My Bad, Mateo

I am no stranger to embarrassment. My Sagittarius Sun and Gemini Moon pretty much guarantee that. I’m spontaneous and sarcastic, I’m garrulous, I’m a little impatient, and I’m very easily distracted. I explore broadly and I speak bluntly. I’m also 6’1” and have poor depth perception. Damn near perfect formula for cringeworthy misunderstandings, faux-pas, and mini-dramas.

However, I generally don’t have regrets. Remorse, absolutely. Guilt, totally. But my theory is that when you know how to laugh at yourself, when you know how to apologise, and if you care to take responsibility for your actions, shame doesn’t have the chance to settle in. Say my bad; make amends as you are able; move on. Repeat as necessary.

My blooper reel includes that time I accidentally AirDropped nudes to a complete stranger at a coffee shop in Panama: classic case of the wrong “My iPhone”. And that time I got caught shoplifting baguettes and nailpolish at a Walmart in Tennessee: I was hangry and a wee bit bored! And that time I tried to use a squat-toilet in Beijing and peed all over my white capris: so what! I’m clumsy. I have fart stories, diarrhea stories, vomit stories, period stories, terrible first date stories, and I’ve definitely been caught in a lie or two.

Party tricks, all of them. Small potatoes. Little bouquets of whoopsie daisies. They were adequately resolved and released: I laughed, I apologised, I paid my dues. None of those instances inspired real or lasting regret. None of them linger awkwardly after they’ve been told. None of them took root in my soul and grew gnarled boughs of Shame throughout my psyche.

But this one is different.

Judge me as harshly as you need.

* * *

I was 28. I was visiting Colombia for the third time in four years of backpacking through Latin America. This time, I was teaching yoga at a dreamy farm-hostel in Antioquia in exchange for a private bedroom and three meals per day. The guests would shuffle stiffly out onto the porch at 7 each morning, stifling their yawns behind steaming mugs of pineapple tea. And one hour later, fully reanimated by a fiery Kundalini practice, we would take turns braving the cold-water showers before breakfast: un cafecito, fresh baked bread with rosemary, eggs from the coop behind the greenhouse, papaya from the stand down the road. The goats would bellow at the mist as it rolled down from the mountains and across the pastures, tickling the surface of the tilapia pond and melting into the bullrushes. I know farm life isn't for everybody, but if you're one of those people who rises with the sun and has a favourite pair of mud boots, then bienvenidos a su pedacito de cielo. Welcome to your little slice of heaven!

Anyway. One day, my manager mentioned an opportunity at a farm a few hours south: the owners were friends of hers and they wanted to offer more to their guests. They had come to realise how much of a selling point free yoga classes were, and so I was invited to come teach for a week. I packed a duffel bag, hitched into town, and caught the bus. A few cramped and bumpy hours later, I spotted the owner waiting for me at the bus stop, smiling kindly. His name was Felipe. He bought me a croissant from the panaderia and showed me a photo of his wife, his son, and his dog before taking me up to the property. He drove quickly and spoke slowly, carefully refining both his English and his French as our threads of small talk wove past introductions and through travel, under religion, and between gender politics. I found him remarkably progressive, sincere, and curious. I imagined we could be friends. And before you get any ideas: not a chance. This is not a story about Felipe. My love language may indeed be processed carbs, but I am decidedly not into dads.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, most of his staff had gone home for the evening. The next round of guests, he explained, would be arriving in the morning. He showed me to my room, pointed down the hall toward the toilets, and said goodnight. I sat on my bed, savouring every last flaky crumb of my pastry and wondering what the guests would be like, when a man walked past my open door. I hardly even saw him and wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup if you paid me, but I still felt an electric, sexy little lurch behind my belly-button: who was that? Moments later I heard a motorcycle growl to life and watched from my window as a shiny helmet and a red leather jacket rolled back toward the village.

Please don’t be married, I begged inwardly. Over the years, I had experienced that playing the role of Resident Yogi invited in more long, therapy-esque conversations with disillusioned young men than actual dates. It had, ahem, been a while. My imagination ran wild as I brushed my teeth. I settled into my bed and grinned up at the ceiling like an absolute nerd for my final minutes of consciousness.

* * *

I woke up just before 5. I took my mat outside into the dew-drenched meadow, and meditated for an hour before the inky curtain of night peeled back, slowly revealing the dawn. I walked barefoot around the property and took in the view as the sun began to rise: the orchard, the cows, a flock of sheep, the gently rolling mountains, the bright white of waterfalls shining out against their jungle backdrop. I knelt in the dirt and marveled at the herb spiral, climbed through the terraced vegetable garden, and made my way back up toward the farmhouse as all the nearby roosters began their vocal warmups. Paradise, again.

I soon crossed paths with Maria, Felipe’s wife, in the rose garden. She hugged me warmly. She told me my yoga classes would be held at sunset and that the rest of my day was open for mingling with the guests. I was welcome to join every meal and activity and tour, and to enjoy myself fully. Mi casa es su casa, she beamed. I doubt I need to translate that one.

The guests arrived just as breakfast was being served on the veranda. They dumped their backpacks by the front door, kicked off their boots, and plopped into their respective seats. I instantly liked them. The kitchen staff brought out platters of calentado: beans and rice, eggs, chicharron, and arepas con quesito. For two hours we ate, guzzled hot chocolate, and traded travel stories -- and by that, I mean we lowered our voices and dished out our best hostel hook-up stories.

Felipe came out and interrupted our gossip to announce that someone named Mateo was on his way to the farm to lead us on a hike. Felipe said that we would walk down to the river to swim, then hike back into the hills to visit a coffee plantation, and then ride the bus home. I resisted the urge to ask if Mateo had been the man at the house last night, not daring to expose my wholly unsubstantiated crush. I blush far too easily for that. My discretion was quickly rewarded by the distant growl of that same motorcycle. My stomach, full of food, still managed to somersault as Mateo rolled into view.

He parked the bike and off came the helmet. He flipped hair out of his face, looked up at the sky as if to thank God personally for the sunshine, and then peeled his leather jacket off as he sauntered toward us. He was objectively gorgeous. Drop dead. We all tried to play it cool as we took in his silky black hair, dark eyebrows, bright eyes framed with impossibly-long lashes, dazzlingly white teeth, square jaw, broad shoulders, well-sculpted chest, cephalic vein standing out against his biceps -- oh my god. I don’t really know how I retained any information about his personal life as Felipe made introductions, but as I objectified every square inch of the guy I somehow learned that he was Felipe’s godson, that he was moving in to lead tours and assist in the gardens full-time, and that his family lived in the nearby village.

I held back as he greeted the guests, suddenly aware that I had a job and that it was not to have sex with my coworkers. There was some little part of me, some whisper of my intuition, that suggested it wasn’t a good idea to flirt with this absolute paragon. I was a full head taller than him, a reality I had become very accustomed to in South America, and I hoped that this might be as much a deal-breaker for him as it was for so many others. But when he made eye contact with me, when his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, when his face flushed red, and when he said, “Hello!” way too loudly and started to laugh nervously, I forgot all about that.

It was on.

* * *

The weather couldn’t have been more pleasant as we stomped down the hill toward the river. One hour later, we were swimming in the crystal-clear current and basking in the sun, chewing pieces of grass and trying on one another’s accents. Mateo stared at me and I stared right back. We weren’t subtle in the slightest, and the guests were thoroughly entertained. Each woman took her turn to get me alone, ask me if I could tell Mateo was into me, ask if I was into him -- “Oh my god, you two are adorable!” “Get it, girl!” “He’s! So! Sexy!”

As we made our way up the hill to the coffee plantation, Mateo and I made small talk. I don’t remember very much of what he told me: something about an ex-girlfriend, something about wanting a tattoo someday, and something about wanting to be an architect. We sipped coffee and he reached over to brush a flower stamen from my hair.

We got back to the farmhouse just as the sun was setting: luckily, and not at all surprisingly, the guests were too tired for yoga. But Felipe and Maria were delighted. Their guests were tired and happy, loving every minute, and their staff were getting along. I could teach yoga before breakfast, they suggested.

We went to our respective rooms, freshened up, changed into our comfiest clothes, and then reconvened to tuck into a sumptuous dinner before cozying up with glasses of vino tinto in the den. We played parlour games around the fireplace for hours. Mateo and I sat close, thighs touching, pressing not-so-innocently every time we reached across one another for galletas. At one point, one of the girls grabbed a blanket and draped it over our shoulders. I felt good. Real good.

I didn’t necessarily think Mateo and I would bone. I didn’t think we should. He was one of the sexiest and most symmetrical men I had every laid eyes on and we had obvious chemistry, but there was something small and shy about him that I couldn’t quite place, and which didn’t read as overtly desirable. Maybe we’d just cuddle. Or kiss. A little. Or a lot...

All at once, the guests were ready for bed. Big, theatrical yawns echoed across the room and I was bombarded with knowing smiles and cheeky winks and little shoulder-shimmies as each woman made her way back to her room.

And then we were alone.

Mateo put his arm around me. “I really like you,” he said, pulling me in for a kiss.

Honestly, so many first kisses kinda suck. I’m happy to report that this one was ok! Not too wet, not too fast. The warmth of the wine and fire were hypnotic and I began to melt. But then he pulled my sweater up and pulled one side of my bra down and began noisily kissing my boob. He looked up at me with my nipple in his mouth and my whole being cringed. I wish I could say it was titillating because, I mean, tits. But it wasn’t doing it for me in the slightest. It felt inorganic and juvenile. I wondered if he was just being weird because we were out in the open, aware that literally anyone could walk to the bathroom or the kitchen and see us. So, after a beat, I ruffled his hair and asked if he wanted to go to his cabin. He nodded eagerly: “I would like to have sex with you.” Well, when ya put it like that! “Yo tambien,” I heard myself admit. We took our blanket down the hallway, out the door, across the lawn, and into his cabin. Here goes nothing.

He flicked on a harsh fluorescent light and I surveyed the scene. A single condom sat on the pillow. Kinda bleak. I sat on the bed and he kissed me again. He was incredibly strong and he almost effortlessly picked me up out of my seat and laid me down. That was pretty hot. I don’t think I’d ever made out with someone with a physique quite like his. My mind and heart may have been somewhere else, but after a day of build-up and expectation, my body was responding well enough.

He had a hard time taking off my leggings. I’ll give him a pass for that one because Spandex can be tricky. But then he didn’t really know what to do with my bra either. He glued his mouth to my neck like a catfish, moaning and licking my skin, as he struggled with the clasp behind my back. It was awkward and I was instantly bored. But finally, my clothes were off. And then he took his off. We’re being totally honest here: I was a little disappointed. Any final hope I may have been clinging to that we’d have a rockin’ time was fading fast.

He looked down at my body, uttered a desperate little guau, and grabbed the condom. By now I understood that this was not going to be good. I hoped I was wrong and actually shook my head to snap out of my own doubt and discomfort, but part of me admitted that this might be truly terrible sex. As he fumbled his way into my body, my only peace came from the idea that this would all be over in 30 seconds.

Turns out, I overestimated. Four thrusts later, he whimpered, groaned, and then rolled off me and onto his back. He let out another guau and lay there, sashaying his knees back and forth in what appeared to be breathless wonder. I stared at the wall for a second, trying not to laugh, and wondered if we would go again, if I even wanted to, if there was any way at all to salvage this. But then he told me that he didn’t want to share his bed, lest we get caught. I smiled blandly as I picked up my bra and panties, pulled my leggings back on, and shrugged my arms back into my sweater.

“Thank you. That was amazing.”

I nodded, dumbly.

“This is the most amazing day of my life! Dulces sueños.”

Sweet dreams, guy.

Ok. Never again.

* * *

I looked both ways to ensure I wasn’t being watched, then crept back to my room. I closed the door, got into bed, and clasped my hands over my face. What just happened! He had absolutely mentioned earlier in the day that he’d had a girlfriend before, but I now had a strong suspicion that they’d never consummated their love. I lay awake for hours, trying to ignore the distinct possibility that Mateo had been a virgin. He’s mentioned an ex-girlfriend, right…? Is that why they, you know, broke up? Terrible sex? Also… why! God dammit, Ember! One of my New Year’s Resolutions had been “No More Bad Sex,” and here I was, mere minutes out of the Worst Sex of My Life. I fretted, cringed, “oy”ed, and shook my head until I fell asleep.

I taught yoga in the morning and the shame dissipated. I felt ready to talk to Mateo, to check in and make sure we were on the same page, to suggest that we not engage intimately again. Foolproof! But as we sat down for breakfast, Maria came to the table and told Mateo that they needed to talk. Her face was very grave. Felipe came and sat next to me and added a few spoons of sugar to his coffee. “I always find it interesting,” he started, sucking the spoon and smacking his lips, “when people think they will not be caught when they break rules.”

I gulped.

“Sometimes people forget their place. And sometimes” -- here, he looked me right in the eye -- “sometimes, there are consequences.”

Oh… shit!

After a while, Maria came back to the breakfast table and announced Mateo would no longer be working for them. That he had massively damaged their trust, that he was packing his bags, that she was sorry if anyone was uncomfortable with his character. She told us he had stolen a blanket from the living room. The guests were confused and I sure as hell pretended to be, as well. Felipe didn’t take his eyes from my face as we watched Mateo walk back to his cabin, reemerge with his little bag, put his jacket on, get on his bike, and disappear into that beautiful morning light.

The guests and I stayed at the farm a few more days. They loved my classes, we went on more hikes, we ate more great food. Felipe and I hardly spoke again, and sometimes I would look up to see Maria glaring my way. I did my best to be present and made a commitment to be far more responsible in the future. But I still felt terrible! I didn’t even know his last name. I even searched “Mateo” on Facebook and scrolled through Colombian profiles for at least half an hour before realising how much of my life I would waste trying to find him that way. I just wanted to apologise! I wanted to make things right!

Turns out, I’d get my opportunity a few days later: he rode by me on his motorcycle as I was going for more croissants. He squealed to a halt and leapt off the bike. I was expecting a hug. I was not expecting him to fall to his knees.

“Ember!” he gasped. “I found you.”

“Hey, Mateo! You doin’ alright?”

“I have not slept in days!”

“Oh, buddy! That’s... No good…” I offered.

“I understand everything!”

“Oh! That’s --”

“You are my soulmate!”

I stared.

“You can stay here with me, in Colombia, forever. I will find a new job and buy my own house: we don’t have to live with my parents for long.” His eyes were wide and frantic as he grabbed both of my hands.

“Oh, Mateo…”

“This is the love of God. We are true soulmates.”

“Mateo, I --”

His voice began to break as he interrupted me: “I lost my job with my godfather, but I knew it was worth it. I have waited my whole life to find someone like you. I know we tried sex before we were even married, because this is destiny. I know this is destiny.”

“Mateo.”

“Ember, you are my queen. Say you love me, now. We can know True Love, together, forever.”

“Mateo!” My voice was louder and sharper than I intended. “I don’t love you.”

He stared up at me, eyes brimming with grief, and then, dear readers, he put his forehead to the earth and began to weep. His body heaved as he sobbed. He held his hair in his fists as he shook his head back and forth: “No, no, no!” he begged.

I clumsily began to apologise, started to explain that my life would surely take me far from this village within the next few days, that he would meet other women, that all hope was not lost, that he was a lovely man, that he had nothing to fear, please get up off the ground, it’s okay dude -- “No!” he shouted, looking up angrily and crawling toward me, hands clasped in front of his face: “You are the love of my life! I only knew suffering on this Earth until I met you! Say you love me!”

“I do not love you.”

He stared into my eyes for another few moments and then, finally, he got up. He brushed the dirt out of his hair, wiped his eyes, and cleared his throat: “I know women say ‘no’ when they really mean ‘yes’!”

“That is not what’s happening, Mateo.”

“I know you will come back to me!”

“I will not come back to you. I’m so sorry, Mateo. I do not love you. We are not soulmates.”

“But, we had sex!"

"I don't know what to tell you! I have a fair amount of sex!"

"I have only done this once before!"

"I…realise that!"

"I will never recover from this.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I will wait for you.”

“Please don’t do that, Mateo.”

“I love you, Ember.”

“You have a crush on me! That’s it!” I pleaded. “We are not soulmates, I am not going to marry you. I wish we had not had sex. That was a mistake. I’m sorry. And, I’d like to go home, now.”

And that was that. He stood by his bike, staring into the distance, and I walked home with my little paper bag of pastries, now spotting with butter. A few days later I returned to my original farm, taught yoga for two more weeks, and then used the last of my Bitcoin to fly to Honduras. It has been three years and I have not returned to Colombia since.

So, yeah. That’s my story. My one regret. The time I let a poor, good man from a poor, good family put his penis inside me for 9.2 seconds, got him fired, Scarlet Lettered his ass, and broke his heart beyond recognition.

Lo siento, Mateo.

My bad.