The phone slides out of my hand and lands on the bed beside me, as I lay there trying to work through the booze haze I have from Cross's party. I'd just reached what I thought was an epiphany when another girl from my past calls. Maybe not much in the past, since I hadn't actually broken things off with her.

I can hear a faint "Hello? hello?" coming from the phone.

Monica was the married woman I'd mentioned to my parents the night we had dinner, and rather than divulge where the relationship was at, and more importantly where it was going, I instead chose to shrug it off. But with Monica being on the other side of the line, now wasn't the time to try and shrug it off again. I had to talk to her, no matter how drunk I was.

I met Monica partly because of my better-than-average ability to decode womantalk into English. It gives me a competitive edge over the other knuckle-scrapers on the prowl, especially if you know the power of double-meaning words. Here's an example: “Cute” in womantalk means two totally different things based on how it's used. When used on a guy, cute means what any normal person would expect it to mean: “Adorable,” in a I-wanna-eat-you-up kind of way. Guys hear a lot of this during the initial flirting and first few dates that kick off a relationship. If she fires a “cute” across your bow, things are going in your favor. “Cute” when used amongst women however, means something totally different. It usually comes into play when talking about clothing or describing personal appearance. In these instances it's the equivalent of what anybody else would refer to as “small,” and it’s one of the highest complements a woman can be paid. See, small is good, because small ties in to the feelings of insecurity a woman has with her size. Most women think of themselves as too big, and a “cute” sets all that at ease. And as a guy, knowing when to pull a “cute” out of your ass can go a long way.

I actually met Monica at a Friday night Dodgers game which I was at with two buddies. We were engulfed in $6 beers and somewhere around the third inning my friend Allen noticed that three rows below us were three little hotties and one guy.

“Look at that,” Allen said as he stared with rapt attention for a couple of minutes before he continued. “The one furthest left has gotta be the girlfriend, and the others are friends she brought in tow. I bet the guy didn’t even hassle it as long as he doesn't have to deal with any of them.”

I remember that even after another round of beers we were still checking the girls out. At one point they finally became aware of us, and started giving us cursory looks every so often. At this point I knew they at least wanted to meet. I got to the point somewhere in the sixth inning where I couldn't rely on my buddies any longer to make the first move – hell, one is married so I knew he was a lost cause. I took matters into my own hands - I pulled off my Dodgers cap, turned to Allen and said “interested in taking one for the team?” Before he could answer, I hurled my cap down at the girls, and hit the middle one. I heard a “what the hell?” which was my cue to scurry down to them.

“I’m so sorry,” I began, then raised my voice, “but I have such great friends who think ‘oh yeah, let’s embarrass me in front of the ladies.’" I apologized for the giant asses behind me who I momentarily exploited to get an in. They giggled, and the one who I nailed with the ball cap was Monica. We made small-talk, sent little flirtatious non-verbal cues back and forth, and by the time the game was in eighth inning, my buddies had moved down into the open seats below the girls and we were all just yapping away. The regular stuff ensued: Who knows who, where you’re from, where I’m from, all that. As the game ended – a Dodgers opening series loss to the Giants – Monica asked if we want to hit a club with them. I remember not looking exactly GQ that night, but I figured I could talk my way into just about any place with a dress code above my outfit that night, so I was game.

Monica ended up riding with me, but asked that we stop by her pad first so she could change. I remember saying something witty that she responded to with a flirty laugh, and then she dropped a “you’re cute.” Bingo, baby!

We pulled into her parking structure and still in flirt mode, I mentioned something about being concerned that I may wake up in a bath tub in Vegas missing a kidney or something. She giggled and said something in Spanish I couldn’t understand. Somewhere on the way up to her pad I asked her why somebody so deathly hot didn’t have a boyfriend.

“Nobody gets up the nerve to ask me out," she said, "and all the vaqueros who whistle at me don’t say anything past ‘oye mamacita, pechos agradables’” (or something like that – my Spanish sucks.)

So I asked her right there in my crappy brand of Spanglish if she wanted to go out sometime. She laughed, leaned in and started playing with my hair while firing off another “you’re cute” in my ears. Verdad. I was in like flint.

She changed her outfit - I remember waiting for a long time - and then she came out to model it and get an opinion. Here's where knowing womantalk paid off. “What to you think?" she asked, which, when put through the woman-to-English decoder, meant “Do I look fat in this outfit? No? Then compliment me.” I stood back and took her in: “You’re gonna be the talk of the club. And the way it’s all put together, it’s…all…just…so cute,” I said. She squealed with delight and wrapped her arms around me, giving me a kiss. That was what happened our first time together. I think I almost creamed in my Levis right there. And it's all because I knew the power of “cute.”

I didn't find out Monica was married until our first real date, and even then it wasn't due to any revelation she made that night. We were supposed to go dancing at Level 3 in Hollywood, because as a Latina, she loved to dance. I know that's a stereotype but in this case she fit the stereotype.

I told her my apprehensions about hitting up the dance club, and described it much in the same way as I later would with Janine. I also mentioned that I’m no dancer outside of the traditional stuff. No way was I gonna keep up with her Latin tidal wave. She laughed hysterically, and that's when I told her that most hetero white guys were wired like that. It’s our stamp of authenticity. Most women aren’t into sports, and most guys can’t dance. Venus and Mars.

We finally agreed to nix the Level 3 plans and instead spend the evening at her pad with take-out Chinese and wine. I had just the wine in mind: Ferrari-Carano chardonnay, perfect for an ice-breaking, get-to-know-you date. I remember being totally captivated by Monica, the way she commanded my attention, her perpetual grin that seemed to melt away any pretense of attitude. I was taken by her beautiful face, her long and wavy black hair, and piercing auburn eyes. Her body language was continually saying “yes, yes, yes,” all evening and at one point, sensing my moment of truth, I leaned in and kissed her. Good kiss. I felt it in my feet.

The evening continued to build and we launched into a full make-out session. Fueled by the wine, we continued to kiss and talk, then talk and kiss, and it gradually started turning dirty. But by then three bottles of Ferrari-Carano took its toll, and when I returned from the bathroom Monica was down for the count. Out cold, done in by the wine. I remember having thought I could make it a rohypnol moment and just plow her, but I wasn't some hard up loser and besides, I liked this one. I sat there, watching her sleep peacefully with a smile on her face as I wondered about the last thing she was thinking before she passed out. I shook her and she was like a wet rag.

I sat around trying to sober up myself up before heading home, and to kill time I decided to log on to the computer in the other room and read some mail. That’s when I noticed a letter out of the corner in my eye, pigeon-holed in her desk with a return address from a law office. The envelope was fat and looked official. Do I open it? Leaning back in the chair, I looked at Monica, who was still passed out. And snoring. I mulled it over for a minute, then grabbed the envelope. It was already opened. I removed the letter and start reading. Regarding Vasquez v. Martinez blah blah blah, additional court documents to sign, counter settlement to evaluate, blah blah blah, and extension on divorce proceeding necessary in order to counter the counter settlement. Wait, what was that? Extension on divorce proceeding necessary. Oh, fuck. Monica was a married woman.

The sheer panic over the revelation caused all blood to drain from my face. I felt cold, and was probably as pale as a ghost. Married? What was she doing with me then? Am I some sort of diverson? I didn't understand what the hell was happening here. My head was swimming with question upon question, the biggest being why did I open that envelope? That was private. why did I pry? What did I get into? Why didn’t she say anything about being married? I couldn’t believe it. What else was she hiding? Does she have a kid too? Sober or not I had to go home. Now

Though I would continue to go out with Monica for the next month, I spent much of the time trying to coax her marriage status out of her without divulging what I already knew. I'd bring it up coyly in conversation with lines like "how is it somebody like you hasn't already settled down?" or "I can't believe you're not like, somebody's girlfriend or wife." I tried this at any time without tact, be it when we we out on the town, or times when in bed, or over a meal. But she never said a word about her marriage or the impending divorce. And though she was pussyfooting around the subject, I was the louse for not having the guts to confront her about it. Sure, maybe it's too private to bring up, or maybe the circumstances surrounding the marriage are embarrassing, but I figured as intimate as we were being, it would have come up by now.

"Yeah, hi Monica," I say as my thoughts return to the present. For fear of throwing up all over the phone I try not to focus on anything except the plain white ceiling above my head.

"I tried your cell earlier but the message said you were out of the area. Where were you?"

"I was in Palos Verdes. I guess cell signals are not so strong on the peninsula. Halloween party. Could have been a lot better."

"Poor baby," Monica coos, "want me to come over and make it all better. A little aguas calliente, papi?" Aguas calliente was some sort of cooling erotic message cream we used on each other. Sounded so nice, but there was no way I'd be able to lift a muscle for her. Well, maybe the one most needed.

"Okay," I croak thinly before hanging up the phone. I lie there trying to muster the strength and focus to lift myself off the bed and towards the bathroom. After three or four attempts I'm able to sit up, but almost lose it when I take my focus off the ceiling. I feel the nausea in my gut, and I can taste the acid in my throat. This is not going to be good. I stand and though I can make out the bathroom door in front of me, I'm seeing two of them. I aim for the midsection between the two and stumble towards the bathroom. When I get within what I think is the vicinity of the door, I stretch out my arms so as to not crash into the walls. I'm sure I look like the mummy, fumbling about in a zig-zag manner, arms outstreched in the darkness. Turns out I'm only halfway to the door, and I realize this after a few moments of grabbing at stale darkness. Damn. I continue towards my target, arms still horizontal, and before long I make it to the bathroom. I move my hand up and down the inside wall, searching frantically for the light switch, all the wall mumbling "c'mon, c'mon." My fingers finaly grasp the switch and I'm in! I feel like a Fear Factor contestant who's just crossed the finish line. I feel like a Showcase Showdown winner. I feel...like I'm gonna hurl.

There's no way I'm making it to the toilet bowl in time, so I lean over the sink and let fly. When I'm done the sink is more than half filled with the foul-smelling stuff, my throat muscles are killing me, but all in all I feel so much better. I clean up, brush my teeth, and take two hangover pills I got from a cash register display at the 7-Eleven around the corner from my apartment. I fail to read the back of the packet - take before you begin consumption of alcohol for maximum effect - but in my head I feel better already. I steady myself before attempting the walk back to the bed.

I must have passed out because before I know it the phone is ringing and Sophia is barking in response. I look at the ID and notice its from the call box downstairs. It's Monica. I buzz her in and collapse again on the bed.

Moments later I hear a voice: "Hi baby, looks like somebody had a rough night. Don't worry, I'm here to take care of you now." Did I leave my front door unlocked? How did she get in? I feel her warm breath upon my neck as she leans in for a seductive kiss-suck. She slowly moves up my neck to my cheek, then my ear, then over to my lips. I'm motionless, though I have a smile upon my face.

"I wonder what that smile's about," Monica says. "I hope they're nasty thoughts of me."

Oh they are. My mind is swimming with all kinds of conflicting thoughts right now: How can I want to dump this woman when she'll do anything for me? Well, anything but tell me she's still legally married. Oh, the sex is so good. She's so experienced! Yeah, why do you think that is? I've spent all month telling myself this has got to end, and then I spend all month with her, always ending up in the sack. I need to think with my head first, dick second. Even when I'm thinking logically, my dick still manages to interject when it comes to Monica. I've gotta do something about this.

"Monica, mmmphf, mmmphf," I begin, trying to put words together amidst what Monica's currently doing to me. The mind is willing, but the body...oh, that body.

Monica puts a single index finger to my lips. "Shhh, no talking," she says. I lay my head flat on the bed, and try to focus once again on the ceiling. I hear the zipper on my pants being lowered and feel my cordoroys being pulled off just before I pass out.