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Right now, I’m swaying in a bright red hammock aboard Virgin Voyages in my sea view cabin, somewhere between the whitewashed islands of Greece and the ancient sands of Turkey. It’s the Atlantis Mediterranean Cruise of 2025—a ten-day floating festival of men, martinis, and midlife revelations.
My bronzed, golden-brown skin contrasts against the sapphire ocean below, the kind of blue that no Instagram filter could ever do justice. And here I am, floating on this Jets Global holiday—Egypt, Greece, Turkey, all in one whirlwind—when I finally allow myself to pause.
Behind me sleeps my lover. My local panguero (Panguero: the Mexican guys working on the small boats in PV) twink. Twenty-one years old, but already with the soul of someone who has listened to the ocean long enough to understand her moods. Salt still crusts his hair from our last swim, tiny golden shells hang loosely around his neck, and his hands—forever spicy with salsa and lime from late-night taco runs on the cruise—make me want to lick them clean every chance I get. I often find him smiling at the horizon as if it were painted just for us, and maybe it was.
We are here, suspended between continents, reflecting on months that felt like years: falling in love at a taco stand, tumbling into a throuple with a Cuban storm, surviving the crash of algorithms that erased my online presence, building Club Jets, expanding my empire across beaches and borders—all without the one platform that once defined me: Facebook.
So as this ship carries me toward Istanbul, coffee in hand, waves beneath me, I finally ask the questions I’ve been avoiding: Who am I in love? Who am I in business? Who am I without the constant hum of Facebook notifications?
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The Taco Stand Sea Prince
It all began where so many Vallarta romances begin—not at a gala, not at my new club, not on Grindr. At one of my favorite taco spots in Pitillal. Two in the morning.
This little cool surfer twink with swag wasn’t the typical “gay Vallarta type.” Yes, he was sculpted perfectly for his Instagram thirst traps, but he wasn’t curating an online persona. He was raw, coastal, sun-kissed by nature but not by tanning beds. He was a boy of the sea, flowing with the moonlit tides the same way I’ve always drifted between passion and horizon.
He was innocence and mischief wrapped into one: a twink with salt in his hair, shells clinking at his throat, salsa dripping down his mouth in a way that made me want to reach across the plastic table and taste him before the tacos cooled. His laughter was unfiltered, his gaze steady. For once in my restless, empire-building life, I felt anchored.
Of course, I fell instantly. Isn’t that what anxious attachers do? Like Charlotte, I saw tradition. Like Carrie, I saw a storyline. Like Samantha, I saw temptation. Like Big, I acted composed while my mind was already redesigning the future: the boats, the home, the shared linen closet that smelled of lime and raw sea salt.
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The Cuban Storm
But Vallarta never lets you sail in calm waters for long.
One evening, a couple months later, the hot hot Chacal Cuban arrived.
He blew in with the force of a tropical storm—magnetic, intoxicating, covered in tattoos and impossible to ignore. His accent rolled into our lives like the r’s in every passionate latinos mouth, his passion burned too brightly, his chaos was a wildfire. He wasn’t a safe harbor. He was the storm that pulls ships off course, and I—ever the curious captain—couldn’t resist.
And then the unimaginable happened: instead of destroying what I had, he added to it.
Suddenly, it wasn’t just me and my pangero twink. It was us and the Cuban. Tres copas. Three cups raised in a toast none of us planned, but all of us drank anyway.
The pangero brought grounding. The Cuban brought fire. I brought the dream, the vision, the stitching together of two different men into one kaleidoscopic love.
We were ridiculous, we were passionate, we were alive. Naked on pangas at sunset. Devouring tacos at midnight. Dancing barefoot under palm trees while the rest of the city blurred. I had not one boyfriend but two—and best of all, they adored each other.
But three cups are hard to balance without spilling.
For every moment of magic, there was jealousy, insecurity, unspoken doubt. When two stayed up whispering, did the third feel left out? When one needed attention, did the other pull away?
I wanted to be Big—calm, detached—but I was Miranda with a migraine, analyzing every look, every pause in conversation. And yet, there were nights when it all aligned. One cooking, the other giving me a massage. Nights when three bodies felt like one. Nights when I thought: This isn’t chaos. This is the future of love.
But storms burn bright and burn fast. The Cuban’s fire, as intoxicating as it was, eventually burned out.
What remained was the pangero: steady, patient, salsa-dripped, still looking at me with the same grounding gaze he had the night we met.
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The Vanishing of Jet
As if my love life weren’t dramatic enough, another storm was brewing—not in bed, but online.
For ten years, Facebook was my empire’s heartbeat. My group—Puerto Vallarta Gays: Everything Gay You Need or Want to Know—had over 40,000 members. It was the gay town square, the concierge desk, the hotline for tourists and locals alike.
And then, overnight, it was gone.
Facebook’s algorithm flagged me as a human trafficker. Why? Because I allowed massage posts. Masseuse. That single word was enough to trip the wire. In one sweep, seven business pages vanished. My public figure page, gone. My personal profile, gone. My Instagram, gone.
Ten years of building community, erased by a machine that doesn’t know Puerto Vallarta from a parking lot.
Rumors flew. People whispered that I had been kidnapped. That I was dead. After all, for someone as omnipresent as me, my sudden silence was deafening.
At first, I panicked. My empire was built on clicks, shares, posts. Without them, who was I?
And then I remembered a quote Frida Kahlo once said: “échame tierra y verás cómo florezco.” Throw dirt on me, and watch me flourish.
So I did.
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Club Jets and the Gift of Absence
Without Facebook’s constant noise, I turned inward. I built something tangible, something offline, something real.
Club Jets was born. Not for tourists, but for locals—for the queer, the trans, the lesbian, the underground alternative music lovers. It was shocking, maybe, because everything I had built before catered to tourists. But this? This was mine. A passion project. An ode to underground techno clubs in Berlin, dark rooms of Lisbon, and my backpacking European days—but rooted firmly in Puerto Vallarta.
Today, Club Jets is a labyrinth of queer joy: soon to be five bars in one, art spaces, markets, dark rooms, cabins, and soon, an upscale Jets Lounge (for my dedicated tourist friends). The land-based sibling of Naked Beach, but with bass instead of waves.
And while I built the club, I expanded everything else: Jet’s Private Boat Tours thriving, Naked Beach booming, Jet Concierge launching, franchises in the works for Zipolite, Sitges, and beyond.
I realized something profound: I don’t need Facebook to be Jet. I am Jet. My lovers, my friends, my chosen family, my team—they are the network. They are the algorithm that matters.
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Who Am I Now?
So here I am, in this hammock, waves crashing, pangero twink by my side.
At 40, I no longer feel the need to choose. I am Samantha on Friday nights, Charlotte on Sunday mornings, Miranda on Monday payroll, Carrie with my mac and martini, Big when I walk into Club Jets like I own the place (which, by the way, I do).
I can love a pangero with shells around his neck, survive a Cuban storm, and turn it all into a story that makes sense—if only on paper. I can lose Facebook and build something greater: a world that doesn’t depend on algorithms, but on passion.
So no, ladies, I wasn’t kidnapped. I wasn’t dead. I was living. Loving. Building.
And when I return to Facebook—if I return—it will be on my terms with new Facebook groups. Because once you’ve danced barefoot, you don’t beg for your shoes back.
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Three Cups, One Horizon
If New York asked whether women could have it all, Puerto Vallarta answers: Sí, cariño. Just not in the way you expected.
Love might not look like one man forever. It might look like a taco stand at 2 AM, a Cuban storm, and a pangero twink with salsa-dripped fingers.
Power might not look like likes. It might look like a packed dance floor at Club Jets, a thriving team, an empire stretching across oceans.
And happiness? Happiness is this: a red hammock, a sapphire sea, a pause long enough to realize—I already have it all.
So I wonder… in a world of throuples, tacos, and techno, is three cups too many? Or exactly the toast Vallarta was always meant to raise?
More to come ladies. More to come..
Jet, your not so average, Carrie Bradshaw in and beyond Puerto Vallarta.
Esta publicación también está disponible en: English Español
