I’m 1,000,000,000,000,000% x 17 serious about this: don’t laugh, man. Look, alright. I’ll start off like this… I’ve said time and time again how Panama is a socially retarded society, one which I love to death! Kind of like a cholo Rain Man, if you will. Now, I’ve seen my fare share of stuff when I go out and venture into the confines of the clubs in our suburbia with the other night owls but, and I hope I don’t have to get into this more than I have before, sometimes it’s difficult for us men. Let me explain: this whole night club thing is a prime scenario for the basic equation for interaction between a male and a female to take place. Remember, we are the most intelligent species on Earth but that doesn’t mean we’re not animals with our rituals, routines and patterns. Case in point: last Saturday I went to Calle Uruguay to drink while my lovely Canadians were having truckloads of fun (of which I wish I had been there but alas, my luck is moody) and as it is customary for me, whenever I go into a club or bar, like clockwork, I immediately go to the nearest waiter/waitress/actual bar and order a cold one. I mostly don’t care how much it costs, just as long as I have something to entertain myself with whether or not it starts off being a good night or not. Whatever; so I’m having my beer like a baby have breast milk when I start seeing them… crazy gorgeous women just doing their thing, dancing and being all hot and shit. This is of great disturbance to me, since I have a problem with controlling myself but at least I’m not like most Panamanian men who will flat out display their true colors (it’s mostly a pale, vampire white since most of the blood flowing through their bodies is redirected to their crotches upon female detection) and go at ‘em like if their lives depended on getting laid that very night. It might work at the típico music parties, but this is a different place. Now let me elaborate on this whole “equation” thing, if I may.

You have a guy, correct? And you have a woman, correct? (You may apply this to gay couples as well since, like everything, someone has to give it while the other one has to take it) Now, in order for this equation to be successful, both parties have to be willing to play and do their part… what do I mean by this? If I’m at the bar drinking my beer like nobody’s business and I see a hot girl with a ridiculous cleavage (Exhibit A to our left), then I will notice. I will notice and I will look profusely. What am I doing? Hell, I’m just completing the equation; if you, my dear lady, are packin’ heat with a skimpy top that allows me to see more than 40% of your tits then excuse the very fuck out of me but I’m lookin’ in. Don’t you know that the more you leave to the imagination the more us guys will try to piece it together? Of course, things don’t fare much better if you dress with practically nothing but my point is that if you’re showing half your tits in public it’s because, at some degree, you want to be seen. Most people that hit the club scene in Panama are ridiculously dressed up: guys wear formal shoes, formal pants and buttoned tees while they gel their hair and what not while ladies wear ridiculously short skirts/low cut, skin-tight jeans and form-fitting tops. For the past two weekends I’ve been dressing up because I wanted to know what it’s like and I must say that I don’t really feel all that different than with my regular M.O. which is funny tees I get off the Internet, my Chuck’s and some form of headwear. So, if dressing up is not empowering then the only other reason left to explore would have to be that of looking presentable and getting yourself noticed… my proof of that is the unfathomable number of online magazines covering whatever happens at the clubs at night; no reviews, no umm… I dunno, comments? The mags’ “entries” are just excuses for pictures of the hottest people that attended since Panamanians love to look at themselves.

So, we’ve established that Panamanian online magazines are mostly popularity contests… great. I don’t have breasts, so I don’t know what compels a girl to show off her boobs (nothing wrong with that at all but, wait for it, it’s coming…) only to feel uncomfortable when men are looking at her like the wolf does to the little pigs (*dingdingdingding!*). I find it very weird… because all they’re doing is fulfilling their part of the equation. You, woman, show off tits. You, man, will stare at tits. She gets the attention and he gets to stare down at some mammaries… everyone wins! Now, if you ever come down to Panama (and I don’t see why you wouldn’t) the equation changes… we’re a Latin american country, and as such we have our own product and will automatically favor foreign goods over their own homebrew stuff because that’s what’s been taught here for the last 50 fucking years. Stuff is changing now and I hope with all my heart that Panamanians someday see the immense potential for greatness they have but we’re not there yet… so, if you’re blonde and have clear eyes you’re going to kill! You can practically grope and all they’ll think is “ooo! This cooky gringo is dancing very weird but if that’s how they do it in the States…!” Grind away, mister… and godspeed. For the ladies, the story is a little different… men are men no matter what country you’re in… we’re simple like that: within the first 5 minutes of meeting you we’ve already figured out if we’d sleep with you or not. The bar is pretty acceptable for most but some people have it dangerously low… those folk, you don’t want to get involved with. Anyway, you have to understand that a man’s ability to do their part of the equation is uncanny: in the end, it’s all up to you, miss. You’d be dealing with Latinos, though: yes, we have in inherent ability to dance (even though there are some exceptions that I’ve seen but will not discuss at this time) but since we can, we automatically think we’re going to rock your world. We probably will, but that’s not the case: what happens is that some Latino men are very, umm… Neanderthal in their ways. If they could, they’d club you on the head and drag you to their apartment they may or may not be sharing with their parents (remember that it’s socially acceptable here). You have been warned.

This equation not only applies to cleavage but it applies to relationships overall: all you have to do is pitch in for your side of the equation and everything will be just peachy. Panama is no different than the First World countries it aspires to be when it comes to types of relationships… you still have women who take beatings and downright shitty treatment from their significant lovers under the excuse that they love them, women who are too dumb and naive to walk away from a relationship that’s bad for them, couples that have been together for 10 years and aren’t able to call it quits because of how customary it is to be in said relationship, you have soulmates, friends with benefits, fuck buddies, friends, acquaintances, one-night-stands, make out sessions, glances, looks, unspoken words, heartbreak, disappointment and the unbelievable work it takes to just come to a middle ground. And to think it all starts with some cleavage and a trained eye. Finally, for the “equation” gone wrong, I’ll direct you to the video below… starring Ben Affleck:

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