Love Trips: What If

I remember watching the movie Sliding Doors and being fascinated by the concept of "what if." As the metal train doors shut on Gwyneth Paltrows' face, I wondered if something as seemingly insignificant as snoozing for an extra five minutes or strolling down the block instead of catching the M3 bus could change the course of my life, indefinitely and immeasurably. What if I had never slept over Kurt’s dorm room that one night in college? I pondered as Gwyneth’s life unfolded on split screen. Kelvin, my fine, college friend who was head over heals for me, would have never witnessed me walking down the stairs side by side with Kurt early in the morning. He would have never glanced over at me in that moment, eyes filled with shock and sadness. I would have never lost his trust and he would have never rejected me two years later. We could have been something. Or could we?

Read more of Love Trips: What If.

Love Trips: Hazardous To Your Health

The US government needs to slap a warning label on kisses that touch our big, warm hearts just as much as they touch our big (for some), warm pepas. Just like smoking cigarettes is hazardous to our lungs, these smooches can lead to dizziness, rapid heart palpitations and the ultimate collapse of our reason and logic. You open your moist, desiring mouth and BANG! there go your clothes. You gently suck on his lower lip and BANG! there goes his pene in your pepa. Then you BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! and nine months later, out comes a baby! Go to Love Trips: Hazardous To Your Health to read the rest!

Love Trips: Keep It Moving

I’ve been dating for 15 some odd years, which means I’ve chased after men, fallen into a drinking and dialing and sobbing stupor, and did I mention I angrily wobbled after a man while shouting, “WE ARE NOT DONE!”? Yes, 15 years of dating have left me with many, many stories and even more war wounds to lick and heal. But no matter what has occurred, each experience has taught me a valuable lesson on how to deal with the pitfalls of, well, dating. Like when you give a man the privilege to store your number, you should wait for him to call, not circle his block in a Dominican gypsy cab en la madrugada or become a bartender or busgirl at the bar he frequents. If he never calls, take a deep breath and shrug. There is no need to sob in despair in the shower. No need to stare at the heavens, shake your fists and scream "WHYYYYYY?!". Just learn the lesson and keep it moving. Go to Love Trips: Keep It Moving to read the rest!

Love Trips: One Kiss

A man leans in; his breath on my lips as they naturally part. He slides his warm tongue into my now watery mouth and my tongue joins him in a seductive tango. And then one of three scenarios occur: 1) Noses bump and dribble falls due to him inhaling my mouth. 2) He sucks the life out of my tongue as if it were a Good Daddy lollipop. 3) Our movements align as we melt into each other’s mouths like soil soaks up water.

The latter kiss is the one that tells me the man I’ve just kissed may be it. The former kisses, on the other hand, serve as a reality check, so I untangle myself from the embrace, subtly wiping my mouth. All I need is that one kiss to know whether I will see that man again, kiss that man again. Because one kiss says it all. Go to Love Trips: One Kiss to read the rest!

Love Trips: Thank You, Oprah

What Oprah says goes, which is why middle-class women all over America buy out her book club selections and make her favorite things their favorite things, even if its only a ballpoint pen. I’m no exception. After watching Oprah praise a secret that brings forth love and happiness, I made my way to Borders and walked toward a towering, golden shrine. Two dozen women already surrounded the massive display. It seemed Oprah had done it again.

Go to Love Trips: Thank You, Oprah to read the rest!

Love Trips: Declaration of Like

I've imagined various scenarios in which a man would declare his like or love for me. Scenario #1 takes place in an elevator. Doors slam and button pushed. Up, up, up me and my hot boo go then "crash!” The steel cries. The metal box bobs and weaves. Our lives hang by a thread, literally. A sweat bead travels from my temple to cheekbone to neck, and my even hotter now boo wipes my perspiration away with a lick of his tongue. His intense, small eyes meet mine; his plump, kissable lips part and he screams: "We're going to die! Oh God, mami!" My hot boo jumps into my arms. He breathes into my neck and I sing him a lullaby. In the middle of, "Cuca, cucita, asi se llama, la muchachita" my hot boo lifts his head, finds my gaze and utters: "I like you so much!" Then the elevator jolts back to life. Cool artificial air is released from metal vents, and once again, up, up, up me and my hot boo go. Go to Love Trips: Declaration of Like to read the rest!

Love Trips: The End!

Every love story has an ending. Some end amicably, like my ending with Alex, my Patron (sin limon) tossing, “woosah”-minded Mexican. Our "relationship" ceased to exit after I picked up my cell and gave him my bendicion to go fuck with the Myspace, teta-flashing hoochies he friended and ogled. He could also add the medical assistants he flirted with while at work to that list. And I'm not sure if it was the intoxicating smell of tacos reminding him of the motherland or that he hadn't grabbed a big chunk of ass since we began dating (my nargas are lumpy not chunky), but Alex often drooled when we passed the voluptuous girl poster that was plastered over the front door of Olmeca Restaurant. Go to Love Trips: The End! to read the rest!

Love Trips: Snoozapalooza

"Verizon is the best cell phone carrier. It’s better than T-Mobile, AT&T, Sprint, Nextel..."

I grab my cell and switch from right ear to left. I pick up my remote from my green and white striped canopy and press power. Green grass fills the screen. Little men stand still, measuring the distance from the desired holes to their balls.

"I had Sprint for a while but now I have Verizon..." He continues.

A short, tan Asian man appears. The camera zooms and the announcer's voice heightens like a little boy who has just seen his first pepa. He introduces the reason for this sudden vocal infliction...Tiger Woods. I inch forward, closer to the screen. I'm focused. Titillated. Intrigued by...golf.

"Sujeiry."

There goes Tiger. Swing! Man, that ball is flying down that grassy knoll.

"Sujeiry."

I wonder what else Tiger can swing that hard.

"Sujeiry, are you there?" The crowd claps and I snap back to my reality.

"Yeah, of course."

"So, are you?"

"Ah, well, I don't know yet." And I don't know. I have no idea what Elijah is talking about. I search my memory, seeking any nouns mentioned other than "Verizon”, "Blackberry Storm", "GPS system". Searching for anything Elijah has said of interest in this thirty-minute-too-long conversation. My ex-boyfriend from three years ago who I loved, who is back in my life is...snoozapalooza. Did he get this boring with time or am I just more fun?

Go to Love Trips: Snoozapalooza to read the rest!

Love Trips: Super Star Beggars

One day I'm going to follow the Train Super Star Beggars. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those train performers that work straphangers with their pleas and dazzle us with their commitment to get our dollars. They manage to be on every train, all day and all night. Its like they're superheroes!

In order of least popular to most popular, the Train Super Star Beggars include: the little boys with tattered t-shirts but fresh kicks that robotically state: "Ladies and gentleman, my name is Tyquan/Tyron/Tyrese and I am selling candy to raise money for my basketball team."; the skinny, toothless morenito, viejito who sings "Lean back, lean back, lean back!" all while leaning back as if working a limbo stick: and my all time favorite, the three brothers (or that's what I tell myself) that hop onto the train and hippity hop their way into my heart. House song on. Older brother kicks, drops to the floor and freezes into a b-boy pose. Middle brother smacks older bros hand, jumps in and all of a sudden we see the main star.

(Rolling down the train like a human wheel.) "Go Tito! Go Tito! Go Tito!"

Then, cute little Tito pulls out his baseball cap and asks for money.

Go to Love Trips: Super Star Beggars to read the rest!

Love Trips: The Dominican Carrie Bradshaw

I sat in a circle, clutching a piece of paper tinted with my love inspired words. "He took my hand and put it on his penis," I read, eyes still on the page. Laughter erupted. I smiled. They laughed just where I wanted. I continued and, once finished, sat in silence while each member of the Latina Writers Workshop critiqued my new piece.

"Hilarious!" One commented.

"You have a knack for comedy!" Another complimented.

"I want to know what happens next!" The following exclaimed.

And then one said it. The five words I've heard since Love Trips blessed the pages of migente.com and finally sitv.com before landing on lovemionline.com, or what I like to call home.

"You're the Dominican Carrie Bradshaw!"

My face scrunched up as if she'd placed that same penis I wrote about right under my nose. I didn't want that stinking penis and I sure as hell didn't want to be compared to no Carrie Bradshaw! Sure, I loved Sex and the City like every other woman in America. Sure, I related to Carrie more than any other character. I mean, I had two Mr. Big's! Go to Love Trips: The Dominican Carrie Bradshaw to read the rest!

Love Trips: Text Sex

When I think of text sex, I picture a beefed up man typing on a cell with one hand and stroking his pene with the other. This image isn’t very arousing, especially when my imagination takes it a step further and, all of a sudden, I visualize his cell dropping and his face contorting into an ugly growl. He howls, twitches, finally orgasms, and all I want to do is scream “Eeew!” del asco! It’s like a scene out of a horror movie! But instead of chasing me down with a machete he uses his erect penis as a weapon and pokes me to death...in the eye.

Go to Love Trips: Text Sex to read the rest!

Love Trips: Being Sujeiry and Elijah

During Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown's time as a couple, they created magic. They made an upbeat, amateurish infant whose "Oooh's" and "Aah's" inspired them to dance The Shoulder Shimmy and The Pelvic Thrust. They spawned an entertaining baby that babbled on and on about kissing ass and Bobby! They brought forth creatures that are so entertaining and equally stupefying that they will live on despite Whitney and Bobby’s divorce.

No, I'm not talking about their daughter, Bobbi Kristina. I'm talking about the pop sensation, "Something in Common." If you haven't heard this masterpiece then run to your nearest computer, click on iTunes and press "download". I'm also talking about the comedic reality show that should have won an Emmy - Being Bobby Brown. A show worth watching as Bobby and Whitney proved the depth of their love when Bobby pulled a doodoo out of Whitney’s constipated culo.

Go to Love Trips: Being Sujeiry and Elijah to read the rest!

Love Trips: Plugged

My past loves have been like human blenders. Their structures provide a function of torture and leave every piece of me soft and mushy. Not soft and mushy like a yummy chocolate frosty, but gooey and stinky like when your momma makes her special, green, sicote smelling "cure your illnesses" concoction. Yes. That's how they leave me. Gooey eyed from crying myself to sleep, and stinky cause when I'm emotionally devastated the shower is used for sobbing, not bathing.

Go to Love Trips: Plugged to read the rest!

Love Trips: No Spring Chicken

Appearing five to eight years younger than I am has had its advantages. At eighteen, I'd hop on the public buses of my then hometown of Lawrence, MA and pay fifty cents. That was the price for a seven to twelve year old but I wasn’t ashamed. Instead I forgoed the lipstick, put my hair in ponytails and even considered thrashing my body against the floor to keep my cheap ass ride.

When I turned twenty-one, I wanted to hop on men instead of buses. Wearing short shorts and mid drifts, I strutted around Lawrence during Semana Hispana (Lawrence’s poor mans version of the NYC Dominican & PR Parade) hoping to meet a Latino man. Instead I got a movie invitation by a fourteen year old and a “Diablo mami, tu si a buena!” by a twelve year old Dominican boy in Macho Man Training. I turned around and yelled, "I can be your momma!" before walking away.

Go to Love Trips: No Spring Chicken to read the rest!

Love Trips: I Didn't Kill Susie

Alcohol has made me do many things: some insane, some hilarious, and some plain evil. It was insane, and so unlike my somewhat prudish character, when my Puerto Rican BFF, Bacardi, unleashed my inhibitions and self-imposed rules and I slept with Johnny on our third date. In a jibaro accent, Mr. Superior yelled: Nena! Deja de ser tan cabrona y agarra ese hombre! So I did, and though I cried like a blubbering fool afterward, I felt free during those 30 minutes.

There have also been plenty of hilarious moments due to an overabundance of alcohol consumption. Like when my hard-core drinking Indian friend Janet and I stumbled down the stairs of a club in Cancun or when my Dominicanita Ceylin was so trashed she fell asleep smiling. But then there are those evil moments. Like when I gulped down half a bottle of Southern Comfort with Janet and then called Alicia, my college nemesis who was sexing Kurt, my college love interest. It wasn’t a friendly call. It was more of a “Imma-tell-your-boyfriend-from-home-about-your-sexcapades-so-don’t-fuck-with-me-pendeja” call. I scared the living shit out of Alicia and then hung up the phone triumphant. Muahahahaha!

Go to Love Trips: I Didn't Kill Susie to read the rest

Love Trips: The End of Ghetto

Sometimes I can be a little bit ghetto. That's right. This Masters degree achieving, ELA teacher certification seeking, Andover prep school graduate can roll her long neck, convert her tiny mouth into a O, and growl, "Conaso, you mother fucking pendejo!" with a thick Quisqueya Heights* accent. I can also slap an ass-grabbing White boy across the cheek, pound my fist against the window of a yellow cab, and suddenly turn around and state eloquently: "How very nice to meet you."

Check out the rest of Love Trips: The End of Ghetto!

Love Trips: I See Potential Penis, People

I have a sixth sense. Not the creepy kind like that pasty, frail White boy who sees ghouls and goblins, but the kind that actually doesn't scare people. Not the kind that baraja readers claim to have; the third eye that sends voodoo shock waves into the victims of love struck clients. But the kind that actually helps people. What is this sixth sense I speak of? The kind that every woman in America, in every barrio and campo in the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, and even little villages in Africa wish they had. I can simply look at a man and know if he's going to kick it or simply kick rocks and keep on stepping.

Go to Love Trips: I See Potential Penis, People to read more!