And Another One Can’t Bite the Dust

Tonight’s the night. And it’s going to happen again and again and again. Here in Barcelona we dine at 11 and do not arrive at the clubs until 2; perfect for my nocturnal nature. Manhattan has just been put to shame. Drugs aren’t controversial here because of all of the bigger fish to fry. This place is perfect for my sexual addiction. I walk into a club in which I am inevitably surrounded by American males. Everything seems perfect, but the truth is that these boys have no appreciation for my craving. People such as myself develop addictions because we just can’t get enough. In order to preserve my addiction, I mustn’t let it go sour and use it on people who would make me hate sex. I have tried to not be so harsh on the American collegiate boys here in Barcelona, but each time I find myself debating whether or not I should report another pair of missing testicles. The good American boys on this trip are needles hiding in haystacks. Finding one feels like winning the lottery. I have never won a lottery, which explains why I compare it to finding a needle. Every night I’ve been pairing myself with a stack of hay that shines like a needle in the dark and only reveals its true self when I get into a cab with it. At 5am every morning the clouds open up and God says, “I hate you, Isabella.”

On one night I find myself going home with a very attractive male named Hurly who seems like promising prey. I ask him if we would be able to smoke and he tells me his apartment has weed. Perfect, I think, tonight’s the night. He seems extremely coherent which is a relief. We arrive at his apartment and he picks up a zip lock bag with maybe a bowlful of crushed up weed dying at the bottom corner. He has no bowl, so he rolls the nickel-sized amount of weed into a joint that looks more like the dirty chopped off top of a soggy piece of asparagus. Next thing I know is four more roommates arrive to share the asparagus scrapping. I tell him I have weed at my apartment, realizing as the words come out of my mouth that I rarely welcome a male to have sex in my own bedroom. He agrees to come. Shit, this better be good.

We pass my bowl back and forth on the living room couch, a thin wall away from the master bedroom in which a boyfriend and girlfriend sleep. Yes, Adriana and I live with a 20-year old couple whom I call Fred and Ginger. Fred and Ginger share everything from a bank account to a bed to the clusters of oxygen they inhale. At 9pm every night I can count on hearing Ginger sing, ”Dinner’s ready, honey,” down the hall. Don’t get me wrong— they’re lovely people. I just don’t want to be a part of their intimacy; it’s inappropriate. If the tiny beds weren’t sexually suppressing enough, living with Fred and Ginger has felt like a stab in the vagina. That’s one of the reasons why Adriana and I are moving out. But until then, Hurly and I have a bowl to kill. And with Spanish marijuana, one bowl is more than enough for the two of us.

After 5 minutes I start to realize that Hurly isn’t verbally responding to my questions anymore. I look into his red eyes and see nothingness. I ask him if everything is alright. He barely makes out, “I’m…real..ly..hi..gh.” Fuck. I smile my angelic smile, “Okay, maybe you need 10 minutes to just chill, I’ll be right back.” I go into my room and just sit there, twiddling my thumbs and waiting. I’m hoping he snaps out of it; I really don’t feel like dealing with this. I don’t know how to responsibly host my prey and I really don’t intend to have to find out. 10 minutes later I leave my bedroom, pass through the hallway and cross through the dining room into the living room. I take a seat next to him on the couch, but he does not acknowledge me. I hopelessly start up a conversation again. He’s completely unresponsive. He looks even worse than what I call a blank bullet Xanax corpse. I don’t quite believe he is on Xanax, but whatever wheels he has turning in his head are definitely not going to translate into a language that my ears could decode. Great. What an idiot I was for leaving him there to rot for 10 minutes. Every true pothead knows that if you leave a high person to himself he’s just going to go further and further down the rabbit hole. What was I thinking? I look at him. Aside from his slouched back holding himself up, he isn’t functioning. I want him out, but Barcelona is a dangerous city. He probably does not know where the fuck he is. I don’t have the heart to ask him to leave. I tell him he can sleep on the couch and I’ll set my alarm early for him. I go into my room, masturbate, and pass out.

I wake up at 10am to that damn blackberry alarm that sounds like screeching death. I didn’t just set it early to kick out Hurly, I also wanted time to cook myself a hearty breakfast before class. I see my blackberry blinking with a message from Adriana saying, “Did you throw up last night?” Fuck. I pull the blanket over my head. I’m always aware of my limits and never over-drink. We true predators know that we must be coherent in order to satisfy our urges. The puke isn’t mine. I force myself out of bed. I barge open the bathroom door. No sign of vomit. Hmmm. I look down the long hallway past the dining room into the living room. I gaze at the far away table next to the couch. I spot my grinder, lighter, and bowl. I know what I have to do. I reluctantly pick up each leg after the next bringing myself closer and closer to the crime scene. I cross the invisible border between the dining room and living room. There it is: a waterfall of what looks like maroon colored cottage cheese flowing down the couch into an ocean of more maroon cottage cheese on the floor. I spend my entire breakfast hour cleaning it up. This child projectiled his insides onto my apartment and left without bothering to clean it up. I offered him a place to stay and this is is how he repaid me? When I am subjected to clean up somebody’s insides, that somebody no longer maintains any human value in my eyes. Well, this guy certainly fulfilled his wish to make the blog. But how the hell did I become a babysitter?

On another night I find a cute boy with an endearing pot belly wandering outside the bar. His name is Bobby. I had met him at a hotel pregame from orientation a week before. He looks like a lost puppy and I cannot resist but invite him into my cab. He tells me he has lost his phone and looks like he is about to cry. He says he is happy to have company and would like to smoke a J with me. Excellent. He’s so
vulnerable, I love it. We get back to his apartment and blaze. Of course this is all too good to be true. Every time we start to develop more and more chemistry, he breaks the streak and verbally mourns for his lost blackberry. On the one hand I understand that he feels irresponsible and guilty, but on the other there is an attractive girl sitting across from him willing to get naked. I’m about to start to act on my craving and get this show on the road, but then he tells me he needs to skype with his ex girlfriend. Right. That’s my cue to go.

These are just two of many unfortunate stories that go through my head as Adriana and I ride a cab to tonight’s pregame. Tonight’s the night, I reassure myself. Adriana and I meet up with my Michigan friend and her awesome roommates who make me never want to see Fred and Ginger again. They tell me that they made the decision not to disclose to the boys upstairs whom we are about to pregame with who I am and what I do. How refreshing! Unbiased meat!

During the pregame, I meet an eccentric fellow named David who is tall and has a hairy chest. He has a metro-sexual dialect, but the shit that comes out of his mouth is so hilarious that I’m able to block out the way he talks. I ask him my usual question that I often ask boys in order to get an amusing reaction, “Do you ever shave designs into your chest hair?” He answers, “Yes, I have shaved the numbers 24, 23, 22, 5…” and gives me explanations for each which I don’t care to remember. But the fact that he even had an answer to my question made me find
him weirdly interesting. It’s very hard to find boys who stand out in my EGC abroad program. Everybody looks the same! David brings me into his room and shows me an art piece he bargained for 15 euro on Las Rambas. We discuss the texture of the blue painting. I cannot tell if he is looking to have an actual conversation with me or just hear himself talk about art, but I go along with it because I find his intensity cute. Before the pregame splits up into cabs, David scans me onto his blackberry messenger. The girls tell me I should fuck the weirdo later. I agree. He has no idea who I am; this is wonderful. Tonight’s the night.

I meet up with David after the clubs and we smoke a blunt with some folks. He also decides to put on his favorite flick, Saturday Night Fever. After 10 minutes, he gets up from his chair, takes my hand, and brings me out of the living room into his bedroom. He sits on his bed in an Indian style position. I become a chameleon and do the same. He points to the line of toiletries situated above his closet but I’m not quite sure what in particular he is pointing at. “That’s my pharmacy,” he says. I see one or two miscellaneous medicine bottles. Does he have drugs?! Cocaine, Molly, anything to make him seem more attractive. I ask, “Oh, what do you have in your pharmacy.” “Oh, you know, everything that you need but can’t get in Spain. I should totally offer to sell my dove soap because it’s so in demand here. I’m going to make a dove black market, haha.” I burst into obnoxious laughter, but he thinks I am complimenting his god awful joke.

We then get into an intense conversation about how I don’t think monogamy is practical for most college students— my typical schpiel. He constantly nods so I am assuming we are on the same page. He then starts to lightly tickle my arm and hand and comments on my soft skin. I am not at all turned on, but I do inform him that I am an avid practitioner of moisturizing. Eventually he gets close and starts making out with me with his cotton mouth. I constantly raise my chin so that he just has to kiss my neck but he persists in kissing my mouth. I only tend to kiss people whom I have excellent chemistry with, but this guy insisted on staying close to my face. Gradually I take every article of clothing off as David continues to make out with me, hoping to signal to him that it’s time to get to business. He starts to lick my boobs very gently which I hate because it just feels like somebody is spreading his saliva all over my skin instead of really touching and groping me nice
and hard. He starts doing it all over and suddenly my upper body is a sink for his spit. “CAN YOU JUST FINGER ME ALREADY!” I blurt out frustratedly. He does it several times for about 3 seconds. What the fuck is going on here? He then goes back to spreading his saliva all over my sink. I am completely naked and he is fully clothed. He’s not fat so I’m not getting what he is trying to hide. I reach for his dick over his pants. I can’t feel a thing. So this is why he is still fully clothed.

He stops abruptly. “No, I can’t do this,” he says. “WHAT?” I retort. “I’m an upperclassman now. I fucked girls the first night a million times freshman and sophomore year. I don’t do this anymore. I need to grow up. I’m almost 21 years old. If we meet again another night, fine. But not the first night.” Is this guy for real? I just constantly repeat in my high state, “This is silly. This is silly…” I am at an absolute loss for words. This has never happened to me before, so I tell him, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard this excuse before.” “Well, I’m not like most guys.” No shit Sherlock, you’re not a heterosexual. And hey, I love all people of all different races, ethnicities, religions, and sexualities, but not when an individual in denial about who he is wastes my time and puts the burden on me. I get dressed dying to leave but he makes me sit back down on his bed in Indian style while enduring getting my arm fucking tickled. Tonight’s the night that celibacy decides to rape me in the anus once again.

Eventually we leave his bedroom and I give his roommates a weary look, wondering if they are aware of their roommate’s secret in the closet. We walk down the four flights of stairs of the broken-elevator apartment building. We encounter a guy on the stairs whose intellectuality impressed me very much several nights before; he is actually a friend of the lovely oral sex-loving Shaxxy D mentioned in
“The Recipient’s Manual of Etiquette” article. I try mouthing to him NOOOOOO but I don’t know if it translated well. David and I exit the building and he walks me to a cab. As he is shutting the cab door behind me, he says, “Goodbye, BLOG GIRL.” “What?” What the fuck. “What?” he mimics me, laughs, shuts the door, and walks back toward his apartment.

I’m frozen, but not frozen in the way David would like me to be. David rejected Isabella Bardou for the sole purpose of saying “I rejected Isabella Bardou.” Perhaps the reaction he wanted me to have was to finally feel defeated by somebody, which would assert his power over the rest of his Long Island peers. Unfortunately for him, though, I think like a guy, a heterosexual one at least, so I can easily detect his disguise. David, darling, when a pretty girl who happens to be a sex fiend is lying nakedly on your bed begging you to fuck her, “rejecting”
her doesn’t make you cool…it makes you a pussy (as much I hate to use that trashy term). I cannot fathom how it occurs to a person to try to “reject” a sex fiend in order to gain higher social status. This kid David thinks he’s still in high school. Is it not a known fact that you’re supposed to fuck a sex addict’s brains out?

Nobody gets it. I just want to fuck. Just give me a guy who’s decent looking, has a brain, has some experience, and actually gets a boner from touching my naked body. GET OVER THE BLOG. The blog isn’t about power and superiority. No matter what we do in life, we are all born equal because we will all humanly die. Let’s set the record straight: I write my blog because I am genuinely trying to change the attitudes of the people around me so that women can get a little more enjoyment out of life without feeling constrained by the current social “rules.” I’m not looking for an opportunity to have 15 minutes of fame among the American collegiate population. In the bigger picture, it’s not about me— it’s about everyone. This isn’t a gossip website for social climbers, it’s a blog for people who are truly interested in sex and share my love for it.

I’ve been told to be weary of the Spaniards. But the truth is, people who know who I am cannot handle it. The Spaniards are not going to try to rape me. I’m a sure thing; no need. So red rover red rover send the Spaniards right over.