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Way to make a splash, Puerto Vallarta. One day, you’re at the top of your game, ruling your own little corner of the internet, and the next—poof! The empire crumbles. Old Facebook down, new cult has risen. But let’s be honest, my love life lately has felt just as unpredictable as a social media algorithm change.
See, I’ve been single for a while now. And not just single, but, dare I say, celibate? If there’s a Sex and the City character who went through a self-imposed sexual hiatus, I’d be her. Charlotte? Miranda? A Carrie in exile? I don’t know, but all I can say is that lately, true love in Puerto Vallarta has been… elusive.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I just got back from a nude festival in Zipolite, where the mezcal flowed freely, inhibitions were checked at the door, and I would fall in love twice before dinner.
But after one too many wild nights and mezcal-infused regrets, I came back to Vallarta in desperate need of a detox. No dating, no drinking—just me, the gym, and my growing to-do list.
And believe me, that to-do list has been insane. Between rebuilding my digital empire (RIP to my old Facebook group – if you get me in touch with Mark, that’d be great ) and organizing the upcoming Best of Puerto Vallarta Awards, my Charlotte side has been in overdrive. The event producer in me has been thriving—lights, camera, action, baby! It’s been a whirlwind of meetings, RSVPs, coordinating DJs, drag queens, and ensuring the fog machine pumped at precisely the right moment. Oh, and did I mention my ex-boyfriend turned business engineer bestie (now future business partner) is co-hosting the awards with me and the amazing super star voice Alison Lo? Yes, because why keep things simple when you can make them a dramatic, Leo-filled spectacle?
But let’s get to the Samantha part of me, because despite my alleged celibacy, my love life—or should I say my straight love life—has been an absolute circus. For some reason, ever since I got back, I have been a magnet for straight and straight-ishhh chacales. And I don’t mean casual flirting—I mean full-blown, life-altering confessions of love.
First, there’s the guy I’ve been crushing on for a year who finally told me he liked me. Then, there’s the straight Cuban in Mexico City who wants to move in with me and “see where things go.” And then—oh, girl—there’s THE Chacal Gym Guy.
Picture this: I joined a new gym, hoping to find some fitness motivation, and instead, I found myself surrounded by a sea of sweaty, tattooed, muscular Latinos. Not a gay I recognize except for this hot Venezuelan I still love bumping into—plus questionable straight men bench-pressing their body weight and flirting with each other in ways that, honestly, could be considered a form of foreplay. Among them was THE Chacal: my height, tatted, built like a young latin god. Every time I walked in, we locked eyes. For a month.
Then one day, fate intervened. I was leaving, he was walking in, and suddenly, we were face to face in a narrow hallway. He had taken his motorcycle helmet right as I was accidentally bumped into him, and I realized—it’s him. We stared, the tension was thick and mesmerizing.
And instead of the classic Mexican tap-tap handshake, we went in for a full-on grip. And we didn’t let go. Not for a long time. He told me we’d talked eight years ago. I had no memory of this, but what I did remember was how his grip felt—strong, lingering, full of unsaid things. And before I could overthink it, I blurted, “Let me get your WhatsApp.”
Cue a week of texting that can only be described as the slowest striptease in history. Just two guys… complimenting each other a little too much. One night, he told me he hadn’t taken off his gym shirt since I hugged him goodbye because my smell lingered onto his. That’s not straight behavior, girl. That’s gay, girrrllll.
And just when I thought I was imagining things, he asked me out. To the movies. To see Captain America. Straight-coded, yes, but also a little gay-coded? I was in.
But, like the plot twist in every doomed romance, the next morning before our movie date, I woke up to a message: I can’t do this. I investigated you last night and let’s just say curiosity kills the cat. I need to process this.
And just like that, he was gone. No WhatsApp reply, no explanation—just a dead conversation thread and an unanswered question.
It hit me then: this wasn’t just a chacal disappearing into the ether. This was a pattern. Because just like THE Chacal, just like the Cuban, just like my mysterious Facebook suspension, the things that seem too good to be true have a habit of disappearing overnight. One day you’re on top of the world, the next, you’re locked out of your own empire.
But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I always come back. Bigger, better, and a little more fabulous than before.
And speaking of fabulous, let’s talk about my next big venture. A techno bar is in the works— one that caters to those who like their beats hard and their nights even harder. Open to all, but with playrooms for those looking to add a little… adventure to their night. Not a sex club, darling, but a proper world class concept. A place where sensuality meets sound, where rhythm and connection blur into one electric experience. Stay very tuned..
So, will THE Chacal text me back? Will my Facebook empire rise again? Will I ever get laid again in Puerto Vallarta? And how will my new club change the scene?
Stay tuned, honey. Because curiosity may have killed the cat, but this cat has nine lives.
Jet De La Isla,
Vallarta’s very own fabulous Carrie Bradshaw
Catch all the wild stories and get connected to the community for updates at our new Facebook group: [Facebook.com/groups/vallartaGays]
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