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Sex/Life 38

“You are amazing. I love you” she whispered. I smiled and tidied up her fringe, stuck on her wet forehead. Stayed in silence, staring at her blushing face. HER face. The one who left me behind. The one who broke my heart. The one I had to imagine in other faces because I thought I'd never see her again. Her beautiful face, even more beautiful than every memory I had from her. And there she was, staring back at me. Finally together again, in the other side of the world.

A drop of my sweat fell right on her naked chest. She laughed and goosebumps rose all over her skin when I tenderly attempted to dry her up. “I love you too” I said.

Always have. Always will.

Tel-Aviv taxi

The driver looked back at my girlfriend in the rearview mirror. “Norwegian? No, no, we don't like Norwegians” he said roughly in his very basic English; “they only like Palestine and talk bad about Israel.” My gal, in her very polite Scandinavian custom, responded with a “but my boyfriend is Chilean.” The cab man changed his aggressive tone for a smile and said “oh, Chile! South America! Very good football! I like Chile!” I, condescendingly, replied “yeah, very good football.” Inside, I was laughing, ironically. If Israelis knew that Chile openly supports Palestine and has the largest Palestinian community outside of the Arab world, they would have treated me as bad as my girl. Ignorance is a blessing.

Love Trip, Episode 02: London, England.

What can I say about London? Not much, really. Only spent one and a half days there, so I'm not able to give an advanced talk on the city and everything related to it. But I can share some facts I saw during my stay. London is big, so it has a clock of similar proportions, The Big Ben. And lots of bridges. And very expensive beer. And many museums called “Tate”, of which I could only see the modern one.

London subway, a.k.a. “the Tube”, is massive, and has so many lines and colors that looking at its map makes you feel trapped in a fucking maze. Lucky me, I was with my girl. She definitely knew her way around. Well, didn't pick the hostel pretty wisely, but can't blame her. St Christopher's Inn sounded like a nice place, but ended up being shit. Mixing a busy pub with a hostel is not a great idea.

Anyway, and this may sound very shallow, there was something about London that got my attention: the racial variety. I mean, I know it's the 21st century and this shouldn't be a detail at all, but I come from the ass crack of the world. In Chile, there is no mix at all. We had our first black people 5 years ago, for fuck's sake! So, as you can imagine, London was a revelation. Variety wherever I looked, like being in a United Colors of Benetton ad. Amazing!

And, shallow as this comment is, I really liked the people in general over there. Most of them looked so good. Well dressed, fit, tidy. It was a real fashion capital. In Swansea, I felt so disappointed about the people there and their overall trashiness. “Where's the so called euro look?” I thought. But London was basically being in another world; a world of good looking citizens in which I felt a bit out of place. Ironically, many girls checked me out, which was new for me in Europe. The more multicultural the city, the more attractive you get? I don't know. Somebody should look into that.

And that's what I have to say about London. Huge city, very trendy and multicultural, with an apparently infinite subway and the most expensive pints of beer I've ever seen. Yeah, London is the shit. Chaotic, enormous, expensive and beautiful shit.

PS: I'm not joking about St Christopher's Inn, it is shit, and not in a good way -if there's any-!

Transatlántico. Capítulo 00: Expectativas.

Sinceramente, no sé que esperar de este viaje. Cruzar el Océano Atlántico, desde Chile a “las Europas,” no es algo que uno haga todos los días. De hecho, con suerte yo he salido de Chile algunas veces; volando en esos vuelos económicos que se sienten como viajar en un bus interprovincial, pero con alas y sin bingo a bordo. Y como si con cruzar la mitad del mundo, enfrentarme a las diferencias culturales e idiomas extraños no fueran suficiente, las razones que me llevan en esta travesía no son menores. Es un viaje de placer que, si bien de placentero tiene harto -reencontrarme con mi polola noruega después de un mes separados: ¡tiembla el Viejo Continente!-; también tiene un desafío bastante complicado: conocer a los suegros... y caerles relativamente bien.

Y pensar que hace un año, cuando conocí a mi polola, en mi cabeza sólo había conceptos genéricos de Noruega: nieve, salud y educación gratis, aborto legal, vikingos. Nada más. La cosa no ha cambiado mucho hasta ahora, un año después. Aún tengo miedo de que mi suegro, si no le caigo bien, va a tomar un hacha, decapitarme y clavar mi cabeza en una pica en la puerta de la casa, vikingo style.

Todo esto, más encima, en un contexto más raro que la cresta, partiendo por el viaje mismo. El itinerario no podría estar más alejado del clásico tour por Europa -Torre Eiffel, Big Ben, Coliseo romano- que hace la gente común y corriente -que puede pagarlo-. Mi vuelo parte de Santiago, hace una parada “corta” -espero- en Buenos Aires, y de ahí se pega un pique de 14 horas sobre el Atlántico hasta Amsterdam, Holanda. Ahí, luego de redibujarme la raya del poto con un plumón; deberé correr hasta el siguiente avión, que me llevará hasta Oslo, Noruega. Es ahí cuando la cosa se pondrá bastante rara.

En Noruega me reuniré por primera vez con uno de mis nuevos familiares políticos: mi cuñada, la hermana mayor de mi polola. Ella, luego del que asumo será un encuentro incómodo tipo “así es la cosa nomás, poh”, se encargará de alimentarme con un plato típico de la zona -salmón, ballena, o lo que sea que se coma por esos lados-; y se va a asegurar de que no me quede dormido a media tarde por lo extenuante del viaje y la diferencia horaria -unas 6 horas.

Al otro día, avión nuevamente; ésta vez a Londres. Pero de ver el Big Ben, el puente, la Reina y ese paso de cebra por el que cruzaron los Beatles, nada. No, ahí en Londres no alcanzaré a estar más de una hora. Tengo que tomar un bus que en seis horas se va a adentrar en una tierra extraña, donde por lo que he oído se habla un inglés como medio balbuceado y se toma más cerveza que agua: Gales.

Ya en Swansea, en la costa galesa, voy a por fin reencontrarme con mi rucia. Vamos a pasar un rato ahí, y mientras ella termina sus estudios y su tesis, yo voy a tratar de ver si el inglés que aprendí en el liceo sirvió de algo. Además, por allá estarían en verano. Por primera vez podría ir a una playa, sacarme la polera y no sentirme el ser más pálido del lugar, porque creo que los británicos son más blancos que leche con cloro.

Después de eso y de regresar a Noruega para hacerme el simpático con los suegros -y si sobrevivo-, le tocaría el turno a los amigos mi polola de conocer al ya, a estas alturas, famoso chileno. De nuevo arriba de un avión, esta vez a Israel los pasajes. Muro de los Lamentos, Mar Muerto, su selfie al lado de la cruz del Tatita Dios; o sea, todo lo que se hace por allá. Por lo que sé, ahí estaríamos en Medio Oriente -¿alguién dijo Al-Qaeda?-; pero no hay camellos ni pirámides, lo que vendría siendo una decepción. Igual yo ya he estado en Antofagasta, así que no me sorprende mucho el desierto. Tal vez hasta lo llegue a encontrar medio fome, así que voy a estar feliz de volver a Noruega antes de regresar a Chile.

Con todos estos planes y compromisos, la verdad es que no tengo muchas expectativas, pero sí muchas dudas. ¿Es verdad que el europeo en general no se baña nunca ni usa desodorante? ¿Son fríos, así como medios robóticos? ¿Voy a ser el hombre más moreno en Escandinavia? ¿Las mujeres del Viejo Continente pensarán que soy un latinlover irresistible si logro mover mis caderas en la pista de baile? ¿Echaré de menos los completos, las empanadas de pino caldúas y las sopaipillas con pebre cuchareado? ¿Saldré vivo de Israel? Espero poder resolver todas esas preguntas, y cualquiera otra que vaya saliendo en el camino. Al final, este momento en mi vida será único. Mítico. Impresionante. Transatlántico.

Love Trip, Episode 01: Swansea, Wales

Dylan Thomas, poet and Swansea's only renown character, once called his hometown the “graveyard of ambition.” When I had just arrived to this city in Wales, I didn't know this phrase, this character nor any reasons to judge Swansea.

After a few days there, I noticed something was fishy, and I'm not talking about the smell coming from tha bay. The city had this trashy atmosphere all around; something completely new to me, a fresh newcomer not only to this place, but to Europe. “Maybe it's just me” I thought. But it wasn't.

A friend of my girlfriend, when we asked him what did he think about us as a couple, simply said that we are equally weird. That was funny; yet not as funny as what I witnessed that night out at Wine Street, city's bar and club central. Slutty pink dresses, very short skirts, cutoff shorts showing half the ass. Girls did not know how to dress up nor showed any interest to cover up their excess of fat and abundance of cellulite. And the guys did not do any better, with extremely tight shirts, ridiculous muscles and “Douche 101” looks. “God, what's wrong with this people!?” I constantly said. But it wasn't until we decided to return to our place when the newly learned words from Swansea's most popular man came to my mind.

On our way back home, we saw a guy sitting on a bench, pucking while talking to his mates about going to a club afterwards. That and all the dog shit on our way back to our house made me realize that the poet's harsh words may have not been just a simple metaphor. Dylan Thomas was right. “Welcome to Swansea, the graveyard of ambition.”

Pasado

Hablar del pasado no es un problema, desde el punto de vista racional. Pero cuando se tocan temas delicados, como, por ejemplo, la vida sexual de tu actual compañero o algún trauma infantil; la racionalidad no se puede usar como parámetro válido para analizar las consecuencias de una conversación de este tipo. Si bien el tema del que se hace referencia ha transcurrido en un tiempo pasado, el hablar sobre éste lo hace presente, lo que despierta en la otra persona sentimientos reales en el aquí y el ahora. Esta reacción natural y básica humana ya no corresponde al terreno de la razón, si no que puramente al ámbito emocional.

En resumen: Usted no sea imbécil y deje el pasado donde tiene que estar, es decir, en el pasado. Así va a vivir un presente mucho mejor. Garantizado.

On tour: Europe and Middle East

When I started writing my story last year, I never expected to see such twist in it. I mean, c'mon, I'm writing this in English, just because of how events developed over time. Now the days in which I began my column Soltería 101 -Singleness 101- to help myself and others to deal with being single and sucking at it, seem very far away.

But there's no reason to go back in time and tell, once again, my whole journey. Because this right here, friends, is a call out for you, my readers. I wanna make a new experiment. After the interesting experience that turned out to be my bear-sexiness study, I thought “what the hell? Let's make this even more refreshing!” And this is where you come into play.

On June 2nd I am going to leave my homeland, Santiago de Chile, on a love related trip to Europe and the Middle East. Yes, crazy, huh? So this means I am going to visit, perhaps, your country, your city or even your home town. Whatever! The important thing is that I'll be around.

Then, what does this all have to do with you? Listen up: I wanna meet you! We can have a pint of beer, sit on a park, walk around, or just anything. I'm looking for a nice conversation and, why not, change your life. Yes, that's right: change your life. Because, technically, meeting some random guy from a blog is not something you do every day, do you? Taking it from there, everything that happens afterwards is a bonus. I think.

So I am just leaving the offer on. I'll be visiting London, Swansea, Sandefjord, Oslo, Copenhagen, Tel-Aviv and Amsterdam. Wanna give it a go? Don't hesitate and drop me a line on Twitter @edoher or Facebook /edoher. Looking forward to hear from you!

I died in San Pedro

I closed my eyes, the sun shinning on my face. “I'm dead,” I thought. My whole body was shaking, still shocked after sliding downhill over 90 feet. My left foot was broken and my ass was frying on the hot sand and salt crystals of the hill I was sitting on. I was in the middle of the desert, two miles away from the nearest town and at least one mile from the road; still just half way down the hill, with a thousand feet to go to get to the ground. I was pretty much fucked.

I had come to San Pedro de Atacama to die. I mean spiritually, not literally. Being suicidal wasn't one of my issues. I had enough already with my shit career going nowhere, my heart hurting after a bad break up and my sex life on hold, because I was failing miserably to get with the girl I wanted. I needed a change.

Got to town looking for some sort of enlightenment, a sign from the Universe, God or whoever that could tell me what the fuck to do with my life. Instead of that, I just got bored. So bored that I decided, the next morning, to go for a little walk in the desert. It was 11 in the morning, already 30 °C under the sun.

Should have know better. It was very obvious that climbing that hill, all alone and with no enough climbing experience, was reckless. Yet there I was, half hour later, about 500 meters -1600 feet- high, looking down to the sandy void around me. The view was stunning, but the heat at that time was too much. I had to go down.

It happened very fast, but felt so slow at the same time. While I was going down the hill, the terrain -basically dirt with salt crystals sticking out- yielded to my weight and I started sliding downhill. I held onto the scratching surface with all my strength, knowingly, even in my desperation, that rolling would have meant dying. Then I felt it, just when I had a free fall for a second. My left foot crashed a rock and broke. Luckily, the pain was diminished by the adrenaline.

When I finally stopped falling, the blinding dust and deafening sound of rocks falling on and around me, gave way to absolute silence, where I could only hear my moans and myself, heavy breathing. I tried to stand up, but the pain on my foot was too intense. I sat and closed my eyes. I felt hopeless. Doomed. Dead.

“Spiritual journey” my ass.

Then, a realization. I couldn't go like that! I thought about my family, my friends and that girl that wouldn't date me, no matter how hard I tried. “Fuck this shit! This motherfuking hill is not gonna defeat me!” I said out loud. I couldn't walk, but I crawled, sitting on the burning ground, scratching my ass and tearing my shorts on the pointy salt crystals of the surface.

Finally on the ground, at the foot of the hill, my mobile phone got some signal. I called Emergency, feeling safe at last. I wasn't, not yet. I spent over 2 hours under the burning sun of the Atacama desert, while help was trying to find me. No shade, almost no water left, only a light jacket to cover from the merciless rays and the 40 °C thermal sensation of the afternoon.

By the time the rescue team finally found me, I felt I was born again. And, as a new born child, I didn't care my scratched ass was exposed through my ripped shorts. I was even laughing and cracking jokes while they moved me in a litter to the ambulance. I was safe.

My life changed, yes, but not at all of how I expected. Didn't get a mystical revelation nor a sense of purpose. Got instead a big hospital bill, eight steel screws inside my foot, plus two months crippled and unable to walk. Although, there's a bright side to the story. All the good things that happened to me afterwards were only possible because of that fall. And, as bullshit as this sounds, if that was the price to pay for my current life, I'd do it all over again. Sort of.

Seekers, Settlers and real love

Our generation is fucked in the love department. Everyone born before the 2000's has grown up watching Disney animations and all sort of romantic flicks with perfect couples and happy endings. Those Utopian fantasies, subconsciously, crash against the reality we see around. Divorced parents, domestic violence, switched gender roles, the ever increasing race for financial or intellectual success, or the pursue of success in general. All this has led most people to take part of two toxic groups when it comes to approach their romantic lives. I call these groups Settlers and Seekers.

Settlers are the conformist side. Whether they are helpless romantics or extremely rational characters, they have the same factor in common: they always go for the wrong partner and stay with them. They may choose them for all “the right reasons”, like good financial situation, interesting hobbies, nice physical appearance, passionate career, and a long list of etceteras. Or, on the other hand, for many of the wrong reasons, from mommy/daddy issues to sexual fetishes, savior complex or fear of abandonment. Whatever the reasons are, none of them is enough to have a healthy relationship with.

No matter how unsatisfying, frustrating or even hurtful things are, Settlers will do everything they can to stay together with their partner. Why? Causes vary and may be very different to every person, although it is easy to detect the main problem for them. They just can't or do not want to be alone. The thought of getting old; peer, cultural or social pressure; insecurity and a large number of reasons, plus the obnoxious feeling they get when exposed to romantic stimulus while single. All of that leads to desperation, and desperation leads to the need to fill the empty space in their beds and lives with someone, regardless of this person provides what they require to actually satisfy their emotional needs or not.

On the opposite side of the scale we find the Seekers. They literally won't settle with anyone. The search for them never stops, because they are looking for Perfection (yes, capitalized). It's because, most of the times, Seekers are highly successful or remarkable people. Intellectually, financially, career wise and even physically; Seekers appear to be flawless, and that's exactly what they seek. They are after a partner as good as they think they are, or better. In the meantime, they'll try out different options, quickly moving on to the next one after finding the first flaw in the other person, as minimal as it might be.

Even though these two groups are very different, they are not as apart one from the other as it seems. A frustrated Settler, after things finally go to hell, can become a Seeker for a while or for good, not to suffer with the same mistake again. Or a Seeker, in a rough path of their life or just tired of the never ending search, can simply settle with the closest partner they'll find.

Nowadays, it's really hard not to fall in one of these two groups. Emotions have been replaced by individuality, and romantic relationships look more like business partnerships than selfless unions. But there is a third group that doesn't even need to be named; they are the people with healthy relationships. Not perfect, not ideal, not Disney-like. With flaws and up and downs, fights and disagreement, struggling every now and then. You'd hardly see their stories told in a movie, because they can be considered boring or too complicated to tell. They are real, and reality is not something attractive.

If you find yourself caught in any of the two toxic groups, don't feel hopeless. As you can switch from Seeker to Settler or the other way around, you can also step out that vicious circle and turn to the third group. Almost everyone there was like you. Stuck in a frustrating, life-sucking and unfulfilling relationship, or in a exhaustive search for Mr or Mrs Right. In any of those cases, always with the same consequence: failing to get what they needed.

I myself was a Settler. Spent years and years in an unhappy relationship, and after breaking up, became a Seeker. I was decided to get my life back, not wasting another day with the wrong person. Only dedicated my time and effort in the search for “the One,” jumping from one girl to the other and not getting attached with anyone. What changed? I met an imperfect person who was perfect for me. I realized that none of the approaches I had taken before in my love life were right. Either settling for someone who seemed perfect or looking for somebody perfect, none of those ever gave me what I needed. In fact, when I finally gave up my expectations and fears and just let myself enjoy and be surprised by the virtues and kinks of my girl, I fell in love. Real love.

Nobody is perfect, yet we feel forced to constantly look for or to create perfect romantic relationships, and to demand perfection from our partners. Truth is Perfection is just an illusion, product of decades of self-help books, consumerism, movie love stories and ever evolving technology. Once you understand that, pressure to be perfect fades away. Then you only need to connect with your own feelings and emotions; that'll help you comprehend yourself better and to figure out what you want and need. After that, finding a partner that meet your necessities and for whom you'll do the same, will be an easier task. Happiness will be yours and love -the real kind- will come naturally. Guaranteed.

Real love quote 07

Even when you look like shit, you are beautiful.

Incluso cuando te ves como la mierda, eres hermosa.

Real love quote 06

I love you for most of the right and some of the wrong reasons, in a very profound and shallow way.

Te amo por casi todas las razones correctas y algunas de las erradas, de una forma muy profunda y superficial.

Sex/Life 37

Tuesday, April 29th, around 9:02 AM. That was the last time we had sex. Rushed and quick sex before hitting the shower to go to the airport. A mock shag compared to the exhausting erotic sessions we had in the previous three weeks together. Now, 8 days after she left, frustration is taking over. Shit, not much more than a week and I'm already going crazy! It's been such a hard change. From an average of three shags a day to nothing. From her smell, her sounds, her softness, her warmth, her laugh, her presence; to nothing at all.

This entire sacrifice is supposed to pay off in the near future. Her absence now will become a life together afterwards, hopefully. Every hour without her will turn into a kiss, an embrace, a hand caressing my face or stroking my hair. Every day apart will convert in a belly laugh, holding hands while staring at each other eyes, a nice meal with friends. And making love. Hours of mutual touch, skin on skin, our bodies so close against each other that we'll forget who is who, and we'll be One. Us. Forever.

Sex/Life 36

A piano. Say something, I'm giving up on you. She looks at me. I'll be the one, if you want me to. Her blue eyes turn red, tears stream down her cheeks. “Say something” by A Great Big World plays in the background. We are having a bowl of cereal, naked in my bed. She's crying. “I'm so, so sorry” she says, weeping. I draw a sad smile on my face. “It's ok, babe; you are here now” I reply, wiping her eyes. Anywhere I would've followed you. Now I'm crying. And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you. Everything is so fucked. I kiss her. Her skin is still wet with her tears. “You are here now” I say again.

Sex/Life 35

My breath has enough alcohol to get someone drunk. I'm not. Wish I was drunk, maybe that way I'd forget that I'm alone. She's gone. 2:42 AM. This will be the seventh night I'll sleep without her. I miss her so fucking much. My whole body longs for her. Autumn. Nights feel colder than ever, her side of the bed frozen, abandoned. It was 5 de Mayo just now. Tequila runs in my blood. My guts feel warm, my heart is cold. L, my love and lover, thousands of miles away, waking up now as I'm falling asleep on the keyboard. Fucking long distance.

Real love quote 05

Yeah, I'd marry you right now. I'd wake up and everyday would be sunny, just because the first thing I'd see would be you.

Sí, me casaría contigo ahora mismo. Despertaría y cada día sería soleado, porque la primera cosa que vería serías tú.

Long distance

Long distance relationships are shit. Without the sex and the physical contact in general, you are left only with your feelings and thoughts. If these are good, everything is OK. Add some Skype, emails, Facebook messaging or any other type of communication the 2000's has brought to us, and you are set. But, what if everything is pretty much fucked from the start?

I'm currently in the most complicated relationship of my life. It never was easy. We met in Santiago last year and we got together a month before she left. In total, we spent less than a month and a half dating, and couldn't keep things alive for more than just another month through long distance. I was faithful and devoted, she wasn't. She was traveling around, having fun, and doubting the whole thing. Cheating came as the logical option for her, consequence of the lack of communication, my constant whining and the temptation she had right next to her, while I was just this Chilean guy stuck in the other side of the world and whom she'd probably never see again.

I never stopped thinking about her, but didn't stay at home crying. Dried my tears fast and started getting my shit together, sex-wise at least. When I could finally get back in touch with her, I had already moved on. Didn't know she was with another guy during this awful month apart-but-together, not until we started talking again. I didn't care at the time, I was really excited about the chance to get back with her. And, well, I was also high on emotions with this other girl that was coming back to live with me after a very good week of passion in Santiago. Then cheating, this time, came easy for me. It was the logical thing to do, a fucking vendetta for what she'd done to me.

Was it worth it? Nope. I thought I would feel we were even and from that point we could restart our relationship with a clean slate; but only got a month of mixed emotions living with another girl while loving her in the distance. Instead of leveling things, I destroyed all the trust she had in me and ended up breaking her and the other girl's heart, creating a dark spot of guilt and regret in me.

I can't say our relationship started off on the right foot. She fucked up, I fucked up, and stuff looks very fucked up. I'm hurting. I know what I did was dreadful, probably way worse than what she did. Yet her fault pains so deep inside I sometimes wonder if I took the right choice getting back together. But why does it sting so hard in my head and heart? Is it the simple fact of imagining her having sex with somebody else while I was struggling to remain faithful and suffering for her distance? Is it the betrayal? Or maybe the hateful comparison I am forced to do between this other fucker and me? Because this man represents everything I am not; all the strengths I don't have, all the features she didn't see in me at that moment and dragged her to his arms instead.

Insecure as I am, I was never jealous; not until nowadays. Ironically, I don't believe she will cheat on me again. She's changed. She's devoted, caring, open, and I can really feel the love she says she feels for me is true and similar to the one I feel for her; but she can't seem to understand my feelings about the past, nor can I get to explain them to her. It's so fucking annoying, but, is it her fault? She traveled all the way back to Chile for me, there's no room to doubt her commitment now. We are great together, and while she was here we had a great time; a time that showed us that this is what we both want. Even though, I'm constantly haunted by these negative thoughts, this jealousy over her past, especially about her sex life and her affair with this other person. She is willing to help me with that, but I can't avoid getting lost in these dark places of my mind sometimes, and even more now that she's gone again.

Long distance relationships are shit. Being apart from her is shit. Feeling like shit because of past shit is shit. So much shit in my life makes it feel like a fucking toilet. Which, now that I think about it, may not be completely bad. Toilets can be flushed, right? Now I have to find the way to flush all this shit out, once and for all.

My apology

- Do you want to have sex with me? -I said.
- Really? - he asked, surprised.
- Yes.
- Just like that?
- Sure. Works every time -I replied.


I was telling an ex schoolmate my ultimate technique to get with a girl. Being as direct as it gets, which, shit you not, works like a charm. If you don't believe me, ask him. A few days after, he came back and told me that he had followed my advice and it did the trick for him. Since that day he calls me “Captain.”

Captain. Sounded good. It was a nickname I never thought I would get, especially not for my womanizer skills. Yeah, me, a ladies man. Unbelievable! Me, a guy who lost his fucking virginity at 21 and stayed with his first and only girl for over 8 years just because he firmly believed he sucked at getting laid and, basically, everything related to the opposite sex... or sex, period.

What changed? Well, I was miserable and the sex with my ex, if I got any, was extremely boring and frustrating. Breaking up was a good start, I guess. Coming back to the “meat market” also helped. Experiencing things I should have experienced during my 20's in only 4 months, before turning 30, was an excellent boost, too. But I wasn't quite there yet. I wouldn't think of that version of myself as the ultimate Casanova, nor I would expect to be called Captain for that. What changed then? More than what, it was a who. She changed me.

I loved her. And, along with her, I loved the man I became while being with her. Because even though, before she appeared in my life, I had already realized I was way more attractive and interesting than I used to believe, I was still ashamed of my performance under the sheets. She changed that. Oh, God, the sex! Un-fucking-believable. If there's something she left in me, besides a broken heart after dumping me, was the sex.

I had nothing to brag about before. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself in a spiral of sweat, warmth, nudity and pleasure, seasoned with some awkwardness and emptiness every now and then. I felt like I had a power, a gift. Thanks to this new found arousing knowledge and the improved sexual performance that came with it, I rebuilt myself as the character I always wanted to be, but never had the guts to. Yes, I had changed, but to be this new person I had to leave behind fundamental values. I cheated, I lied, I fucked up and around and, when I had the chance to stop, I kept doing it for one last time, because it wasn't enough yet.

With her, my beloved, out of the picture, I was devastated. But soon the devastation gave way to a fruitful sex drive. The more I got laid, the better I got at it. My self-confidence reached the skies and I was feeling like I was touching the stars with my dick. I got cocky and stupid. Met a very nice Danish girl and, despite I knew she was interested in me, I just kept her as my fuck buddy while I tried with some other girls. Breaking a foot didn't stop me. Internet became my allied to keep shagging other girls while I was with her. One of them, a British girl, was the more important. So important that almost made me forget the Norwegian who'd broken my heart. Almost.

The British girl was on her way back to me, after being traveling around. I knew things could get deeper than occasional sex, and I felt ready to give myself to this new relationship. I cheated on my previous girl before to be with her, and now this foul was going to be worth it. Yet I had a hunch, a distracting feeling that wouldn't allow me to fully focus on what I was starting to feel for her. To shake this thoughts off my head, I contacted my Norwegian ex. “What if there's still a chance?” I thought. Miraculously, there was. But there was also lots of resentment on my side; so much that, although I loved her, I let the British girl come to live with me anyway. It was a fun month, contaminated by mixed feelings of joy and self-loathing, and that ended with me telling the truth on the last days and breaking the Brit's heart.

Now that everything is over, I'm back with her. She, my first and only love. She, the one who showed me there's more to life than the depressing sexual and affective ways I'd suffered before with my ex. But I can't be with her at peace knowing what I did. I can't enjoy her as much as I'd like, not without offering her my apology.

I am very sorry for being a jackass to you and to your gender, in general.

Sex/Life 34

She's gone. While I write this, her plane takes L thousands of miles away from me. She left and the emptiness there is now in me can't be filled with the remains she left behind. Instagram pictures, Facebook posts, a stack of Philippine coins on my drawer and three books. Unmade bed, dirty dishes, a towel drying in my terrace. All signs that she was here, reminders of the three weeks we spent together. Memories of laugh, tears and sex.

L, my lover, my dream of a future.

Jeg elsker deg. Te amo. I love you.

Sex/Life 33

We fucked on the couch. We planed coming back to my place from the airport in complete silence, and once back at the flat, throw away all of our shit and clothes to have wild sex on the table. That was only one of the many things we planed during these two months of endless Skype conversations, unstoppable Facebook messages and occasional Snapchats. One of the many things that, 9 days in, we haven't done.

Expectations hit the brick wall of reality and our dreams of passion and romance got so disfigured after this crash that they needed urgent plastic surgery. Now they don't look as beautiful as before, yet I couldn't say they are ugly. They look normal now; as normal as it feels going to bed and wake up next to each other every morning. As normal as it is for me to cook and for her to wash the dishes, or just sitting in my terrace to have a laugh drinking cheap beer. And, you know what? I fucking love it! I've never felt more comfortable in my life, so understood, so accepted, so embraced... so loved.

Nope, we did not have wild sex on the table, but it was great anyway. We fucked on the couch.