THE MATING DANCE

Remember Hernan, the hot stud from two weeks ago? The tall, dark beautiful stranger with the wicked smile and the bedroom eyes? The one who never called?

Yeah. That one.

I saw him again on Friday night. It wasn't entirely by chance. My former Spanish teacher once told me that if you lose track of someone whom you want to see again, go back to the place where it all began. With this sage advice in mind and the encouragement of my friend Cara, I returned to Angel's two Friday nights in a row, hoping for a sequel to our unexpected rendezvous.

The second time I got lucky. Moments after I arrived, in walked Hernan. Same wicked smile. Same bedroom eyes. He approached me, as if he knew he'd find me there. After briefly invading each other's personal space, I knew I had to ask the inevitable question. "¿Por qué no me hablaste nunca?" Did you, like, lose my number or what?

What he did next nailed shut the coffin of our brief non-romance. Instead of answering, he took me by the hand, walked to the bar, requested a pen and paper, wrote something on it and handed it to me. I read it, admiring his excellent penmanship. He'd given me his phone number and a brief message: "Llamame". Call him? I thought. Then after another invasion of my personal space, he ran off to God knows where.

I took the piece of paper out of my pocket, looked at it one more time, ripped it up into itty bitty pieces and threw it on the floor. I never saw Hernan again. But in an ironic twist, I spent the rest of the night talking (just talking!) to his friend Wagner. I think Hernan may have seen us and left. Whatever. What's that old saying? Snooze, lose?

I'm not sure what was the bigger turn-off: The red pants Hernan was wearing or the fact that what had begun as a sexy flirtation had turned into a foolish game. Don't let me be misunderstood. I enjoy the mating dance as much as the next guy. But as I've learned in my two years in Buenos Aires, some guys engage in this particular tango because they don't have the guts to just go after what they want. Or perhaps they just don't want it badly enough. Whichever it is, I know better than to not move on. Remember, I'm holding out for butterflies. Or a hero. Whichever gets to me first. And believe you me, I am convinced that eventually, one way or another, one of them will find me, one of them will get me get me get me get me.

DOWNLOADS
Bonnie Tyler: "Holding Out For A Hero"
Michael Jackson: "Butterflies"