Love Trips: A Collection of Relationship Stumbles (Volume 1)

By Sujeiry Gonzalez

Sujeiry Gonzalez is missing one thing in her life - the love of a man! Instead, she's stuck with bad sex, boring studs and men who just can't commit.

In this relatable collection of personal essays, Sujeiry takes readers into her love trips. From 25 to 33 years of age, she describes her stumbles with humor, vulnerability and rawness. As you read, you will shake your head at Sujeiry's drunk dialing and many breakdowns. You will laugh as she explores the world of pyschics and tarot. You will cry when she is heartbroken after committing to the wrong man (again!). Readers will root for Sujeiry to find love and the self-worth she lacks and needs. Most importantly, women everywhere will find an ally in Sujeiry, as we all desire a King that deserves our heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sujeiry Gonzalez
• Release date: Feb 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465712325

Sujeiry Gonzalez

Sujeiry Gonzalez, often referred to as “The Latina Carrie Bradshaw,” is a funny and vibrant relationship (non)expert that tells it like it is – just add a little more sass, a lot more Bacardi and ton of laughs. This sassy single gal has rocked the relationship market since early 2006, and today contributes her pearls of wisdom to Galtime.com, CupidsPulse.com, VOXXI.com, Mamiverse.com, YourTango.com, and DivineCaroline.com. Her comedic personality, unique voice and irrefutable talent have also granted her the opportunity to share her relationship highs and lows with a number of media channels, including: PIX Morning News, Latina Magazine, Telemundo, Mega 97.9, SoLatina, amongst others. Sujeiry’s newest coup is the launch of Love Trips: A Collection of Relationship Stumbles - a poignant and witty collection of personal essays, in which she chronicles her relationship stumbles. Love Trips is a fearless account of one woman’s journey to love, and easily serves as the ultimate what-not-to-do relationship book for women who have stumbled in love and found themselves through the same journey.

Book preview

LOVE TRIPS: A COLLECTION OF RELATIONSHIP STUMBLES

BY Sujeiry Gonzalez

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY

Sujeiry Gonzalez on Smashwords

Love Trips: A Collection of Relationship Stumbles

Copyright © 2005 by Sujeiry Gonzalez.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of narrative nonfiction. Names of characters have been changed to protect their privacy. This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Adult Reading Material

Design by Sujeiry Gonzalez

Photo Credit: Clay Snails Photography

For women who have stumbled in love and found themselves through the journey

CONTENTS

Introduction: The Queen of Failed Relationships

2004-2005

DRIVING IN CIRCLES

More Than Sperm

Shitty Luck

My Future, Me and Mr. E

STOP ON ELIJAH STREET

Living Out Clichés

Time to Meet Mami

An Unexpected Ambush

Loving Like Shue

Crazy Conchita

The Ghosts of Exes Past

The Origin of Breakup

Accepting the Process

Limbo!

Whooping Ass

Naturally

Little Debbie and Elijah

Staying Cool

Welcome to La La Land, USA

INTERSECTION

Stripping My Way to Sanity

2005-2009

RIGHT TURN ON JOHNNY AVENUE

Magnetic Attraction

Win My Heart

An Easy Prude

Lights, Camera, The Talk

Love, En Español

Fear of Falling

Sensing Change

Conchita Parte Dos

Backtracking

The Queen is Dead

Conchita VS. Sujeiry

INTERSECTION

Oh No He Didn't

Sujeiry's International House of Hombres

Ooh! Ah! Ooh! Ah?

A Little Ghetto

Plugged In

Sexting

Snoozapalooza

The End

2010-2011

LUKE LANE

Love on the D

An Ex Kills the Present

FashionPlaytes and Hugs

When A Relationship Changes

Ultimatum

Beating a Dead Horse

It's Over

He Called, and I'm Over It

ARRIVAL

A King for a Queen

Where Are They Now?

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Introduction: The Queen of Failed Relationships

I have a really long history of choosing the wrong men. It begins with a choice – the wrong choice. My type, otherwise known as the bane of my single existence, usually sport facial hair; men who stroll into a room, head held high and hands in their pockets, and know they are it. Oh, they got it. And other women want it.

When I’m around these types, I forgo all reason and strength. Like a giddy schoolgirl who demands a pair of Studebaker stretch pants and neon green leg warmers. And if they don’t desire me: I desire them even more. He just eyed that pretty lady with a round caboose? That makes so angry! But I want him more! He forgot to pick me up? It’s no trouble at all. I meant to try on three different outfits anyway. It turns out I have to return two of them.

Don’t get me wrong. Confident studs are not all bad. Some can actually commit and cater to a woman and her needs. That woman just hasn’t been me. Call it shitty timing. Literally. Time and time again, I scoop up a mate when the poop is still warm. Their shit is still so fresh. Their shit is a hideous and smoking pile of foulness. But I want to fix them. I want to fix them so bad. Even though I – we – can’t fix anyone. Still, I work on it. I try to make them better. I hold down the fort, supporting them through college courses or while they pursue their careers.

Romantic idiocy is at the bulk of this book. I play the role of love struck fool and the men depicted play the role of the unattainable. This book is proof that I’ve made mistakes in relationships. In my 33 years of dating (I began flirting with myself in the womb), I have kissed men, loved men, made love to men, fucked men, hated men, considered lesbianism and realized I like penis too much to give up on men. I’ve been at this for 33 years only to be single, again and again. Often times I’ve wondered if I should surrender to a lonely life of bar hopping and penning my single escapades onto a page.

Eventually, I bounce back. I tap into myself, become more self-aware and take control of my life. No more traces of snot and salty tears on my pillow. No more perusing his profile on Facebook or circling his job site. The best way to be happy and fulfilled is to know thyself, love thyself and stop being an idiot.

As you will read, I am incredibly resilient. Every story has an ending. I hurt openly and at times wildly. Every story has a lesson. I’ve made many mistakes, sometimes the same ones repeatedly. We do that. We all have patterns we refuse to acknowledge and we cannot break free.

I choose the wrong men.

I want you to learn from my long history of bad relationships. I want you to sidestep my foolish bliss and Hollywood romanticism, if only to save you from pain. For those who have already experienced this and much more, this book will be your companion. Love Trips is your comrade, your hermana, your homegirl. That person you can count on, who doesn’t judge because she has been through it and knows that we are all imperfect. Love Trips is not your typical relationship book. I will not tell you what to do, even when an ex-boyfriend calls again, asking for a second chance. I will not tell you to make hot dogs and popcorn for dinner to teach a man a lesson. Games are not a part of my repertoire. What I will do is be honest about what I have experienced emotionally. I will be the person you can relate to, and hopefully you will learn from my mistakes so you don’t make the same mistakes I did.

Each story tells a tale of my romantic relationships. Each character has a fictional name. Luke may not like that I told the entire world he has a stutter. Elijah won’t appreciate that I called him boring. And Johnny? I’m bracing myself for an attack over AOL instant messenger – his weapon of choice.

Still, I move forward.

And with that, I welcome you to Love Trips: A Collection of Relationship Stumbles. Consider this the anti-relationship book. Consider this the what-not-to-do relationship bible. Carry it with you always and remember my stories. Tell a comrade, hermana and homegirl about the pitfalls of my romantic idiocy, if only to save each other from the heartache and the emotional rollercoaster of ignorant bliss. Help womankind by spreading the Love Trips gospel, if only to choose the right men.

2004-2005

Driving In Circles

More Than Sperm

In seven years, when I turn 32, my friend Steve will give me his sperm. That is the pact we agreed upon during a two-hour phone conversation. I remember it clearly, how I paced the beige and pink tiled floors while discussing the logistics of our flawless plan. I also remember hanging up and feeling defeated, like I had been clobbered with twenty-five hammers for every year I had lived…single and childless.

But I couldn’t do it, or could I? No. I couldn’t create a child atop a cold examination table where a plastic catheter is inserted. I also couldn’t engage in an amorous liaison with Steve, as my feelings for him lean toward the platonic, the brotherly, the inconceivable. The thought of relinquishing the search for Mr. Right for a Mr. Turkey Baster was more than I could bear. So I decided to be a bold, self-sufficient woman and take matters into my own hands.

I joined Match.com.

I started my new life as a proactive woman only two months after making my pact with Steve. That’s when I found myself hoping for more than sperm as I sat across from Michael in the little coffee shop at Virgin Mega store. I immediately realized he wasn’t my type. His hair, gelled and spiked at the front, was too perfect. His slim, fitted slacks were too pressed. His black-rimmed eyeglasses were too cool. Yet I still felt a tingle, like we should merge, almost like a Bacardi and Coke.

We sat in black plastic chairs around a small round table. There were no coffee cups to sip from or CD’s to listen to or discuss; just the nervousness that overwhelms during a first date. After a few minutes of small talk, we left the coffee shop and walked over to Patsy’s, a popular Italian American restaurant in Union Square. The walk over was telling. He didn’t walk ahead of me, which was comforting. A man who walks by our side shows he is progressive rather than the stereotypical Latino Macho Man who'll merengue his way into your pepa before whacking you over the head with his club. I, like most women, like a good whack, but only in the nargas when in the throws of sexual passion. Sometimes. Would Michael get that far? Would his swimmers be the chosen ones?

I'd have to eat a meal with him first.

Michael and I were seated across from one another again, a square table between us. As we ate lunch, a cheese pizza pie for me and a salad and white bean soup for him, I felt discouraged. How could a man fill himself on soup and salad? I thought. How could anyone? Maybe Steve wouldn't be so bad, I considered, our agreement creeping into my mind. Steve looked a lot like Michael – light skinned, slim, about 5’8 with straight jet-black hair. And he could compete with my appetite for greasy food. Michael offered some of his bean soup. I shook my head. Unless it was a heap of sancocho, I wanted no part of his meal. I offered some of my pizza as an afterthought, though I knew he'd refuse the saucy slice. He did. Michael had warned me about his strict diet during our email courting stage.

Suddenly, I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t know Michael, yet I was picking his slender limbs apart. So, I dismissed that he daintily sipped his soup and began to look for potential. Because Michael was cute enough, educated, employed, childless and single, and didn’t live with his momma. Because there was a chance my egg count was plummeting as we sat within the confines of that restaurant. BECAUSE YOU CAN’T DRINK BACARDI WITHOUT COCA COLA!

And that’s when he did it. While I experienced an internal emotional breakdown like a character from a novela, he said these six simple words:

I really enjoy talking to you.

Wedding bells rang in my head. A slew of blonde bridal consultants appeared, pulling a dozen plum, peach and fuchsia bridesmaid dresses that were not for me. This could be it. I could be married and have the beach wedding I’ve always envisioned. Granules of sand tickling the bottom of my feet as I walk down the aisle.

I refocused, looked into his small, round eyes and finally declared, It’s really nice talking to you too… I paused, questioning my phrasing. I’m a writer and that’s all I could come up with? I cleared my throat and added, It’s easy.

Michael spread his thin lips and exposed his straight teeth. His smile made me smile, and that lifted the pressure I had created and carried all on my own. The truth is speaking with Michael was easy. He seemed an uncomplicated man that could possibly become my man. Even though he was smaller than I preferred. Even though he spoke of his tough financial status and harped on about the injustices of the world and the United States public school system. I liked him so I would give this a try. I would open up to the possibility of Michael, if only to attempt love again.

Shitty Luck

I am terrified of pigeons. They soar in close proximity to my head and tackle me though I use my arms as armor. I run, flapping my long arms and fearing they’ll touch me with their spotted wings. Horrified they’ll leave a trace of the grime they’ve picked up underneath bridges and rooftops. But, unlike me, they don’t feel threatened or afraid. I’m only a giant with size 6 feet!

I’m the one who must walk around the flock when my stomping fails to produce a flinch or change their position. They don’t flee like roaches when confronted with a giant sole of a chancleta. Pigeons remain gathered, bobbing their heads and seeking grains of uncooked rice.

It’s like crack to them.

Surprisingly, not everyone shares my disdain for those wretched rats with wings. Many people are dedicated to these creatures, even banning the practice of tossing uncooked rice outside wedding chapels because it kills pigeons. It is even said that their shit brings good luck. Not the foul palette of off-white and green they leave on windshields and window ledges, but the shit that falls from their pigeon butts and lands on heads. It is this shit, the shit that has fallen on me time and time again, that is said to be lucky.

The last time a pigeon shat on me, I wanted to pick it up by its smelly, stinking feathers and kick it across state lines. I’m not usually this violent, but all this talk about shit changing your luck was pushing me to take a shit on pigeons. Or maybe it was that I had spent my day in Camden, NJ, where you had to be rough or be tumbled. It didn’t help matters that, right before the poo poo platter of Camden pigeons landed on my head, Michael decided our first date would be our last. He broke the news of his disinterest the night prior via chat. It had been three weeks since our first date and I hadn’t heard from him. Because he wasn’t interested. The chemistry was not there, he admitted. He was right, I admitted. And poof, he flew away.

Just like a wretched pigeon!

It’s not that I don’t believe in luck. As a Dominican who grew up with porcelain elephant butts facing the door and a laminated photo of San Miguel over the entrance door, I am naturally superstitious. But nothing about my life felt fortunate. I was still single and not even dating scrawny, bean-soup-sipping Michael. I was very lonely; the last penis that stood on command fell flat when an ex-girlfriend called during our spontaneous sexy time. Not to mention my current place of work and schooling: South Jersey.

I sighed as Camden’s New Jersey transit station zoomed into focus. Concerned over its safety, I pushed my cell deep inside my large, black tote and drew in my surroundings.

Little girls, mothers, aunts and sisters strutted their stuff, clothed in tiny tanks, halters and tube tops. Curls and waves refused to rest on scalps as the summer wind engaged them in dance. Sandals flapped against the warm pavement and dirtied the soles of feet. I stood out from the pack