How Did You Go From Hitting On Me To Calling Me The N-Word?

I’ve had a few brutal break-ups in my time, but love and war — or rather, lust and war — have never been more bruising than they were one night at KM Zero in Buenos Aires.

Marcelo had lost the battle, but he was still going down fighting. He’d spent hours aggressively trying to kiss me, and his dramatic reaction to repeated rejection (knocking my whisky and Coke…

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