"My box is basically the UN."
Want to catalog your sex life for Nerve? Send your complete list of bedpost notches, along with your age and location, to email@example.com. Don't worry — we won't print your name.
Not many chicks can say they are a “woman of the world,” but I feel this term truly applies to me. I’ve been traveling since I was eight, and screwing my way through the countries I’ve visited for over a decade. I’m a lover of men — young, old, short, tall, and, as Jay-Z so eloquently put it, “I swear I love ‘em all”— so my cultural sexcapades aren’t just reserved for exotic locations. Since my box is basically like the UN, I thought it would only be apropos to catalog my sexual rundown by the culture of my partners.
My Dirty Dancing Dominican
This dude was the Activities Director at the resort where my mom and I stayed during a holiday in Punta Cana, DR. This one was a charmer, and it had nothing to do with his job —homeboy knew how to talk his way into a girl’s pants. After dinner and dancing (he taught me to salsa), he took me to his room, which was like a room in a hostel — I’d soon experience my share of those while on the road — where we drank some more and shared a joint with his roommate. Even after five years of Spanish and three visits to Spanish-speaking countries, I still couldn’t speak the language, so when he spoke to his roommate, I had no idea what was said, but I’m pretty sure it went something like this: “Dude, get out so I can fuck this chick,” which is exactly what happened the second his friend left. After some heavy petting and mutual head, he was ready to get down — I, however, was not. After rebutting his advances (he was only the third guy I’d ever been with) for at least half an hour, I finally gave in and let him do it. It was unpleasant and he kept trying to take the condom off. I left his room shortly thereafter, not wanting to do the whole “walk of shame” thing in a foreign land (that would later be my MO).
My Spanish Tryst
I spent my 25th birthday in Barcelona — not my favorite place — but, in a city full of young professionals and students from a variety of nations, I knew I’d find something that would suit my fancy. The night of my birthday, my friends and I hit up the strip of bars along the beach in Port Olympico, and that’s where I met him. Tall, lean, beautiful, and German. This may sound far-fetched, but I kid you not: we spotted each other from across the room, our eyes locked, and it was over. I knew I had to have this boy. Lucky for me, he had to have me as well. So after exchanging meaningless chatter for a good 30 minutes we decided on our next move: where can we get our hump on. My hotel room was out of the question, as I was sharing it with my somewhat prudish girlfriend and his place was out because it was a good hour away. Well, being the open-minded, free spirit that I am, I suggest a nice, romantic romp on the beach. We ended up bumping uglies doogie style (no way was I about to get sand in the crevices of my lady parts) behind a huge rock on the beach as the sun was coming up.
Another Sexual Bout in Barcelona
Two days after the German, I met — wait for it — a French Jew. And, considering I’d never had sex with either a Jew or a Frenchman, I was more than happy to kill these two birds with one stone. Well, for a short, scrawny, but really cute French dude, homeboy was hung. We went back to his hotel and got it on in the bedroom, bathroom, and, oddly enough, the closet. Let’s just say my vag was majorly pissed at me the following day.
The Man from Down Under Who Went Down Under
When I initially spotted this tall, lanky, tanned Aussie man in Ko Tao, Thailand, I wasn’t too impressed. I was more into Daniel, the hot, dark-haired Irish man that I chatted up at one bar and invited to another. Daniel and I had a smashing time dancing, but when I went to the toilet for a break, I bumped into Aussie Paul. If you aren’t familiar with the Aussies, here are the basics: they’re blunt, often crass, and awesome. Paul did not disappoint, even when I told him I was kind of there with someone else he replied, “Cool. Let’s see him. You’ll be leaving with me, though,” or something hot to that effect. Well, he was right.
Another Aussie Adventure
I met Mark at a bar in Cartagena, Colombia on St. Patrick’s Day. After chatting for a bit, Mark, his very cute German friend (been there, done that), and I went to another bar where Mark procured some Colombian party favors. Now, I’ve party from time to time, but avoided it in Colombia, however, Mark and the German were cool, so I figured why not partake in the festivities. We went back to my place, which was a dumpy hotel but in a prime area and had an awesome balcony, drank, and partied until I made the announcement that I was going to bed and I’d like for Mark to join me. He accepted, Germany fled, and we had two rounds of sex — one meh, the second much better.
And This is What Makes Me a Rare Breed
How many women can say they’ve fucked an Icelander? How many more can say they’ve fucked an Icelander and someone from the Faroe Islands? This girl can. Not only is Iceland super small, but the Faroe Islands is even smaller, and I’ve managed to bang men from both countries (yes, the Faroe Islands counts as another country because it’s a sovereignty of Denmark — see, not only am I a slut, but I’m an educated slut). My second night in Reykjavík, I picked up a guy who seriously looked like a member of the Gestapo. He walked me home after we ate delicious sandwiches from Nonnabiti (ah-fucking-mazing, by the way), and, well, you know the rest. The Viking was pretty good and he didn’t stick around the next day, which was perfect for me.
Now, Mr. Faroe Islands was very different. We met on St. Paddy’s Day (whilst in graduate school, my spring breaks were always during this holiday for drunks), had hotdogs (which are the best drunk food in Reykjavik), and went back to my hostel. Even though I was scheduled to go back to the States the next day, we hung out, had brunch, and walked around a bit before he took me to the bus station.
My First Irish Lad, or the One-night Stand That Wasn’t
The first time I ever did the deed with an Irish bloke, I was in, of all places, Myrtle Beach, SC. We met at an Irish bar (ironically owned and operated by true Irishmen) after my friend made a crack about an Irish bar in South Carolina. After some beers and laughs, we went back to the house where he and his mate were staying and had a few more. While our friends went off to hang out in another part of the house, we sat and chatted some more. It wasn’t until we heard moaning coming from upstairs that we realized they were going to be awhile. Not wanting him to feel left out, I offered to make him moan, and he politely accepted. Well, that one night turned into a bit of a long distance fling for a few months. Overall, he just as good in the sack as he is as a person— an ideal man for someone like me — too bad we lived in separate cities.
An Aussie at Home
So, being on the Aussie kick that I was (and still somewhat am), I had to bed the tall, hot, Aussie that my friends and I met at some dive in DC. He allegedly worked for the Australian Embassy and my girlfriend, and his friend went back to their hotel rooms and, you get the picture by now. It was so good, in fact, that the front desk of the hotel called and asked us to “keep it down.” We did, until the morning rolled around.
Argentinian Plus Surfer Equals Yum
During my trek through Central America, we made an impromptu stop in El Zonte Beach, El Salvador, which is a major destination for surfers in Central America. As my travel mate and I walked back to our bungalow, we met up with Mr. Hot Argentinian Surfer. After a bit of chit chat, he invited me back to where he was staying, which was a tent on his friend’s property. I’m no snob, but doing it in a tent in a random yard in a remote area of El Salvador? Okay, it was hot. All I can say is that it was much needed and watching him stand outside of the tent in all of his naked glory as the moonlight glistened on his perfect, solid ass was enough for me, making this one of the best holiday hook ups of my life.
Now, on to the Worst Holiday Hook up of My Life
I guess after the brief romance with my first Irish lad, I had high hopes when I visited his homeland. I totally thought I’d be surrounded by delicious Irishmen with hot accents. Although the accents were quite appealing, the men, not so much. When I finally found a suitable bed companion, it wasn’t at all what I imagined it would be. We met at a cool bar in Cork, Ireland during the last leg of my journey through Scotland and Ireland. He picked me up (actually, he stole me away from some guy who had been buying me drinks all night, so my expectations were high), and after a couple of hours of chatting and drinking, we went back to my hostel, and, well, you fill in the blanks.
Our night together was okay, nothing to brag about, but it was the morning after that really got me. I don’t know how I managed to attract the most Catholic closeted sex addict in all of Ireland, but I did. Upon waking up, he had immediate regrets and all but begged for me to accompany him to mass so he could repent. My first thought: “Ha, have you met me?” I tried to soothe his worry and guilt, but nothing seemed to work on this one. After pretty much comparing me to Mary Magdalene, I threw his uber Catholic ass out. Not before he left me with a prayer card, of course.