It was one of those groggy mornings. My head was pounding. I was extremely thirsty. I could not for the life of me remember how the hell I got home. Then I felt something, someone move next to me. Oh right. The pool. I remember making out topless in the pool. There were people around. It was one of those nights at the pub when half of the staff was out drinking. I finished my shift early and joined them. We never paid for a single drink there. It was the most cost-effective, ridiculously messy way to spend our evenings. That particular night there was a few new people. Andrew* had come out with our friend Elaine*. They both worked at my pub. I was really close with her; him I had only shared a couple of shifts with. They were out with some of their friends, all headed to some guy’s house after the pub. His parents’ house was only down the road. They were gone on holiday and so he was throwing a pool party.

Andrew convinced him that I was a respectable human being and that I should also be invited. So we all went. The respectable part of me had unfortunately decided to go on sabbatical that evening. Amongst the many embarrassing things I did that night, I introduced myself to Karen* about twelve times. She was one of their friends that would much later in time become my favorite dance-partner-in-crime. Luckily for me she had a sense of humor. I started introducing myself at the pub, but kept forgetting. A flashback came to me many days later; I was pretty much naked in the pool: “Hi, I’m Christine!” “Yes, I know.” She does not tire of reminding me how wasted I was that night, and how little substance was left of my inebriated brain. Anyhow, I remember never having seen Andrew in such a light. He was always so awkward and nerdy. He was very tall, and uncharacteristically good-looking. There was something about his silent confidence. He was blond and lanky, with cryptic tattoos and interests as far removed from mine as can be. I just never thought we could ever have anything in common.

I recognized him right away, even though he was back to me. I was completely naked and so was he. I ransacked my brain for information. I could not remember anything else from the night. I got one flashback, on a street corner not too far from mine, him kissing me, mostly trying to hold me up straight. I had no idea what had happened next. This was the first time I had woken up next to someone, having absolutely no idea what I had done. Or what had been done to me. He felt me awake and turned around. He smiled and said, “Well good morning you!” I returned this greeting with a grunt only extremely hung-over people are able to produce. I was hurting. His grin teased me.

–       So you drank a lot last night…

–       Yeah… I’m not feeling too great right now.

–       Haha, I’d imagine you aren’t. (long pause.)

–       So… did we?

–       Oh yeah, we did. And then you passed out. Also, you snored.

–       Noooooooo…

I was dying of humiliation. He kept smiling. He kissed me. He had the most mischievous grin.

I do not like mornings in general. To top it, I get horribly hungover after nights like those. Fetal position all day. On days like those, sex is the only thing that can convince me to wake up, or make mornings somewhat acceptable. I could see he could easily be convinced. I thought to myself, it’s already been done: you might as well remember it this time. So I turned to face him and started what I was expecting to be a nice, comfortable session of lazy morning sex. What happened next was the beginning of the most memorable fuck-buddy relationship I ever had the luck to participate in. We saw each other sporadically for the next six months. Only late at night, with as little talk as possible. We never shared coffee or chatted about anything that was not sex-related.

*My house, 20 mins?*

That was the extent of our communication, shining on the screen of his phone. My girlfriends were split in their opinions of this pseudo-relationship. Aren’t you going to get attached? How can you have sex with someone who doesn’t interest you in the least? You hit the jackpot; I want that. These were the three main reactions to my evolving “hook up” relationship. I do not think I thought about it too much. The sex was mind-blowing.

His penis was absolute perfection. I could stare at it for hours. It was the epitome of erections. Large, straight, thick and glorious. It filled me to my extremes. He was confident, adventurous and took initiative in the bedroom. He did yoga, which allowed for some innovation. He was strong, sensual and so passionate. Not the inflammable kind of passion though. It was passion for the job well done, passion for the body and the experience. It was like scientific passion, if you will. He said it was new to him my being tall. We both experienced new ways of bending and being one. We explored our sexualities together.

We had sex quite regularly for those six months. I fell in love with his penis. It was love at first sight. Well, actually I do not remember its first sight, so not technically. It eventually ended because Andrew was convinced that I had fallen in love with him. I definitely had not. Yet I understand how difficult it can be to believe that from his perspective. We are taught that feelings and sex, if the relationship is ongoing, are inextricably linked. I believe they generally are. I also believe in exceptions. This was mine. I do not know whether I would be capable of a relationship like that again, or whether it was merely a question of extremely precise timing and physical compatibility. Him and I have practically nothing else in common. That helped. In any case, we had a couple of repeats over the years and they are always phenomenal. No questions are asked. When I get the opportunity, I escape my messed-up love life with him. I think he might be doing just the same. It is merely physical and that is great sometimes. Simple and great. There is no debasement, no objectification, and no disappointment. I never think about it, except as a fond memory. I never long for him, maybe just when I have had the misfortune of encountering someone really bad at sex. Or when I have been sexually unhappy for a while. There was never any ambiguity in that relationship and that is the key for me. I never wanted more from it than what it was, and there is something quite powerful about that.

The morning after you have had sex is very different for everybody. For me, picture the morning-after-scene from 500 days of summer, just more ridiculous. I see rainbows and unicorns, while I am floating on a cloud of marshmallows and love. All of the euphoria and the adrenaline left over from the night’s sexcapades are exhilarating. It is definitely one of my favorite states of being. Sex is not everything though. The morning after is only as good as it can get if you have friends to share it with. Friends can make that instant tenfold better, or worse.

I happen to have exceptional friends. We rarely agree on things, and rarely are in the same geographical location, but man, do we ever love each other. That is truly one of the greatest riches of travelling as much as I have. The people you get to meet, and the magic that occurs when you manage to stay in each other’s lives, is a feeling like no other. Having such great support makes everything seem more bearable. Of course, disappointment occurs, and you inevitably lose great people, but the rewards so exceed the costs.

I have a hard time telling anecdotes about friendships, because what makes them so wonderful is their continuity. One night stands or trips are easier to summarize; they are exciting. Friendships are entities that have their own lives and their synopses are a challenge, to say the least. Nevertheless, my story would be nothing without them. Who would judge me for knowingly making out with a porn-star? Who would remember all the crazy things we did and did not do? Friends are the testimony to the life you choose for yourself. Mostly though, they are there for you when the fun stops.

The day I met Angie* would go down in history as the true beginning of my university experience. The week previous, John had dumped me and Joe had shown me that total strangers could make me feel human again with a mere hand gesture. The main thorn in my foot at that point was still my roommate. She remains known as “Hitler”. She despised people and was making my life a living nightmare. I had found her on Craigslist. I had little choice; I was moving to Canada to start university having never stepped foot in Vancouver. Her apartment was clean, on campus, furnished, and mostly not part of campus residency. I knew I would have a hard time living with one girl, let alone four Canadian seventeen year olds in a tiny res dorm. I was only nineteen. I felt like a child. Being European however, I had been a bartender for four years, which created a social abyss between my fellow fresh-women and I. She was a third year student and extremely neat. I thought living with her was safest.

I was so fucking wrong. She made my life hell. Due to her never-ending set of rules and demands, and even though we had a balcony, I was only allowed to smoke in the hall, which luckily was outdoors. Being out there quite often enabled me to meet our next-door neighbors, Angie and Jose*. I met Jose first. He had an infectious smile and the kind of friendliness that only comes out of warmer cultures. His Mexican accent was so pleasant to my ears. I did not want to lose the Spanish I had just learned living in Argentina. I was craving a Latin connection. He welcomed me to the neighborhood one day in the hall in passing. We had both just moved in and were excited to see what university had in store for us. Boy, were we ever in for a ride. I met Angie briefly a couple of days later, also during one of my smoke breaks. She seemed very nice and genuine. Her energy was, and is to this day, one of the sweetest, kindest I have ever encountered in anyone.

The night I was preparing to go meet Joe, I was frantically trying to come up with the perfect outfit. I had not tried to attract a man in two years. I had not even liked unintentionally attracting them. Hitler was a size triple zero so there was no help to be found in her closet. I had this idea of what I wanted to look like in my head and I was not going to budge. The one thing I was missing was a pair of tight-fitting black pants. In my folly, I went across the hall, knocked at the door and asked for Angie. Jose was very happy to see me, not showing any signs of my trespassing any social codes. This emboldened me. I asked her for the most unexpected, perhaps most random of friend pick-up lines. “Do you per chance have a pair of black pants I could borrow for this evening? You see I’m going on my first date since I got dumped and I need to look bomb.” Her eyes glistened with amusement. “Of course, chica. You have to!” Right after I left, ecstatic with my find, Jose smiled and said to her: “Darling, I think your wardrobe just doubled.”

How right he was. They were not a couple, just a couple of friends conveniently transferring into the same university, after spending the two years previous at a different college together. I practically lived with them that year. I was too afraid to do anything at Hitler’s house, but quietly sneak into my bed at night and sleep. It was a great deal for them too. I went over and cooked for them all the time. We became a happy family that extended all year long. So many nights were spent getting to know each other at the campus bars, and then back at their house, playing guitar hero, standing on the living room table. It was a blissful time. Both Angie and I were single and ready to mingle. We went out five nights a week. We still kept our studies in check. We had it all.

My first year in college was pure and simple self-discovery, in the company of great friends. Angie knew I was especially crazy because of the breakup; she talked me down and through every mistake I made. The first six months of our friendship were not easy for me; she was my rock. She had a tough time too. Single girl in college, she quickly became fed up of meaningless flings with boys. We both yearned for men—whatever that subjective differentiation means. We knew we did not know much. We knew our learning was ahead of us and we went through life, with that stereotypical fearlessness only youth displays. Nothing would stop us, except maybe for summer break. She actually came to see me in Geneva while she was visiting her relatives in Europe. We were the couple to beat.

And then came fall again. She quickly met Peter*. We all loved Peter. They would date for the following three years. Things had changed though; the dynamic was different. I was the only single one left. Yet our friendship only became stronger. Peter even became a great friend of mine—he was in on all the girl-talk and seemed to enjoy it the most. Eventually our tight group of friends came to include a few more people. Mostly Angie’s college best friend, Devi*, became a part of our little trio girl gang. The three of us have done close to everything together. There were ups and downs, trips to Vegas and Europe, and many, many shared bottles of wine. What always impressed me the most about the three of us was that, no matter how different our background and education was, we understood each other. Even when it was very hard, we knew none of it would come between us. Devi and Angie would come get very drunk at the campus pub I worked at every Wednesday during my second year. On Wednesdays, the very empty pub became the craziest of clubs, populated by hundreds of horny nineteen-year-olds and a hotbed for all sorts of inappropriate public behavior. We loved it.

They say bad decisions make good stories. We definitely wrote many stories at the pub and so many more together. Just like Lea at home, and a few other people who entered my life at one point or another, Angie and Devi were my foundation in Vancouver. Due to the frivolous timing of our friendship, they were for the longest time my first response to mornings after. I would call them and tell them everything, to the last excruciatingly personal detail. They laughed with me. Those moments will forever stay with me as the quintessence of being single and happy, surrounded by love. After we graduated, one by one it became harder to see each other. We got frustrated and distant at times. Yet we still manage to catch a girls’ night Thursday, with food, wine and Grey’s Anatomy, and it is like nothing changed. I do not know what my fate with men will be. I do not know if I will know a love like the old man’s. I get worried about love and relationships. I never doubt a true friendship, and that is what Devi, Angie and I have.

Our lips touched and two universes collided. My weary heart and I decided to ignore it. I hoped it was one-sided and that I could pretend nothing had happened. And then he said: “Oh fuck, are you kidding me? This is not happening… This kiss…” He kissed me again and there was no denying it anymore. We did not even know we had been lost, and right there and then, we had been found. His kisses would be the hardest to forget. That first night we had a pathetic attempt at sex, on a friend’s couch. She had introduced us that night, hoping for a successful set-up. She was so right. The passion and fire between us was so strong, even through the unfortunate circumstances of being on Natalie’s* couch. We had to see each other again and it had to be the next day. We did not know we were creating a pattern right there. We saw each other every single day until I had to leave, 3 weeks later, to spend the summer in Europe with my family. Those nineteen days were a whirlwind. I have never been courted, wine and dined that much in my entire life. He made me his. He pursued me and then convinced himself he was ready for something like me.

Those few weeks were the most magically intense, comfortable days I had known in what felt like an eternity. He was kind, sweet, honest, funny… normal. He was everything I could ask for and more. We listened to acoustic covers on my couch discussing our random thoughts, while he stroked my legs. Even simply sitting on the couch together was glorious. I fit right into my little nook, on his chest. He touched my hair, my shoulder and my back, stroking back and forth. He kissed me and my entire body melted into him. His touch was the utmost intoxicating, earth-shattering thing in its simplicity. We talked, laughed and smoked; we needed nothing.

The stories in this book, I remember because I could never have imagined them. Call it a lack of imagination if you will, but they took me by such surprise. None of me anticipated any of this to ever happen to me. This particular relationship was so startling I had to take all of my friends as witnesses. They all fell for him. One of my closest friends confessed that if I did not end up with him, I would with someone exactly like him. This was potentially influenced by the fact that she was herself head over heels with her new man. Either that or she was blackout drunk.

He knew it too. We were, at least on a physical level, meant to experience our unity. It was so easy with us. Every move, as clumsy and unattractive as can possibly be, was effortless. Elegant even. Our bodies spoke to each other. We wanted each other, so bad. Neither of us had experienced such passion in light years. We did not even need to touch to feel aroused as can be. There was something there, something inexplicably impenetrable. Well, that might be the wrong word. What we had was true. I think that is the reason why it is so hard to move on sometimes. It was just bad timing.

He had a fascination for my breasts. I did not want him to ever leave my bed. We were not able to get much done when we were together. Lying in bed and intermittently having sex and talking was enough. We drank, we danced, and we ate well together. It was one of those fusional relationships that other, non in-love people despise. We never got fed up of each other. I fell in love, instantly. I fell hard and deep and there was no saving me. It was truly one of those loves from which I expected nothing but to give. I had no remarks. He was good to me. The physical greatness was surely emphasized by the emotional connection we both admitted to sharing.

I have many sex stories. Certainly this book will ascertain this. Sex with him was cheeky, kinky, romantic and intimate at the same time. He could fuck my brains out and make me feel like he was writing me poems. I guess that would be my version of making love? I was never afraid to tell him exactly what I felt and how to remedy. I was never self-conscious being naked and contorted in front of him. Granted, I am usually fairly comfortable being naked; I think clothes get in the way of my curves. Still with him it was different. He could grab and move and experiment with every ounce of fat and flesh of my body, I would be intrigued, aroused even. He liked to have me on my back, my right leg over to the left. He could firmly grab onto my thigh and had a perfect sight of my breast and my tattoo on my rib cage. He would groan; tiny, almost inaudible grunts that only became louder when I did. He never tired of me. His erection was incessant. My girl hard-ons were never more present. When he teased me, balancing on each arm on top of me, with a mere kiss I was wet. I simply needed to lift up my bum and he slid right into me. “It’s so easy with us,” he marveled. No need for a GPS, our parts had their own connection. Once he was inside me, he could bang my head against the headboard, going as deep as physically possible and it would drive me absolutely insane. I do not want to use the hand and glove analogy, but if there ever was a time… He told me repeatedly that I was the best he could remember having, that I was more than incredible and that my body was banging.

So, you say, the sex was good, I get it. What else was so magical about it? Well what it was, it appears, is complete surrender to the other, with no compromise of self. I cannot for sure know how he feels about any of this now, or whether he indeed was being true to himself then. During those nineteen days, we were one, as cliché as it sounds. We were both confused and terrified at this extremely sudden attraction and longing. I was ready for it. “I created a monster,” he kept saying. All of my friends had confirmed to him I did not fall for people often, never mind let them in. With him, I had no issue exclaiming my feelings. It was truly monstrous. He had a harder time saying the words. There was no one better equipped to understand his issue. I never pressured him, never expected anything in return. As I was leaving at the airport, he eventually returned my love declaration all on his own.

Except I was ready for it, and for him I turned out to be “just a distraction.” Ten days later, it dawned on him that his love was actually already and still directed at someone else. Someone else, what a poetic phrase for someone whose head you want to tear off and set on fire. She probably takes it in the ass, says the pit-bull inside of me.  How someone can be so fickle still baffles me. I will never understand it. I think I believe he was being truthful. I cannot be sure. He will always be something of the inexplicable. I have moved on since, and experienced new great passions. This one is remarkable in that there is no lesson. I do not understand it and that is all. It was just bad timing.

I was sitting on the beach recently with my childhood friend Ana*. We were both freshly single and bitter. Both our men of the month had left us for their exes. Seriously, did they get a transatlantic memo? We were reading and enjoying the late afternoon rays when an old man approached us. He had vacationed in the bay we grew up in for the past forty years. He was an acquaintance of our families and so to be polite we struck up a conversation with him. We talked about how bad the economy was, how scared we both were to graduate in a time with no jobs. He was as frustrated as we were with the current system. The small talk quickly turned heavier for me. He started talking about love. I had personally been going through all kinds of rethinking of self, fate and my luck. I could not make sense of my last failed relationship or how I would ever construct a successful one. The old man then said something that will haunt me forever. He said:

“Well you know girls, I got married at 23. I’ve been with my wife for upwards of fifty years. Even for that time, I was young to be getting hitched. My mother asked me if I was sure I wanted to make such a commitment so early and I told her, ‘Mother, if I don’t marry her now and stay myself for another 4-5 years, I will never marry.’ I mean, it is hard enough to get used to sharing your time with someone when you’re young. Imagine now? I’m so stubborn; I can barely stand myself. I could never expect a woman to want to accommodate me. That’s why it’s better to get hitched young, because you have more patience, and willingness for compromise. My wife and I were so happy and peaceful for most of our marriage. The hardest part was a few years back, when we retired. We had all this time to cultivate our individualities and discovered we are very different people. Yet we knew how to make room for each other and continue to love.”

Wow. Two things immediately moved into my heart and mind. First, will I ever know a love like this? Second, is it too late for me? I have been living alone, far away from family or any kind of selfless responsibility for over 5 years. I am so set in my ways. It made me think. Are we setting ourselves up for failure cultivating individualism and expecting romance? Are the two utterly incompatible? My naturally evolving 5-year-plans have always involved my career, geographic locations and more general happiness of self. They changed a little bit with age, because as a woman, your biological clock start ticking and it has a voice. I am finishing my bachelor this year. If I take a year off to work and then start my masters, I will be done at twenty-six. That is when I am going to start my career. It all sounds so perfect to my twenty-three year old self. Then the voice starts: Yes, well do you want to start having children early? You don’t want to be one of those old moms, plus you know you want at least two, etc. I have always known I want children in my life. I am continuously described as motherly. I am the one who takes care of people in my group of friends. My roommate calls me mom. At the same time, why did I just spend a hundred grand on my bachelors if I am not even going to have an exceptional career? You see, everything is so selfish and self-centered. My reflections revolve around me. How another person is going to fit into this mess baffles me.

The old man spoke the truth, so loudly. Both Ana and I giggled, knowing that our only other option would be to cry. The two of us said our goodbyes shortly after and proceed to drink two bottles of wine. We tried to get it all out, the advice, the heartache. We sat and complained for hours about simply wanting a guy to be normal. We were not asking for much, were we? Still at one moment, the old man’s words resonated in both our heads. Were we being hypocrites? Were we pretending that all we wanted was someone to be there, but then when someone was we felt suffocated? Are we choosing them? All of these incapacitating thoughts just magically appear. So you take another sip, and then a very long sigh. We did not have to say it, we knew. Her and I are similar when it comes to love. And I do not mean to say that everyone is like this; I cannot even begin to generalize about such things. Yet when I am in love, I know it. I know it is true and real. And when I feel that, nothing is too hard. Nothing is too far, too long, too impossible. It is an incredible feeling that takes me, at the deepest of my guts, in the dark, secret corners of my soul.

The reason Ana and I did not need to discuss this is because we both knew how rarely it happened to us and how unfair life is. She could see in my eyes I was too weak to withstand this reality. I had fallen in love and it had been taken away from me, like a rug from under me, making me crumble to my feet violently, crashing onto concrete. The plan revolves around me. The reality is very different. Plans are useless, actually. You know that cheesy cliché line: life is what happens while you’re busy making plans. Well, it is cliché because it is true. I think the old man’s words are true. I think that is why we fear our own hypocrisy. We realize we complain about being afraid to let people in, and then we are afraid to let them out. We miss and hate a person at the same time. Ana and I took another sip, looking at each other.

Is it possible to miss a step somewhere and miss out on everything? Can it all be just bad timing? If I am capable of love, but the men I meet are not or are not capable of it for me, can it all be because I skipped a beat? If I planned everything correctly, did everything right, should I not be getting something in return? Of course I am not expecting anything to fall in my lap; I am willing to work so hard. As I write this, it all sounds so guilt absolving. I am not trying to say that nothing is my fault and that I never did anything wrong in my life. That is far from the truth. I am just trying to understand what it is I am supposed to learn from this last tragic fall. That there are fickle people in the world? That nothing that feels too good to be true ever is?

When he started talking about her, I knew, I felt it. His tone was different; he smiled more. He denied it time and time again. When he finally saw it, said it, it knocked the life out of me. He was not just leaving me for her; he was in love with her. This reality of his love for me being fake or lesser was the epitome of brutality. I knew it. I felt it. Just like I had felt it with John. I never liked one of his coworkers. I never trusted her. The last few months of our relationship he spent sleeping with her. Both these men have plenty of female friends and exes. I was never jealous about anyone else but those two women who ended up fucking up my life. My instincts are still telling me that they wanted to screw me, that both of them were manipulative bitches. My heart tells me: who the fuck cares? It’s the men in your life that are not worthy. There are always going to manipulative bitches in the world.

Maybe there is no lesson to be learned. Maybe I will always see the red flags and love will keep me blind. Maybe my female intuition is more about telling you she was right, not helping. I can understand how that could be frustrating to men. I am learning how to take each hit as it comes. I am learning how to stand up again and keep trusting that I will know a love like the old man’s. I am also learning that beautiful things do happen in this world. My timing, however bad, never bores me, whatever that is worth. That may even be the lesson: learning, always and everywhere. That weekend Ana introduced me to a man, who for a day, accepted me and “loved” me in that moment, for everything that I was. I told him my secrets; I let him into my fucked up head. He smiled and embraced me. It was magical in its sincerity and genuineness. I keep learning and loving the people in my life, for whatever they bring me. Each smile of mine, I dedicate to them.

I was not in love for four years. I felt that lack quite starkly at times. I would get very sad and feel empty. Some nights, I just burst out in tears for no reason. I remember on one particular occasion, there was a very handsome man in my bed and I woke up in the middle of the night from a dream. I do not remember what it was about but I was panicked. He was sleeping soundly and he was a sight for sore eyes. Yet I was having a mild anxiety attack. I wrapped myself in a blanket, and quietly opened the balcony door. I lit a cigarette and tried to sob silently. As I looked over, I knew he never was and never would be mine. I am not even sure I wanted him to. I was not in love with him. I was in need of falling in love. He had potential. He would have made the perfect candidate for the college fling that I so craved. I came back into bed and he made room for me in his sleep. He put his arm around me, hugging me tight. It felt so good.

It is funny to realize you never know what life has in store. I felt this need for love, for a boyfriend mostly when I was at home, bored of my daily routine. Next to all of my loved-up friends, I just felt cursed. I rarely realized how truly lucky I was to be single all that time and fortunate enough to travel to globe. In the summer of 2010, I returned to New York City to visit friends. I needed to refuel on the city’s energy. It was a perfect weeklong layover, on my way home to Europe. The Big Apple has always been a very lucky city for me. When I am there, incredible things happen to me. It is just fascinating what such a high concentration of all sorts of people can create.

On my second night of the week, my friends and I went to grab a bite at a trendy hotel bar near Columbus Circle. Within minutes, we were chatted up by this mysterious figure sitting across from me, a few seats over. I had noticed him right away. He had long wavy blond hair and a beard that made him look a lot older than he was. He mentioned he was from Geneva and my friends thought it fitting we exchange contact information, so as to meet up once I got home. He stood up and I was left to gaze at his tall figure, swiftly walking away in his beige linen suit.

That night my friends and I moved on to a cool bar in the meatpacking district. Amongst the 9 million inhabitants of NYC, I managed to bump into my Vancouverite friend’s long lost love. I recognized him from pictures she had shown me. I approached him inquisitively and we called her together. I actually heard her fall off her couch. My timing is at times incredibly ridiculous. That of all the people and places, this man and I would happen to be at the same bar on a random Wednesday night is just unbelievable. We chatted about her, the world being so small at times and all things New York.

The next morning I received a message from the man from Geneva. His name was Robert*. He wanted to let me know that it had been a pleasure meeting me. Flattered, I considered my options. My friend was busy that night, so I asked him what his plans were, thinking what the hell? He suggested we meet at his hotel, which was only a couple of blocks away from my friend’s house. We then hopped in a cab to some shady area downtown to a taco joint his friend was opening.  His friends were nice and the evening was going pleasantly. We stayed there much longer than expected and since neither of us had made proper plans, we decided it was safest to go back to the club in his hotel. After a couple of drinks and some dancing, things got a little heated. We were both on holiday and invigorated by our adventures. When it was clear we wanted more from each other, he confessed being on a business trip and having the misfortune of sharing his room with a colleague.

Faced with this conundrum, we continued making out on the dance-floor until we could not bear it anymore. A hunt for good sex locations then started. We began with the handicapped stall on the main floor. This soon showed to be a highly demanded facility and we were forced to relocate. After some wandering, we stumbled unto a staff room on his floor. It looked like a concrete box, full of linens and ironing equipment. It is insane how romantic it all seemed when we were horny. He laid down a robe on the floor and took a little plastic wrapper out of his pocket. We managed to have successful, though awkward coitus in this little hole in the wall. I cannot even grasp how long we were in there. The mixture of alcohol, lack of windows and general NYC craziness renders all of this a bit of a blur. I cannot however forget the poor cleaning lady that walked in on my bare ass, and his face buried in my neck, peeking at her from under my hair.

Interrupted and brought back to reality, we walked down to the café, which had a beautiful patio at the base of huge brick walls with vines climbing all over them. We drank our coffees and were very affectionate, though sleepy. He then pointed out that it was about 7am and the rooftop was due to open its doors. So we waited, full of anticipation for the greatness that was about to occur. We got up there and it was grandiose. The colors of the sunrise were still tainting the skyscrapers. The view was simply breathtaking. We sat on one of those lounge chairs for a bit, embracing the moment before it seized us again. We were in awe of the simplicity of this physical intimacy. We knew little about each other. Merely we were both enjoying creating these memories; we had a mutual agreement to make the most of the beauty of the moment.

Some memories remain in your head somewhat foreign. They are present, yet feel like it was perhaps a dream or part of a movie you once saw. This memory is like that.   The bathroom on the rooftop was a little house, with a window overlooking the Manhattan skyline. It quickly became clear to us that we had hit the jackpot. The privacy of this little niche, tangled with the exposure to the whole city through the window, made this scene purely incredible. His hands on my hips, cheek by cheek, we reveled in this moment, where every thrust was a dab into the city.

I came home to my friend’s house and she awoke full of enquiries. I showered and changed, catching up with her over coffee. As she was getting ready to head out, Robert texted me to meet him again. He wanted to take me to my favorite flee-market, and so we went. He was wearing bright green pants and a ridiculous amount of accessories. Picture a blond, Nordic looking Johnny Depp attire, in color. It was a nice day. I remember feeling the way I did that time, two years previous, in the park with that kid from Kentucky. Intimacy and comfort with a total stranger, absolutely no strings attached.

That trip is just an example of my luck with that city. I saw Robert again in Geneva. He had lost all of his charm and we had no beautiful moment to connect with anymore. I never regretted seeing him again. It did not taint the memories, because the magic was in the moment. Some wonderful people were met that week. We were accidentally let into very exclusive places, without having to ever pretend. It gave me the sense that I was absolutely to come back to New York. The city was one day going to be my playground. And it would be fabulous.

A while back, after a semi-long dry spell, my girlfriends made it clear that they had had enough of my whining. I have always discussed every detail of my sex life with my friends. They probably did not need to know everything but I think it has brought us to some very intriguing conversations. Everyone needs a little widening of horizons, don’t you think? To remedy this dreadful situation, a couple of the girls and I went to a party. It was not the best but enough alcohol was consumed and the night was not half bad. I picked up a guy and decided to bring him home. After a month of sexual inactivity, I just needed a good pounding. You know, the kind that just leaves you clueless as to where up is anymore? I wanted to play with that line between pleasure and pain, so as to lose myself in the moment completely. Unfortunately the guy I had picked up turned out to be sweet and gentle. I could not be more disappointed! While he was slaving away, trying really hard to show me a good time, I was just saddened by the whole ordeal. What a spoilt bitch! You are thinking, after a dry spell, any sex is good. Well, sometimes you just need a big dick. His was not the smallest; he knew he had to work a little bit harder than other guys. It just was not what I was in for, and there was no making up for it. Sometimes you just need a good pounding.

Do not misunderstand me. When I say pounding, I mean good old unemotional, raw fucking. By no means does this entail porn sex. For instance, I was hooking up with this actor for a couple of weeks. It did not last because he had this unbearable habit of narrating our sexual encounters. He would say things like: “Oh yeah, tell me you want my dick inside your pussy; tell me how fucking wet you are when I’m fucking your pussy.” EWW. Again, do not get me wrong: dirty talk can be sexy. In this case, it was the absolute worst. First of all he did not even try to make me wet. He assumed I was just in a constant state of wanting him. (Really?) Second, he was under the impression that it was up to him to fuck me. Fucking should always be mutual. Guys here is a hint, if you are not even a little bit concerned for the body underneath you, there is a high chance she is not having a good time. And who knows? She might write about how bad it was in a book some day. In any case, porn-inspired sex is bullshit. Unless it was a scenario agreed upon beforehand, you need to know where my clit is and pay attention to it—close attention. As far as my “pussy” is concerned, don’t use that word unless explicitly asked. It is one thing to have Miguel ask me to dedicate my vagina to him in those words; it is another to objectify the source of your pleasure.

I am not going to sit here and tell you that objectification is not part of our everyday sex lives. I once picked up a total stranger in a late night chip-place in Dublin doing just that. He was sitting at a table close to the counter. As I was approaching, actively appraising the specimen that was in front of me, I exclaimed:  “I like the size of his arms.” I said this in my best, drunken slurring voice, to my friend who just burst out laughing. We had sex in his friend’s apartment’s bathroom that night. The summer before that, I chose to sleep with this guy I met in a bar in Croatia because his shirt matched the pattern of my skirt. I do not even remember either of those guys’ names. They just happened to be biologically endowed with tools that I needed for myself. However this furthers my point. The memory I have of Big Arms is quite similar to that of the actor: objectification = cheap gratification = measly sex.

Actually, I remember an exception. I was sleeping with a friend of mine for a couple of months. The sex was good. Not exceptional, but really good. He was funny, attentive and so beautiful. Yes, I mean beautiful. The intentional objectification of his body and handsomeness lead me to wake up unexpectedly pretzeled, as I say, around him. Being usually averse to cuddling outside of emotional relationships, with him, I just wanted to be a part of that hotness, time and time again. His skin was soft; so was his personality. I remember laughing a lot with him. It was handy to have someone so easy going fulfill my single girl’s needs. We remain friends to this day. We probably know way too much about each other. Strangely, he is the one human being who has become a part of my little family, like a little brother, that I would still sleep with, were I given the chance. It just feels like tapping into an already existing intimacy, if that makes sense. When he drunkenly grabs me around the waste, I feel tingles. Yet I want him to experience the world’s best and build his own bridges.

I say this is strange because I usually differentiate between my friends, who I will not or am done sleeping with, and my hookups. The pretty one willingly lies somewhere in the grey zone. I will never forgive myself however, for sleeping with one of my “strictly friends ”—let us call him Jerry. I live my life on the motto that remorse is far better than regret. I would rather be on my deathbed thinking, “wow, I did a lot of random shit”, than thinking what if? Jerry, I should have never slept with. Our relationship has never been the same since. We had a very good dynamic; we went on friend dates and consoled each other in all matters of our depressing love lives. That night I got exceptionally drunk, perhaps the worst I have ever been. The pits about my being blacked out that night were the flashes. I remember distinctively—I kissed him. I started it, I furthered it and I ended it. We spent the day after on his couch, watching a movie and eating pizza. It only dawned on me, what had happened, when I was on the bus of shame home. I called my friend and freaked out. I realized I had crossed my own line, broken my own rule. When you have as little traditional no-no’s as I do, it feels especially bad to know you cannot even respect the lines you drew yourself. To this day, I cannot distinguish between the sex and the transgression. I cannot objectively and honestly tell you what the sex was like. I just know in my heart that it was wrong.

When you are single, the star does not point north. It points towards sex. These stories entertain my coupled-up friends. They live vicariously through the excitement. Well bad sex itself, unlike the stories it produces, is not so exciting. It leaves you frustrated and lonely. I realize I seek comfort in other people. It makes me feel less alone. I set myself up for failure sometimes, like with Big Arms. In cases like those, I was consciously entering in unsatisfying transactions. There is that expected disappointment again. It is so philosophically contradictory, yet so instinctive. In other cases, with the pretty one for example, it was the comfort of a friend, a lover and a penis. The object, the role and the affection of the other coincided into making all loneliness disappear. It eventually rears its ugly head again. That is why we seek love. I think perpetual bachelors and single gals suffer from this equally. That is why we consistently make the mistakes our loved-up friends so often warn us about. We know we have no control over our love lives. But sex, sex you can control. Being single in college gave me the stories I am sharing with you today, and I would not change them for the world. All of these experiences taught me more about myself. For better or worse, my stories shaped me, and my friendships. They taught me about the infamous degrees of coexistence of emotions within me. They made it easier to cope with real heartbreak, when it eventually came back with a vengeance.

I shaved my legs because we agreed to meet at the lakeside sauna and steam room joint. I had not seen him in over a year and we were not that close before that either. We just both happened to need a good steam on a Friday after work, and why not catch up. We met at 5 o’clock. I was a bit early, so I sat on the other side of the building, my feet on the pebbles. I watched the lake and smoked a cigarette. It was one of those semi gray days, with little wind. It was quite peaceful actually. He arrived all smiles, happy to be finished with the workweek. He was quite tall, with broad shoulders. His hair was buzzed short to disguise the fact that he was balding. He had nice blue eyes, and dimples. He looked quite handsome to me, although I had never noticed before. We spent a good three hours in the Bains. We talked about all and nothing; we never ran out of conversation. He gave me a scrub in the steam room. Mostly he was focused on my back, being very careful not to appear touchy. This was very hot. I knew he wanted to touch me, and he did. Yet he kept me on my tippy toes, never overstepping the polite, though European, boundaries of my privacy.

As our afternoon was quite pleasant, we decided to continue to enjoy getting to know each other at a local bar. It was a bar I liked. Very casual, there were couches everywhere and hippy staff. I think we even drank coffee. Casual, as I said. We both got hungry rather fast. It was getting late and we were all sweaty and heavy from the baths. We both hesitated on what was going to happen next. Since it was never a romantic ordeal in the first place, we decided it was not too inappropriate to grab a baguette, some cheese and a bottle rosé, and go back to his. We ate, drank, and listened to music overlooking the entirety of Geneva. The jet d’eau was beaming.

Suddenly Damien Rice came one and everything stilled. It was one of those slow-motion moments, where he leaned in and gravitated half a centimeter from my mouth for what felt like an eternity. The “Moroccan corner”, as he called the veranda, was furnished by a couple of floor lamps, lots of pillows, and a blowup couch. It all sounds so cheap and mundane now. At the time though, it was magical as hell. He kissed me finally and it was like an explosion of energy occurred. I was turned on by the transgression. It was probably my youth, my body and my excitement that aroused him. I cannot say I remember the sex that well; it was a long time ago. I do remember walking home, at around 5:30am. It had officially been my first 12hour date- that was not even one to begin with.

At 2pm, Lea* called me very upset. I had totally forgotten we were supposed to meet for coffee and she had come all the way to Geneva. So I got up, totally unsure of what had happened the night before, and put one whatever clothes I could gather into a decent outfit at my father’s place. As I walked towards the coffee shop, I wondered how far I had gone last night. The man was two decades older than me. I was still a teenager. Lea, as per her usual, was waiting for me reading the newspaper’s trash section, scratching her head underneath her luscious red hair. When she saw me, one of her eyebrows raised, preparing to playfully scold me. Before I had the time to say anything, she looked at me and said: “Please, please, please tell me you didn’t.”

That one-night-stand turned into my only two-year relationship. How did I not see the disaster coming, you ask? It is as simple as being eighteen, and listened to for the first time. I will always thank Lea for not completely shutting down on me when I started repeatedly hooking up with John*. I could tell it made her uncomfortable, but that she was trying her hardest to stay as open-minded as she possibly could- for me. Even when the scenarios got so fucked and weird due to our huge age difference, Lea would listen to me laugh and cry and try to give me the best advice that she could.

The twelve-hour date was sometime in April. In September, I was due to embark on my solo eight-month trip around the world. He was being relocated through work in June. The circumstances indicated perfect conditions for reoccurring sex, however morally wrong, no strings attached. What could happen, I thought? He is leaving. I am leaving. Why not have some fun in the meantime? (It seems I have not learned this lesson yet.) What happened is I screwed myself over. We stayed together until I moved to Canada for university, just short of two years later. Oh how Dickens was right. It was indeed the best and the worst of times. For the first six months, it was idyllic. We were in love and managed to see each other at least every second weekend, no matter the distance. As I landed in New York City, for the first stop of my world tour, my phone rang. “Baby, I’m coming to see you on Friday.” I was jumping up and down in the airport, not believing my luck. He had been so attentive and wonderful; this ought to be simply dreamlike, I thought. It turns out travelling is best done alone. It was the worst four days of our relationship till that point. We could not agree on anything. Our interests could not be more different. And no amount of hotel room sex could fix it. I spent my remaining two weeks in New York, trying to explore. Half of the time I was on the phone trying to explain to him that I, in fact, was not cheating.

That is the thing about jealousy. Only those who would cheat are paranoid. Do not get me wrong: a certain dose of jealousy is healthy. Certainly at times it is just the expression of your inner signals, protecting you. In his case however, he was persuaded that because he had a wandering eye, I must have too. Well I really do not. I never have and doubt that I ever will. Remember that undying loyalty? Yeah, well it bites me in the ass time and time again. The thing is, because I am faithful, I never bothered to ask what he was spending his time doing. I assumed he was working and missing me. In any case, the New York episode was the beginning of the end. We stayed together for another year or so, including a trip to New Zealand with his kid, baby-mama, new husband and their baby. But that is a story for another day.

Anyway, my three weeks in New York were still rewarding. I met an incredible amount of fascinating people. I met one of the last people to own a houseboat in a marina on the Upper West side. I had dozens of roommates in my little shabby hostel, some of which I am still in touch with. I love that about hostels; the more you frequent them, the more you start being familiar with total strangers, growing tired of forced, faked introductions. I had lunch in Central Park with a black guy from Kentucky. I remember it because we both sat comfortably in silence, content to be together and alone, at the same time.

The reason I say my relationship with John screwed me over is because after it was done, there was no going back to regular early twenties flings. I entered at my young age of eighteen into a real relationship, with real problems and big decisions. He was going to move for me. I lived with him when I was visiting him in Hungary. I had to invest all of my being into being a twosome, with a lot of baggage. When it ended, I remember distinctively smoking a cigarette in the open halls of my building. As I was looking at the moon, I remember thinking: “I could so easily fuck up right now.” I was completely on my own for the first time, well, ever, on the other side of the planet, doing something completely new. I mean I had just travelled alone for eight months, but he was always nearby, his name shining on my phone. In Vancouver, I thought well if there ever was a time to be at risk of a seriously violent crash and burn, that was it. Luckily, I got up on my feet and swallowed my tears. A whole identity to be built, I considered what it all meant. I was truly alone for the first time. But mostly, I was single and about to start college.

After two years, my arms were on someone else. These shoulders were new. They were lower. His lips touched mine differently. His embrace was heavenly, yet ever so foreign. Still his touch was so intoxicating. He paid attention to me. He was surprised by my total surrender. He once told me that what he recalled from that night was my untamed energy. That night was my first rebound after my first and only long-term serious relationship. His name was Joe*. He liked my curves. His hands fit tightly around both my ass cheeks and did not like to let go. We were both looking for extreme proximity. The least space between us the better. His hands helped him glide inside me as deep as possible. Later he pulled me towards him by my hair. As he thrust into me, I pushed myself closer onto him. With every gesture, I could see his eyes studying my uncalculated moves. I must have looked so liberated, yet inexperienced. I did not care though. He looked at me like I was the greatest thing that ever kneeled on top of him, and that was all I needed.

I first imagined this moment one morning in geography class. I did not expect much of my science requirement, let alone handsome men. I had noticed him from the first day; he sat two rows in front of me. As he retreated, I advanced, getting closer as the weeks went by. Less than a month into classes, we sat next to each other and had chatted each other up. He had a tattoo on each forearm that he kept staring at. It was something about changing perceptions, he said. He was quiet. I am not usually interested in quiet people; they baffle me. He, like the artist in a way, had a manner about him that made a very loud impression. His eyes were blue, with dashes of grey. His demeanor was nonchalant, sometimes even somewhat defeated. His soul, however…

The morning after my tragic yet impending, long-distance break-up, I showed up to class discombobulated. He looked me in the eye and said: “What’s wrong?” To which I replied, matter-of-factly: “I got dumped last night.” (Nowadays, this seems to be something that happens to me quite a bit.) He grabbed my hand so, so, so tightly. He did not let go for what felt like an eternity. This human contact was exactly what I needed and I did not even know it. He saw through me. It was just as if he had known me for ever, better than I even knew myself at that point. His touch and his strong intent to be there were my savior. He knew nothing, yet he knew everything. Something about human misery is so universal that when you are in touch with your deepest darkest feelings, you can communicate with those who are as well.

A couple of days after the most affecting hand gesture to date, we progressed in our relationship over vodka at 10am. We had both had a hard day. I remember sitting on my couch, looking at him, feeling uneasy about how comfortable it all was. We laughed, and sat there silently. It was as if all of our worries had just vanished, just the way the vodka did down our throats. Isn’t it funny how the brain remembers selectively but leaves you an incredible amount of detail? I have no idea what happened before I was standing in front of him that night, in his dark one bedroom, attempting not to crumble at each kiss. I remember not once thinking of the ex. I remember standing naked at his sliding glass door, smoking. I was thinking of nothing. Or rather there were so many different thoughts going on in my head that I was totally and utterly unable to discern one from another. I felt him move and it was reassuring to know he was still there. I had almost forgotten where I was, consumed by my new feelings of self. Then, completely by surprise, his hands were on my hips. He pulled me just an inch closer, and ever so delicately laid the sweetest of kisses, on my right hip. I looked down. He smiled and gestured a very familiar motion. I gave him a puff. We exhaled together, and I returned to lie next to him. He gave me another kiss. I remember distinctively smelling whiskey on his breath. It was comforting somehow. Then I fell asleep.

We still talk and I hope we will meet again one day. The sexual energy between us just does not seem to waver and we both like it. It is nice to know that however many miles away, someone somewhere still dreams of fucking you senseless.

When a girl goes through a breakup that she did not initiate, it is expected of her by society to go a little crazy. When she gets very needy, depressed, or plays Adele on repeat and lives on a diet of red wine and Marlboro lights, nobody winks an eye. Men, however, we expect to silently and privately sulk. We do not ask too many questions, a tap on the shoulder will suffice. So, in order to avoid putting on 15lbs and watching sob movies, I threw myself in this project, long lasting dream of mine, to tell my stories. Well my story today starts here, on a patio overlooking the Mediterranean, in the mere company of a bottle of Bordeaux and a pack of cheap Marlboro lights. My head full of thoughts and my heart ready to crawl back into its shelter, are both fighting for control of my being.

I would like to start by telling you who I am, but words are very peculiar creations that one needs to be very careful with. As such, I will leave you the liberty of deciding on your own which characteristics you would like to assign me. See when you go through a crisis that shatters even the smallest part of your identity, as a woman, you try to define yourself anew. Who am I now? What has this experience taught me? What has changed? You repeat whichever rationalization suits the day: everything happens for a reason, it was not meant to be, etc. Then you start your new mantra: I will be stronger for it, I will love like I have never been hurt before regardless, tomorrow is a new day! Everyone has its own version of this self-taught healing process, protection mechanism.

In my case, my head decided to ask my heart what it was that made me unworthy of this last failed relationship. After having been so careful, even subconsciously so, not to enter into wasteful, meaningless relationships that serve the sole purpose of filling a void for five years, my heart finally deemed someone worthy. And when that happens, your heart blocks your head from all these years of expected disappointment and you are left powerless to this intrusion. Blissfully vulnerable, you see the red flags, but no matter. You are powerless. Thus, when it comes crashing, due to no fault of your own, your head becomes this hotbed of guilt, remorse and over-thinking, whilst your heart wallows in sadness. So you cut your hair, shop yourself a new style, or start writing that book you always said you would.

Well, my stories revolve around the people I have had the fortune of encountering in my life. So I decided to ask them, you, what it is they looked for, saw in their ‘someone special’. Since my heart could not tell me what the hell it was thinking, my head took over and wanted stats. This experience was ever-so fascinating. You have to keep in mind that my research pool, however biased, was mostly university-educated, Western liberal, and open. These are men from various generations and socio-cultural backgrounds, who have seen the world to greater or lesser degrees. They have overwhelmingly said that the number one quality their ‘one’ had to possess, was intelligence. My cynical edge cannot help itself to ask whether this result is due to a consensus amongst men that not enough women seem to show this quality. Equally at second place, men showed to want their woman to be attractive, confident and have a sense of humor. They also wanted us energetically adventurous.  Further, most men said they needed us to show a sense of drive, but also kindness and compassion. Strangely, the same number of men told me that they need their woman to have eyes that saw through them, as those who spoke of the importance of breasts. Cooking skills came before honesty, or passion. Many other qualities were mentioned but not to bore you, I will summarize. Sex was almost never directly addressed. Connection and compatibility where completely ignored. Patience and understanding were barely mentioned. Some appreciated great smiles and culture, whilst others required creativity and nice legs. Inner beauty was formulated in many different ways, as was a certain ability to dream.

And? So what? How many women do you know that fit that bill? Oh yes you know plenty. At least, I do. And what happens to those women? Well, they suffer. These women are the ones who do not take all your money after the divorce; they do not want or need anything with your name on it. See, as a good friend of mine said, I call bullshit on the part of men. Malcolm Gladwell said something like everyone wants strong black coffee, but who actually orders it? See I think that mean forgot to think about what they need from their woman. They thought of what their woman should be. You know, that checklist. That stupid remnant of another century that we were taught by our parents, who were taught by their parents, that your partner ought to fulfill a certain amount of needs so that the townspeople would be satisfied with your marital union. Guess what! Their divorce rates were low, because no one would grant them a divorce. You would be shunned. I think, and this is my humble opinion, that men do not know what they want. I think they think they want something, when what they do want is something else, but in the end they cannot be sure, so they do something totally other still. They lie, but they lie to themselves. They want their women confident, smart, funny. But when they are, they cannot deal with it. I think, the number one quality men should have asked for is, for their women to be missing something. This infamous savior complex consumes our society, from colonialism to relationships.

A damaged woman you can save. One that saves you reminds you of your mother, and god knows we have mother issues. In a society where patriarchy is a relic of the past, and matriarchy is unfathomable, we have no ground to stand on when it comes to care and authority. My life is as testimony of a generation so misunderstood, trapped in the fastest-changing era the world has ever seen. Call us the millennials, the crappy, self-involved generation that will never achieve anything. How different are we really? We have just been granted our parents wishes. We live in a world constructed by the dreams of our elders. Yet we are told our lives are spent wondering about useless, trivial segments of living. I do not wish to blame the generations previous, or assign blame of any kind for that matter. They have achieved miracles for us. I am just noticing that our stars stopped pointing north and we are left to ourselves. So if we do not talk to each other, something so easy to do nowadays, no wonder we fuck up.

I think I suffer from this lack of compass pointing north most when it comes to my sexual expression. My mother was with a handful of men at most. My other female role models were also what we would today call prudes. If they were not, I certainly never heard a word of it. The problem is we still celebrate Don Juan’s and call a woman with a high number of partners a slut. However too few render a woman a prude. So where is this idyllic middle ground? Anyway, the answer to that question does not really interest me. I was never one for middle grounds. You are in or you are out. Naturally then my number exceeds most those I know of. The fact that I am proud and confident in that matter actually puts me into trouble. I am smart about it too. There is no drama due to my sexcapades in my life. The trouble then, is in precisely men’s lies. I have nothing missing.

I could see his fullback tattoo on the mirror ceiling. I could see myself underneath him, my nails clawing his back. It was doubling the feeling, when he touched the very end of me. The Weeknd was playing in the background. And I’m gon’love you girl, the way you need. His thrusts were so intentional and deep. They synced to the music. His breath was caressing my neck, driving my senses to oblivion. The smell of paint in the studio and our bodies mingling was intoxicating. I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here. So let me muthafuckin’ love you. And so I let him.

We met at a part-time work thing I did. He was wearing his uniform, white shirt and black pants, bowtie and hair slicked back. There was pain in his eyes—this mystery and passion that could devour you in one glance. I told my girlfriend: he’s mine tonight. I made no excuses. I took the long way around to drive him home. There, in my new car, I untied my hair, innocently. He took the bite. We walked his dog… the anticipation building between us. I could not stop staring into his eyes; brown with a tinge of red they were. Once at his bedside, he undressed me, with care and attention. He observed and got to know every single inch of me. We fucked. Several times. It was the kind of raw humanity you only get from a complete stranger, in a private room with no view. Whilst I was having my post-coital cigarette, he looked at me. The mystery was still there, but there was a newfound longing. He let me care for him, in that moment. He was grateful in his behavior, his hands never leaving my skin. He held me that night.

We were never an item. He was my escape and I was probably just guarantied gratification. We had an unspoken agreement. We asked no questions, answered simply when we were available. It was magical to feel so intimate yet so far removed from someone else. To know you are a part, however slight, of someone’s life is an underrated, undervalued occurrence. He was an artist. I could tell by his attention to detail in the moment, and his subsequent complete detachment. He lived in his mind and heart; he shared only his body with me. But how those limbs spoke to me. They showed me everything I needed to know, exactly the way I needed to be told. We lived every single one of those random nights at its fullest, him under the influence, me under his. I felt like a woman in his eyes. You know, like a full-blown woman, with her flaws and qualities, that each served their purpose. I did not need anything in his arms. I was never in love with him. His energy was my drug. I will always hold a very fond memory of him, and his bottomless eyes that provoked in me ecstasy and sorrow simultaneously, yet so soothingly.