It's no surprise I grew up to be a bean queen. As a child, I was addicted to telenovelas, those Latin American TV shows so melodramatic they make The Real Housewives of New Jersey seem understated. No one in my south Texas family spoke Spanish, and my parents controlled the set. Once alone, however, I flipped to Univisión, hypnotized by the beautiful people and big passions. I was clueless about what the actors were saying but loved how they looked and sounded.

In the gay world, labels like “bean queen” are commonplace, even if they make me cringe. There’s a term for every taste: rice queens, bagel queens, chocolate queens— even curry queens. Luckily, my Neil Patrick Harris coloring qualifies me as a potato, since many Hispanic guys are reinas de las patatas.

Once I figured out what I liked, I learned Spanish fast and soon began a career in U.S. Hispanic television, taking me closer to the types of programs (and men) I enjoyed. Love of novelas even influenced my romantic choices. Cuba, Argentina, Venezuela, Puerto Rico—name a South American country and I dated someone from there in my search for el Señor Perfecto.

Finally, at an overpriced fundraiser in the Hamptons, I spotted a man, sleek like a puma, circling me as if on the hunt. Noticing his broad shoulders, charcoal eyes and valiant Aztec features, I felt a feral attraction draw us together.

Ángel introduced himself, and we quickly discovered a shared passion for his native Mexico.

My new amigo and I exchanged business cards and agreed to meet soon over a salad. Over the next two weeks we went on five dates.When Ángel invited me to a benefit to be attended by the King of Sweden, I was elated. He was serious enough about our new romance to introduce me to his co-workers.

When we entered the majestic Wall Street event venue, I marveled at the contrast between Ángel in his formal white dinner jacket and the other men in plain black tie. My date looked like a star. Once seated, while our table companions imbibed first cocktails, then aquavit, martinis, champagne and even more martinis, I switched to water.This was a work function for Ángel, so I wanted to maintain my composure.

Late into the meal, I left the table to go to the washroom. Upon my return, the Nordic monarch was delivering his speech. Rather than interrupt by walking through the crowd, I spied three people from our table waiting near the bar and stood with them.

Two were straights from Ángel’s work.

The third, Rob, was an A-list gay whose Viking good looks and hefty pocketbook always assured he was invited to the best charity soirées.

We hadn’t met before that evening, but I had heard about him.We traversed the same paths, he another potato in search of a bean.

“Have fun in the bathroom stall with Rob?” Ángel spat out at me back at the table.

“Que te pasó?” I asked in shock. “Es obvio que you guys are having a great time together,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Estás loco. I just…” “Ya me voy,” he interrupted and shoved himself from the table. Ángel marched out of the party. I followed, now furious.

The argument exploded once we sat in the black Mercedes. Spittle flew from his lips. He screamed at me, "I will not have a trophy wife!" His words would’ve been funny if they hadn’t made me want to cry. At the next stoplight, I jumped out and walked the remaining 15 blocks home on foot, devastated.

This was not the first time a dramatic blow-up scene had ended one of my relationships.The problem was not that I was attracted to Latin men.The issue: I was living a telenovela. After my parents’ acrimonious marriage ended in a nasty divorce when I was six, I always believed love had to be histrionic. Now in middle age, I wanted to end this unhealthy way of thinking.

I decided to call Ángel. He apologized, explaining how his insecurity about being the only dark-skinned guest in a Norse sea got the best of him when a society matron mistook him for a waiter and demanded another vintage port. Ángel irrationally feared I’d prefer someone whose appearance mirrored my own, like Rob. I forgave him; Ángel was not a one-dimensional TV villain. He was merely playing out a life script of his own.

He asked me out on another date, but I said no. Ángel kept calling.Two months later, I agreed to go to another formal event, this time for the Princess of Spain. The evening passed without an incident and we began dating again. Then at my 40th birthday party, Ángel drank too much and tried to sweet-talk the pants off one of my friends, a comely twenty-something of Swedish heritage. And that was it for me. Breaking up with Ángel was a sign I had really changed.

A few months later, I quit my job in Spanish TV, no longer needing to be near the television shows that had reflected my inner turmoil.While I once tried to live my life like in the telenovelas, now I just watch them.