So I've been in Spain and have neglected this blog (for a reason I will mention in a minute) and the tumblr blog I created SOLELY for my Spain experience. I just suck at this stuff.
But the reason that I haven't posted on here is because...I've been a nun for the past semester.
Seriously though.
I flew off to Europe looking for adventure, and I got it, but whilst wearing a pretty thick chastity belt.
I had sex for about 5 minutes with a guy (plays the guitar, so I'm 10 for 10 now?), and he looked frighteningly similar to another partner I've had. He was in some of my classes, so we stayed friends for the rest of the semester. I like that stuff. I get uncomfortable if a guy is weird after we do it. Be chill, man.
Before I left though, at the end of the summer, I had sex with the Irishman who had taken care of me after July. It was probably the greatest sex I've ever had (I'm biased- the Irish are the greatest in everything). But, uh, we had sex on a ship. A pirate ship, to be specific. The boat was made for touring kids around the bay, and the Irishman happened to work as a pirate on the ship. This was one of the riskiest things I've ever done, to be honest.
But it was quite romantic; we drunkenly walked down the empty streets of Hyannis, talking of Henry James and James Joyce, stopping to kiss, and found ourselves down at the marina. We stood on the dock, looked out at the water and the full moon (fuck, this shit's getting mushy), and then we snuck on the boat and had wicked wonderful intercourse. And right as he was finishing, a flashlight shined over us.
Shit.
The harbor patrol.
We froze, and I prepared for my first arrest and the horror on my parents' faces.
But, the young guard (God bless 'im), just shook his head and said,
"It's fine guys, just...get off the boat".
We pulled on our clothes and ran for our lives.
When we got back to the house full of all the Irish friends, we got in bed and he spooned me until I had to leave for work the next day. It was probably the biggest movie-like romance sequence I've ever had in my life. One of my favorites, hands down.
I probably fell in love with him.
Anyway, the goodbye we had at the end of the summer was a bit anti-climactic; it was a phone call and I was in the entryway of a Bank of America. He said goodbye, it was nice meeting me, and I should visit Ireland sometime (no shit, my family lives there, sooo).
I flew off to Spain and had 5 minute sex blah blah blah. Then I went to Ireland for the All-Ireland Hurling Final. I would be staying with one of the Irish girls I had worked with this summer, and I'd be seeing a lot of them during the weekend. I'd messaged the Irishman about my visit, weeks before, and he never responded. Oh well.
So we go to Dublin, where the population is a little over a million.
We're walking down some random street to get a cab to the stadium, and who do I make eye contact with?
The fucking Irishman. We're crossing the crosswalk to him. Both my friend and I are absolutely, utterly, shocked. I was shocked and all I could do was laugh. What were the chances? So we chat for a few minutes, and he agrees to take me on a tour of the city after the game. I get his number and get in the cab with the girls. We start to drive away, and I look down at my phone.
I had forgotten to save the number.
I didn't save the number.
I didn't. Save. The fucking. Number.
Because I had just singlehandedly fucked up an unbelievably serendipitous event, I went into a catatonic shock I had never experienced before. My limbs went numb, I could only say the word, "fuck" (literally, I was stuttering "ffffuck, f-uuck, FUCK" for the whole taxi ride), and when we arrived at the stadium, I felt sick to my stomach. Completely ill.
No one we were with really knew him, let alone his phone number or any sort of mutual friends. He didn't use Facebook regularly, so social media wasn't an option either.
The game was finished and I went off to my hostel while my friends went back to their home counties. They told me they'd keep trying to find a way to find his number. These girls really are some of the greatest friends.
Meanwhile, I'm getting scuttered on cider in a pub, by myself. I waltz out of the bar and walk to the university where the Irishman attends. I'm wandering aimlessly around the beautiful campus, I travel down Grafton Street, and continue to have a drunk existential crisis in St. Stephen's Green. I really was a James Joyce character- lovesick, drunk, and wayward.
My friend somehow managed to find his number. I call him at 11 pm. My flight is at 6 am that next morning. He tells me it's too late to hang out, and he'll see me next time. Like I visit Dublin every fucking weekend or something.
This was an interesting moment for me. I no longer felt panicky, sick, or upset. Why? Because I had done everything in my control to communicate, and that's as much as one can do. When he couldn't do his part, I had no reason to be angry with myself, because I had done as much as I could. It's just a pity that he had to be a complete bastard about it.
So after that (he's SO, SO good at making these potential fairytale stories into anti-climactic mood-killers), I hooked up with a marine in my hostel room, almost missed my flight, and then had a gypsy steal my wallet and passport upon arriving in Madrid.
...after that, I did not have any relations with anyone for the rest of the semester. And I was pretty chill with that, because I had zero interest in putting out or settling (although I am insanely gaga for Javier the bartender). But times got hard, especially when I was ovulating (sorry, that's kind of personal buuuut I don't care). Something about the week before/during your period, man... I WAS ALWAYS READY FOR THE SEX. Like, it HURT, it was a PAINFUL kind of constant arousal. Because I still had to have some sort of dignity, you know? My poor roommates had to put up with this sexually frustrated feline for too many nights. I kept my cool for the most part, though.
All in all, I fell in love with an Irish bastard, kind of got over it, and stayed chaste in Spain without feeling too bad about it. Minnesota seems to be the opposite of Madrid in that regard. Probably because guys here are better than those Spanish sassholes.
Hopefully second semester I finally fuck Javier the bartender, or at least meet a rich man that will pay for my drinks.
