.the vulgar blog. - The facts and characters of this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to reality is pure coincidence.

I was activated the guard for a post in Mendoza. He watched me put on a jogging, warm stockings and a wide shirt in the carry. I was never a fan of Mendoza, although it is a beautiful province, the straw that gives me leave the hotel bed is directly proportional to the dryness of the environment. He gave me a kiss on the door of the house, he told me that he would miss me and that I behaved well. I was glad the "portate bien", what could mean misbehaving? Do not offer coffee and tea with drinks? Do not go a second time to the emergency exit to ask if they agree to sit in that place ...? Or do not brush my teeth before bed? What I know, when a stewardess is in love, or think of behaving badly, the only thing she expects is that they will answer the messages when she leaves the post, or that they receive her with dishes washed and chota unpolluted. p> I must say, we have a life difficult to understand. The crew upload those photos to facebook in which there are two soaps and two mines in a king size bed and the other flashean who were sucking their bodies up to five seconds before the shot, sometimes they see tables of 10 people and you see bottles of wine, beer, champagne ... ahh that sure is a cogedero !! The pilots give the milk to all the pibas, the assholes get tired of garcharlas, the trolleys are strong. But suddenly, there we were doing group therapy because the father of one child wants to take custody, or because the mother of another has a terminal cancer, or because one of us lost a baby ... sometimes we are away from our friends of real life, and those moments are the closest we have to intimacy. Nobody got upset with anyone, we were just talking ... wine or beer in between, creating in a millisecond a fictional family that embraces us a little, although five minutes later, we are nothing.

I came home tired, my back bent and I wanted to sleep. He did not look me in the eye when I came in, he did not get up to hug me, he did not throw himself in the bed while he dismantled the suitcase. Without even turning around, he said "Hi!" Pretending interest. From that moment I knew that something was wrong, but hey, I was never the one to review phones. Just a few months later, I found myself getting into the computer's history, seeing as from 22 to 3 in the morning, a string of photo albums of young ladies appeared on their vacations, their outings, their birthdays. Who were they? Facebook contacts, I know I could not ask, it was embarrassing to tell me that I was in the record. And I guess I did not want to know if those girls were flesh and blood or just a fantasy. What is the difference between porn and an album in swimsuit on the east end with the girls? That the porno do not send them inbox.

I did not want to see, I did not want to know, I did not want to ask. The tests were blunt, when you stop catching something, it is an indicator that never fails. I lay down crying every night, for months, in the bed of the province that was; the posts became a martyrdom, the messages were never answered and the outings with friends were extended at any time. However, when we were together we had fun, we always had a lot of fun. My stupid way of making characters, voices, faces, games ... always drew any situation forward. I kept playing, as much as I could.

A post came back home and it was out of hand. He went to bed to nap with me as if nothing happened, having spent the night with some girls from Corrientes Street, the ones that have to be paid to be touched.

One day passed; I kissed a guy who wanted to be my boyfriend. I had told him that I could not have anything with him because I lived with someone. But the crack was real and could be seen from outside, so the boy gave me the same kiss and I went crying to my house. I entered quickly, guilty, hiding tears and shame. I bathed, trying to get the dirt out and inside. I was angry with myself for enjoying the kiss, for wanting someone to love me, to hug me, to answer the messages.

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I hated myself when I told her to leave. I hated it when I put frying pans in a suitcase that I had given him and I wondered if he could take this pot or towel. I hated myself because for me it was a divorce and for him it was winter vacation without the witch. I hated myself when that night I was alone and the bed was 3 meters. I hated myself so much, I hated men, I hated families, I hated posts, I hated Calle Corrientes. And that I still did not know.

Since that day I discovered that the stewardesses are more horny than the housewives. We are hornier than the women of the pilots. Unless we are stewardesses and female pilots at the same time, in that case, the horn is double and it cancels out.

Drag the horns, I drag them all life. I have been faithful and unfaithful, I myself have lied some time, but the record of getting stuck in the doors I have, clearly. Luckily, after so much denial with insecurity and fears, a few years ago I decided to stop thinking about the other, what the other does, what the other wants. We will never know of his fantasies, his secrets, his other lives. I do not chase, I do not seek, I do not find. If life wants me to know something, I'll find out; and if not, then no.

May everyone live with their conscience.

And happy the 4.