This September I fucked a 24-year-old Belgian in the bathroom of a chateau in southern France. This was after I made out with his Spanish friend (four years my junior) leaning against an old wooden barrel near the vineyard.
But you have to know about Tasos first. The reason for this is that the Belgian had a girlfriend, and when I hooked up with Tasos, I also had a boyfriend.
I didn’t sleep with Tasos, but I made out with him viciously on the dance floor in Mykonos, Greece, and it was always a story I planned on taking to the grave with me. I think it happened at a bar called the Scandinavian, but I could be wrong. This was the summer of 2011.
My sister and I were out that night, finally freed from our parents after a long five days or so, and we were getting shitfaced. We began the night hopping from bar to bar, taking advantage of the free drink vouchers that were distributed outside almost every establishment. By the time we arrived at the Scadinavian? we had already had the time of our lives and enough alcohol to hold us over until the following summer.
Flirting with the absolutely beautiful probably-a-model bartender proved uneventful when my sister realized (much too late) that he didn’t speak English. However, she was able to order us a version of Soco and lime, which ended up being lemon, after gesturing toward the liquor bottles and garnishes.
We were then involved in a lengthy conversation with a round German man. He was nothing more than a blur to me, and I recall having great difficulty in maintaining an exchange. I couldn’t process his accented words nor could I create my own, so we slipped away.
We found ourselves tearing up the dance floor, two wasted white girls whose only concern in life was not spilling the beers we held. At some point, my sister threw herself onto an actual-model Grecian, who spoke even less English than the bartender. Regardless, they hit it off and became immediate Facebook friends—not a sarcastic metaphor; they’re still Facebook friends.
Soon after, I was greeted by the model’s friend, a rounded-faced Athenian with a body as solid as that rock guy from Fantastic Four. We danced, my hands all over his chest, and when he kissed me, I kissed back. I had never done this kind of thing before, hook up with some rando in a bar. I had a boyfriend, I know—but this didn’t mean anything, and I liked it.
All I wanted to do was keep kissing and grinding up against this stranger to the beat of American jams in this Mediterranean club. “American girls are so sassy,” he kept saying to me, and I loved it. I was that fun, badass New Yorker this guy had only ever been told about, but still, his fascination was funny. I remember thinking how I wouldn’t mind fucking him in the bathroom—what? Who was I? I didn’t do those things. I had a boyfriend for goodness sake.
That night the guilt got to me and I cried myself to sleep over the toilet in our hotel room, a drunk drunk knotted-hair mess. I woke up on the tile floor wrapped in a white down comforter. I was nothing but a lump of regret. “Did you sleep in the bathroom?,” my sister asked me the next morning. Okay, fine, judge me.
I ignored Tasos’ friend request a few days later, and swore to myself no one would ever hear this story. My sister, however, told me she was proud: “You’ve never kissed a guy in a bar like that. It’s fun, right?”
Two years later, I’m obviously not plagued by the same sense of shame, and thanks to the new Facebook app update, I’ve been able to view the friend requests I’ve left pending over the years. Among them were a cute brunette girl I don’t think I’ve ever met, an ex-boyfriend that just had a baby, and Tasos. Just a few weeks ago I accepted the friendships of both Tasos and the baby-daddy. I really don’t know that brunette bitch.