Yesterday my Argentinian guest left. It was an interesting experience, one that requires me to track back two decades ago, when I was 25, living in Puerto Vallarta.
I used to work an online travel agency and lived with a friend from university who was a designer for an events magazine, both belonging to the same parent company. We pitched to the editor of the magazine the idea of reviewing the strip clubs in the city. Surprisingly, the editor thought this was a good idea, and gave us an expense budget of two beers per person. Of course, we would end up paying much more out of our pocket.
It's quite strange reminiscing about this time of my life, it was a different time and I was a different person. But I'm not writing to justify myself, I'll simply state the facts: one of the strip clubs we reviewed hired us to design their website and take photos of the women. They paid us half in cash and half in alcohol, which we were to consume at the strip club itself. I like to think we were decent and pleasant guys because we made friends with a couple of the strippers. They knew we weren't big spenders, but would sit with us to chat on slow days.
Something I would comment with my friend is this: their body may represent their age, but their eyes... it's like they've lived too much for their age... their gaze is much older. You would see no trace of innocence in them. I don't know anybody whose been through war, but can imagine it would have the same effect on you. You can see in their eyes they've been through a lot of shit.
At night after returned home after work, I sat down to chat with my guest and the topic of age came up. I didn't bring it up. She said "guess how old I am, but guess on the lower bound because I hate when people overshoot by a lot". I asked her to take off her shades and I looked closely. I said 25 years, plus minus one. "Plus minus one?" she asked, yeah, from 24 to 26. I honestly thought 28, but she asked not to overshoot. She looked dejected. "I'm 21 she said".
"Oh really? Well, this is going to sound like I'm patching a fuck-up, but it's not your physical appearance as much as your gaze, you have probably been through a lot of shit which makes you mature fast, but that doesn't mean that you look old" I said. She sighed. I smiled and said "you identify with your youth—you're so young now, you shouldn't even be concerned about it. As you grow older you start identifying with other things. You know, when I was your age I used to look at people who where 30 something and think "what a boring life, being a thirty-something señor", I literally thought I wanted to be dead by age 30. There was no life worth living after you lost your youth, so I understand your point, but being on this side I look back and I think: I'm so glad I've been through all these stages. Every stage has its own values, imagine if I still had the same values as when I was twenty, I'd be crying right now over being bald. Well, perhaps you're right and some values never change, I said as I wiped a tear from my cheek. We laughed.
I told her I was tired and I was going to bed at around 11pm. She said she wasn't tired yet, she would have a shower and probably have a walk around the neighborhood. Alright, see you tomorrow. Good night.
Next day was Friday morning, and she wasn't home. The bed sheets for the couch were exactly in the same position as I had left them. I shrugged. When I came back from work I found her at home. She said she went back to her place to pick up some stuff and fell asleep there. Tonight she was meeting for dinner with some friends and was dressed in a very revealing outfit. I could see she had breast implants. I told her to enjoy herself, we'd catch up tomorrow. The next morning she hadn't slept at home either.
By then I knew she was some sort of sex worker. I was concerned that she would be trafficked, and at the same time I knew she wouldn't accept the fact if it was confronted directly. I did my best trying to get information without being too pushy: she had been travelling with a female friend since six months ago: first they went to Brazil, then to Cancún, then to Istanbul, then to Amsterdam, then to Paris, then to Barcelona, then to Madrid. What do you do for a living in Buenos Aires? I asked. "Well, right now I don't have a job" she said, "but I want to study psychology". On Sunday she came back at around noon. I was sitting at the dining table, about to buy a ticket for a concert. She said that she had hung out with some Argentinian friends that night, and they had agreed to attend a concert. I turned around my laptop screen "this one?" I asked, "Oh how did you know?" I didn't know, I was just about to buy a ticket. Oh can you buy one for me? I'm going with the friends I hung out tonight but my card didn't work, can I give you cash?" yeah sure I said, and I bought two tickets. That, and the numerous tags and bags of clothing stores indicated that her wages were not being withheld, which is the main method of retention in sex trafficking indicated to me that she was doing this voluntarily.
With all these developments my energy towards her changed. There wasn't the slightest hint of sexual attraction. At one point she had a tiny dress and bent over to look for something in her suitcase, revealing a tiny thong. I looked away, and in the corner of her eye I saw her turn around to look at me. I have no way of knowing if it was calculated—I think it was because of what had happened afterwards.
On Tuesday V. invited me for dinner at her place. At midnight I received a text from my Argentinian guest: "Hey, is everything alright?" I was amused: you haven't slept at home Thursday to Saturday, and you're checking in with me because I haven't arrived?, "Yeah", I answered "I came to have dinner with a friend, catch you later". I came back at around 2am. She was still up. "oooh so you went with a friend, tell me about it". I had respected her private life and I expected the same in return, but I didn't know how to formulate my expectation. I changed the topic "uuuh you're changing the topic" she said. I smiled. "Well, if you really want to know, she is my ex-girlfriend, but we were friends before and we are friends after the fact. Now that I think about it, I'm friends with all of my girlfriends... well, not friends as I'm with V, but I have a cordial relationship with them. What about you?", I asked.
"I've only had one boyfriend" she said. "But I cheated on him. We tried to make it work again, but we would fight constantly". "Do you miss him?" I asked. She said not really, she really liked her independent life now, she did as she pleased, she had casual relationships. "Men in Spain are very respectful" she said, "perhaps too respectful". The conversation turned weird... she was signaling availability but not attraction. In my mind she was bargaining extending her stay (which we agreed to one week beforehand), but I didn't let the conversation go there. The thing I was fearing the most—that my body would disagree with what was rational—was nowhere to be found. My body was in complete agreement with my mind.
I yawned. "It's getting late and I have to work tomorrow. Good night". I said. The next day she said she was looking for a room to rent for a month, because she would be staying another month in Madrid. "Oh cool, good luck" I replied. The next day she wrote she was leaving for Barcelona for the weekend. "Cool, you can leave your stuff and fetch it when you come back" I answered. "No, I already moved to my new room but I'm leaving for Barcelona today, thanks for hosting me". "Oh, it was my pleasure, if for any reason you find yourself in a tight spot don't hesitate to contact me again. You will always have a couch at my place", I answered.
I'm glad to have proven myself that I don't need to mistrust my body to do the right thing. When I look back at the times when I have regretted getting sensually/sexually involved with a woman, it's usually because of alcohol—and even then, that's not always the case.
I think I did good at something with which I didn't trust myself.