The way he walks: 12 de mayo de 2015
We walked around the city last night after smoking paraguayo, which still had an earthy, thick smell of real marihuana, and the whole time all I could think about was the way he walks and what it says about his personality. His body is muscular yet thin; he could be a runner maybe, with long legs resulting in a longer stride. Walking slowly with a sort of subtle hip motion giving an appearance of being very well-endowed. He walks with a swagger, I realized, and now I know why every insecure self-named gangsta wants to walk with a swagger: it makes it seem like he has a big dick! This explains everything.
Anyway, he totally doesn’t know he has a swagger. And as for the other part of him, well, I think it’s better not to say, to be sure that stereotypes don’t influence our perspective of future encounters with guys that got swag (or however they use that word).
He is a humble bringer of the peace with a mind suspicious of strangers in the darkness. A mind sharpened by the street; a traveling buddha without judgment, an expert on macrame, my personal weaving instructor. He trusts no one but respects everyone, and keeps to the shadows.
My instincts intensified and we became animals, him a solo hunter and me a kitten with a string, or a foal with knobby knees unused to using her legs. I’m bouncing around, falling back, surprise-attack pouncing on him, pushing him into random objects while giggling, and then hushed, nervous, when men walk by smoking cigarettes. They are wolves and I don’t make eye contact.
I play follow the leader exceptionally well, I always have, I know what I’m doing. I want to see how he moves and imitate him, let his body language tell me how he feels. My interpretation is all that matters. I let him decide which direction we go. He turns me to the right with a hand on my shoulder, or hip checks me around corners without warning. He falls back and crosses the street, stops half-way to see if I’ve noticed and followed.
I punch him in the stomach and he puts me in a headlock, tires of my silliness and holds my arms behind my back while I struggle, laughing. He finds my pressure points with calm hands and squeezes me until I yelp, as if torturing a younger sibling who then toughens up and learns to defend herself. I want to learn to defend myself, so I play-fight with people that can hurt me.
Anyway, he’s so hot.
I haven’t been writing much lately because I feel like I just repeat myself and I don’t like my vocabulary choices, ever. My life is like an eternal spring break; there are places to go at night where the music has heavy beats, and I have all the time in the world to question what I’m doing.
Now, in the plaza with the sun and breeze, I watch golden rays dripping through autumn leaves, splashing across crunchy dried hojas. I always try to smash them all with my feet, just to hear them cackle with pleasure into a million pieces.
Last night we went to El Bosquecito to hear live music and watch the entire youth of Argentina drink iced wine and Fernet and smoke weed without having to hide it. They told me I am “piola” and “buena onda” and I felt like they accepted me for who I am and didn’t try to tell me to feel certain things in a certain way; they just let me be without criticizing. It was really nice.