The Heartbroken Mexican Hip-Hop Dancer


You might have noticed something.


I almost never write about myself on this blog.


My goal for My Latin Life was not to pour out my feelings, but rather to provide some knowledge for young men interested in Latin America.


That's about to change.


Don't get me wrong - this site will still continue to be, first and foremost, an informative resource.


But isn't the point of a blog to get to know a bit about the writer? Without that personal touch my website is nothing more than a less comprehensive and less politically correct version of Lonely Planet.


Right now I'm in Mazatlan, a seaside town on the west coast of Mexico. I've had more time than usual to reflect on my life. A nice quiet beach tends to have that effect.


Recently, I've been thinking about something that went down the day before I left, when one small incident caused me to reconsider my approach to sex, relationships and perhaps even life.


Here's what happened.



The Heartbroken Mexican Hip-Hop Dancer



I first met Carmen 6 months ago. She messaged me on Tinder.

"Que onda?"

At first I ignored her. I was trying to pull away from online dating and I found her opening message to be curt and uninspired.

But after a two week dry spell I found myself scrolling through my old messages.

You know how it is.

"Fuck it, she looks alright," I said to myself.

I arranged to meet her the next day at a rooftop bar.

She arrived 10 or 15 minutes late (not bad for a Mexican girl) wearing oversized sunglasses and short jean shorts. I managed to get a look at her ass and legs as she wandered around the terrace trying to find me.

Again, not bad for a Mexican girl.

I waved her over and we ordered a few drinks. We talked about the usual shit: work, hobbies, travel plans. She was cool. Dances Hip-Hop and works for Televisa.

After a few drinks we decided to continue the party at my apartment. We bought a bottle of rum and made the short walk back.

Three hours and almost one litre of Bacardi later, we were at a club in Polanco.

Another hour or two of her grinding on me by the bar and on the dance floor, and I couldn't wait any longer.

"Let's go," I said.

The sex was wild. She was amazingly tight and had impressive stamina - perks of being a dancer.

The next morning I walked her to the street and she got a cab home. We both agreed it was a good night.


Over the next several months, Carmen and I would see each other once every two weeks or so. She was always the one to call. Usually she'd come over after work, we'd have a few drinks at my apartment or a bar and then we'd have semi-drunken sex. I'd sometimes ignore her if I was working or out at a club. Or if I I just didn't feel like socializing. But we always managed to arrange a meet up at least once or twice a month.

She even invited me to her beach house in Acapulco a few times. Unfortunately, I was never able to make it.

Things continued in this vein: see each other, fuck, depart. Rinse, repeat. Needless to say, I was perfectly fine with this arrangement.

She seemed fine with it as well.

Until one day.


The night before I was set to leave for Mazatlan, she sent me a text.

"It's your birthday soon. I want to take you out for mezcal."

We met at a bar in Roma Norte, a hip area of Mexico City. We started drinking. Hard.

After what must of been 6 or 7 shots each (this girl can drink) we asked for the bill.

"I will pay, I have money" she said. "Happy birthday!"

We stumbled into a cab and headed back to my place. The sex was good, as always. But because of the mezcal it took me about an hour to finish.

I was exhausted. After we wrapped things up I pulled the covers over us, turned on my side and closed my eyes.

"So you're just going to fucking sleep again?"

I opened one eye.


"All we ever do is get drunk, fuck and then you go to sleep!" She yelled, tears in her eyes.

I didn't say anything, but she had successfully gotten my attention and I was wide awake.

She walked frantically out of the room and came back with a bottle of tequila and poured herself some.

"You only care about yourself! You're so fucking selfish!" she continued.

"What do you want?" I said.

"You didn't even think to invite me on your trip. You never want to go with me anywhere. You just want to fuck me and then you want me to leave."

"Let's go to sleep," I said.

She finished her tequila and took out her phone.

"Look at all these guys texting me," she said, showing me her phone. "I could fuck any one of these guys but I only want to fuck you. I haven't fucked anyone else since I met you. Only you."

This was obviously a lie. An aspiring dancer who works at Televisa whose phone goes off every 80 seconds?

Probably had more trains ran on her than the Mexico City subway system.

"Go with them," I said. "I told you I don't want a relationship."


"What do you want?"

"A bit of respect."

I pondered that for a moment.

"If you don't like this arrangement you are free to leave anytime," I finally said.

She did leave. But not before smashing the remainder of my tequila bottle on the ceramic floor.

That was the last time I saw Carmen.


Now, this wouldn't typically bother me so much. Emotionally unstable girl, drunk. It's more about her than me, right?


Except this is the third time something like this has happened to me.

This year.

Albeit this ending was a bit more theatrical than the others, the narratives have all followed the same trajectory.

1) Meet cool girl who's up for a more 'open' arrangement.

2) Play it casual for a few weeks or months with her.

3) She snaps when she realizes there's no future and that I don't have much interest in her friends or family.

4) Storms out of bar/house party/apartment, etc.


And guess what?

They always try to come back.

Carmen will try to come back, too.

They call me "Asshole," "Selfish," "Heartless." But they always want to come back.

I never let them.

The world shouldn't work this way.

But it does.


In Canada, I lived with Myles, a friend of mine. Myles was one of the most generous, friendliest and caring dudes you will ever meet. Extremely nice.

Too nice. 

Guess what?

Myles couldn't keep a woman around. When he finally got a girlfriend, she cheated on him. Then fucked with his head for a year. He went after another girl. He courted her for months before she jumped ship to another guy that she'd known for a couple weeks.

Finally, he went after the girl I was dating behind my back. Apparently, he didn't think I was "treating her right."

She immediately told me about it.

Myles had gone full SJW (Social Justice Warrior).


In a fair, ideal world, Myles would have his pick of women. He's considerate, compassionate and has a good career path (he's a medical student). Guys like me should be rendered pussyless.

Key word here being should.


I've never had a 'red pill awakening.' There was never a breaking point where I got fucked over by a woman and said, "That's it, no more Mr. Nice Guy!"

I've always been inclined to this sort of behaviour.

I cheated on 2 of the 3 serious girlfriends I've had.

It's been years since I've been 'loyal' to a woman in any true sense of the word.

I fear I've swung too far in the other direction. In principle, I believe that a series of short term relationships are more conducive to happiness than relentlessly increasing your notch count.

In practice?

I throw quality women to the curb.


A year ago, I met a lawyer from Veracruz. She was smart, sweet and beautiful, with an ass and tits that could cure cancer.

I deleted her phone number after she asked to be exclusive.

Last month I hooked up with a stunning Brazilian that spoke 5 languages. After a few dates, I ditched her.


Too feminist. 


I've lost the ability to connect and, in doing so, have hurt a lot of people.

Carmen, the sexy and amicable hip-hop dancer is the latest victim of a body count that's increasing each year.

Do I miss her?

The contrary.

I'm fucking glad she's gone and I hope I never see her again.


That's what worries me the most about myself.


Thanks for listening,