The Night I Cried On An Argentinian

Heartbreak. That delicious cocktail of wine-soaked tears, Adele on repeat, and swearing off love forever—until someone vaguely charming looks your way in a pub.

About a decade ago, I was swimming in the murky depths of a brutal break-up. The kind where even toothpaste ads make you well up because the couple smiles too lovingly while brushing their teeth. Enter: my flatmate. An absolute gem of an American girl with a heart the size of Texas and the sass of a Soho drag queen. We were chalk and cheese, but somehow, it worked. I honestly think she was my saving grace.

She made it her personal mission to resuscitate my dead-in-the-water love life—usually by dragging me out to the local pub circuit like I was her sad protégé in need of experiential therapy. One night, we landed in this ridiculously good pub. The kind with sticky floors, cold cider, and a band so loud it rattled your chest cavity in the best way possible.

That’s when we saw them—two Argentine lads. Tall, smirky, and so obviously out-of-towners. You could practically hear the tango music playing behind them.

“I’ll take the one on the left,” I whispered, eyeing the slightly chubbier one. I've always had a thing for men with a bit of a cuddle factor. She nodded and moved in on the other one—the skinnier, more sinewy of the pair.

A few drinks, a few flirty giggles, and a lot of questionable dancing later, we all squeezed into the back of one of those massive London taxis. You know the ones with two rows of seats and just enough awkward space to pretend you’re not about to snog a stranger. But we did—oh, we did.

Mid-kiss, I felt it creeping in: a swell of sadness so thick it could’ve choked me. This was the first time I’d been with someone—anyone—since the breakup. And while his lips were on mine, my heart was still somewhere in the past, tangled in memories of someone else. I was trying so hard not to cry, swallowing emotion like shots of cheap tequila.

We got back to our flat and, just as things were heating up, the lads paused. Hushed whispering in a foreign tongue. Was it strategy? Cold feet? No. They needed to pop off and buy condoms.

Off they went, leaving us in hysterics. Nothing says “mood killer” like your date ducking out for essentials mid-flirt.

Fast forward, they return. Mine ends up in my bedroom, we start kissing again… and then it all goes to hell.

Full-on tears. I mean, ugly crying. Snot, sobs, the whole nine yards. I'd been holding it in all night but the floodgates burst. I think I muttered something about my ex in the middle of it, because the poor lad backed off like I’d just told him I collect toenail clippings.

He dashed out, grabbing his mate like they were fleeing a burning building. I don’t blame him. Nothing kills the vibe like someone sobbing on your bare chest whispering “I miss him” into your collarbone.

I flopped onto the bed, mortified. But then my flatmate emerged, mascara slightly smudged but otherwise looking like she’d just won an Oscar.

“You alright?” I sniffed.

She burst out laughing. “Oh, I’m more than alright. Saved by the bell. That guy’s dick was like a roll of coins.”

I blinked. “Like...?”

“Five coins. Rolled up. Not great.”

Reader, we howled. Like two lunatics who’d just barely escaped a romantic apocalypse.

So no, it wasn’t the rebound night we’d hoped for. But honestly? It was exactly what I needed. A reminder that healing doesn’t always look like a rom-com. Sometimes it looks like crying on a hot stranger while your best mate narrowly avoids death by wallet-sized willy.

And the best part? We got chips after.

If you enjoyed this tale of woe and willy, stick around. There’s more where that came from.