The Summer of Cheaters

Misseducated

My conversation with Jorge, the hot waiter, unfolds in Spanglish over WhatsApp. Of course, I leave healthy delays between messages, so I don’t come across as too keen.

Jorge: “Hi Tash. It’s Jorge. How are you?”

Tash: “Good morning. Do you work at Quintonil?”

Jorge: “Yes, haha.”

Tash: “Lol. Where are you from? How old are you?”

Jorge: “I’m 33 and I’m from Veracruz.”

Tash: “I’m from London, and I’m 29.”

Jorge: “Cool. I have to start my shift, but let’s chat soon! Do you have Instagram?”

We exchange Instagram handles. I tell him I’m traveling for the next few weeks, and he tells me to get in touch once I’m back. I’m lying around the house in LA on my family holiday one afternoon when I finally look at his Instagram profile. It’s private. But his profile picture tells me all I need to know.

I use my thumb and forefinger to zoom in closer on the tiny circle. There he is in the picture, smiling and stubbled, clad in full hiking gear. And then, undoubtedly, unavoidably, inconveniently, there is a girl in hiking gear standing next to him. Does he have his arm around her? Well, with their hiking poles, it’s hard to tell. It takes him a day or two to follow me back before I can finally see what I’m dealing with.

Most of Jorge’s Instagram pictures are of him and his colleagues brandishing extravagant pieces of fish or perfectly plated food alongside chefs and knives. I imagine that to work at a high-end place like Quintonil, you have to be a fiend for good food, and your job is your identity. Are there lots of pictures of the girl? No. But when I do find a picture of her from way-back when, there’s her Instagram handle, and her profile is public.

I discover that she is also Mexican and also from Veracruz. There are plenty of pictures of them together, dining out to exquisite meals and hiking trails along Popocatepetl and El Nevado de Toluca. And yes, there is a ring on her finger. I begin to read into things, dig into things, and project my limited and nervous thoughts all over things.

Here’s a lovely couple from Veracruz who moved to Mexico City together. This man is clearly obsessed with his work. His fiancé loves him dearly and cherishes the dinners he takes her to because he knows all the best restaurants in the city. But she wishes he wasn’t so dedicated to his work so they could spend more time together and start to build a family.

I think back to the dinner with my family at Quintonil. Did Jorge have a ring on his finger? I am pretty sure he didn’t. Otherwise, I never would have left him my number in the first place.

I pause. You see, in Mexican culture, the way I’m communicating with Jorge is not very appropriate. It’s not done for a married man to have many single female friends or to be friends with his wife’s friends, for example, and vice versa. So, I can’t help but wonder. If Jorge is engaged or married, why is he talking to me?

Summer this year has brought some of my most strange and confusing interactions with men. It is probably a complete coincidence, but soon after I got my Mexican residency in July, weird things started happening to me.

The first was when I met Lorenzo, a videographer from Los Bosques, a fancy suburb of Mexico City, at an art event. We talked for about three weeks before he took me out for a dinner date at a cantina. The dinner went well, except he took a very long time in the bathroom, so his food got cold. He also told me stories about how he often came home to find his uncle sleeping with other women and prostitutes while he was still married to his aunt. That should have been a red flag. Still, I’m a sucker for men who pay for dinner.

The morning after, I woke up with 6 missed calls from Lorenzo. At first, I excused it, thinking he had butt-dialed me, and we kept talking. Later, when I checked Instagram, I found that I had 13 missed video and audio calls from a girl called Luisa. She also shared a picture of her with him, in which he looked very guilty indeed, and she wrote,

Luisa: “Did you go to this cantina with Lorenzo? Tell me! I am with him.”

I then texted Lorenzo to ask who Luisa was. Lorenzo never responded again. As my old Economics teacher, Mr. Simpson used to say: “Extraordinary scenes!”

Tash: “Haha, your poor phone.”

Lorenzo: “Hi! How are you? How was your flight?”

Tash: “All good, thanks. I got to San Cristobal de Las Casas already. Did you want to talk last night, or was it your phone’s mistake? Also, who is Luisa?”

🦗

I was shocked. Lorenzo had a girlfriend who I had no idea about. I was bewildered. Yet, I’m very grateful that Luisa somehow found out and contacted me. Thanks to her, I only wasted 3 weeks of my life with Lorenzo, not 3 years or even 30.

My experience with Lorenzo left me rattled. As you know, I’ve dated multiple men in Mexico. I started to replay my past. While I was only exclusive with a few partners, my sense of trust began to shake. Had any of them had secret girlfriends? Had any of them cheated on me emotionally or physically, and I never found out? Here I was, on the verge of becoming a homewrecker without even knowing it. Why had Lorenzo embroiled me in his b******t?

I believe cheating is wrong. If you’re dating someone and want to sleep with other people, why not talk about it and open the relationship? But no. Lorenzo was a two-timing, dilly-dallying, willy-wallying loser who would play Luisa and me like a puppet in each hand for as long as he could. He had even continued to message me after it seemed like I might not have received Luisa’s messages. What a dick!

As I walked away from the Lorenzo situation, I began to wonder to myself:

When I go on a date now, do I have to ask whether the guy has a girlfriend?

I pressed on in the dating world. Yet I didn’t get far enough.

That day, I had flown to San Cristobal de Las Casas, a cute pueblo in the mountains of Chiapas. I was onto new friends, live music, and better things, or so I thought.

At the Café Revolución, I met Marco, an interior designer from Tuxtla Gutierrez, the main city in Chiapas a couple hours’ drive away. We hit it off. Marco was short but very strong. He had round glasses, a cheeky smile, and a sleek style. He liked to tout his Mayan roots and the history of Zapatista political activism in his family. He told me he lived in Tuxtla Gutierrez during the weekends with his dogs, his cats, and his pet rabbits and donkeys. He spent his weekdays in San Cristobal designing interiors for hotels. What I liked about Marco was that he seemed genuinely curious about me. He listened to my stories in Spanish. He was interested. He was patient. I felt I could be myself around him.

The next evening, Marco treated me to dinner at a wholesome taco restaurant my friend had recommended. Marco insisted on paying and said he wanted to hold my bag. We would drop my bag off at the hotel before continuing for drinks. With the unfortunate recent memory of Lorenzo lingering in my mind, I felt I had to ask Marco,

“Tienes una novia?” (Do you have a girlfriend?)

Marco paused for a second. He shrugged. He grinned. Then this man had the stupidity or the audacity to tell me,

“Pues, sí.” (Well, yes.)

It stopped me in my tracks. I felt like a fool who had been taken for a joy ride. Yet again. Two dinner dates in the span of a week with men in relationships. What the f**k? How had I gotten entrenched in this garbage, s**t-filled stew? As we headed down the street towards my hotel, I quickly took my bag back from him. I couldn’t believe these men. I felt sick to my stomach. All my smiling, wide-eyed conversations with Marco over IPAs at the bar felt like they had been a lie. He had managed to tell me so much about his life. He had told me all about his pets. Queso and Nacho. Those were his cats’ f*****g adorable names. But Marco failed to leave out the tiny detail that his girlfriend of three years was in Tuxtla, living in that house they shared together, and that might soon be filled with a beautiful family and children and even more pets, or so I imagined.

I challenged him to message his girlfriend. If she allows us to sleep together, I’m okay with it. Marco told me he messaged her, but it still felt so icky. Who knows how many tourists he had taken around the block while his girlfriend was left completely unaware? I was evidently not the first girl, but it turned out that I was the first to seek permission from his girlfriend. I believed she deserved to know the truth.

Over the next few days, Marco was still keen to meet up with me, given the semi-okay-you-can-do-it-but-i-love-you text messages from his girlfriend. But at that point, I was bored of his shenanigans. I couldn’t trust him anymore. Plus, his girlfriend's permission in the mix left a sour taste in my mouth. Whatever brewing connection I felt with Marco had gone. And now it felt like we were kids in elementary school, like his mother (cough girlfriend cough) had given us the okay to have a playdate after school.

So yes, unfortunately, this summer has taught me that this question is now mandatory.

I have to ask whether a guy has a girlfriend before anything escalates.

Yet, this brings me back to Jorge. I message him when I’m back in Mexico City. Did he tell me his fiancé exists? Yes. Does this go against my principles of being anti-cheating? Yes. Am I going to message him anyway because he’s incredibly hot and I’m curious to see what he has in mind? Yes.

I flit off into my own fantasies of them having an open relationship and looking for a third as we text in Spanglish,

Jorge: “What’s the plan?”

Tash: “Haha, I don’t know. When are you free?”

Jorge: “Almost never, haha. Next weekend I’m taking my girl and friends to drink mezcal. Want to join?”

Tash: “Sure, sounds fun.”

💌 ✍️

From Misseducated’s Archive:

Written in Chiapas

On Dating Women

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