 years old what can matter.
In fact, despite being milk white, we didn't even rent an awning. We apply the philosophy of grilled chicken: "round and round" under the midday sun. Me without sunscreen and my friend with a cinnamon oil that made her look like Lucifer's lover.
Shortly after arriving, "the parchitero" made an appearance. A damn thing that sold some passion fruit guarapas that seemed sweetened with witchcraft. The flavor was really addictive and from glass to glass the few bolivars we had for lunch disappeared.
Alcohol was good in spite of me. At that point, I was officially the shit that "does not hit one" with the guys. My friend, on the other hand, had the most perfect boyfriend in the world. The guy had studied medicine, he always wore his neat robe, he was responsible and handsome, the typical kid that any mother would adore.
At times, it seemed too serious for a friend as hippie and a reggae lover as Andreina, but from living so much on the edge of the love abysses, I began to believe that balances are necessary for the pods to last. Besides, she was happy.
After a few drinks, my friend tried to say something to me but it was obvious that she didn't know how to do it. Men tend to believe that women tell each other everything with hairs and signs, but this is not always the case, especially when it comes to our intimate life.
In fact, it costs us too much to expose something that we consider private. Perhaps for this reason, we usually go through, in deep loneliness, some stages of frustration that are the product of a lot of false conceptions about love or sexuality.
After a while, I broke my thoughts: what about the guy? Almost through tears, in a whisper, my friend told me that the corduroy "was very young." I confess that I did not quite know how to react. It was the first time in my life that a woman had told me something like that, but it undoubtedly affected her.
In his mind, it was bullshit that such a perfect guy had "such a flaw." So, I brought up the phrase that I once heard from the Novice Hunter, while he was being questioned about dating a very young woman: “my tongue still works for me”.
She smiled sadly and I continued: sister, studies show that only 18,4% of women achieve orgasm during intercourse, that if 1 in 5 shit. Plus, you have like 8.000 nerve endings and there are dozens of innovations on the market.
My friend told me of her boyfriend's refusals and regrets about any proposal. I listened, silently, attentively, avoiding any facial expression that would be counterproductive, but in the end she launched her question: baby, what would you do if you were me?
I started with a speech that pointed out that the problem was not centimeters but attitude: “for them it is also difficult, men were educated to be bulls, stallions”, but my drunkenness ended up saying “oh, if your machismo does not allow you see further then delete it ”.
I vaguely remember that she talked for hours about whether the sexual act led to love or vice versa, which of the two was more important. I just defended that if the guy didn't listen to her in that he probably wouldn't listen to her at all and if she got frustrated in just that aspect, she would hardly have confidence in herself in other areas of her life.
She cried, maybe I did too, I cry when I see someone cry or whenever I drink too much. At the end of the afternoon, we caught our bus for Caracas. We got off at Parque Carabobo. Her beau was waiting for her, spotless and well scented, as always.
I just wave and smile. He looked at us ugly for our complete drunkenness, told me that my heat stroke was going to require medical attention until my friend interrupted his explanation with a forceful "let's go, we have to talk."
I said goodbye swift and fast. At each step I thought "don't vomit," "don't faint," "this guy is going to think they're leaving him because of me." Yes, I have met dozens of guys who really believe that a woman left them because of what a friend said. There are a thousand and one ways to see no further.
After hours, my heat stroke needed medical attention, but my friend was no longer tied with the doctor who could help me.
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