Sexy Summer Abroad: No Regrets In Barcelona!

 Sexy Summer Abroad

 Barcelona in the summer is one of a kind. It makes you forget your morals, and sometimes your panties. I had a loosely organized plan to “find myself” and maybe drink sherry cobblers on the beach. Barcelona isn’t a city. It’s a love affair. The air smells like lemons and sea salt, the buildings bend like elbows, and even the birds look like they’ve just left a club playing house music. The first night, I made the mistake of saying “Si”  to a party on a rooftop, hosted by an Italian DJ named “Bitter Bass.” (Red flag? Probably. Did I go? For sure.) What I didn’t plan for was how seductive my sexy summer abroad would become. 

The Elevator to the Rooftop Was Like A Stairway to Heaven for My Sexy Summer Abroad:

Glistening bodies galore and being asked to dance before barely stepping one foot in. I was three Cavas deep while grinding with a guy who looked like he modeled for Calvin Klein, but had the soul of Paris Hilton. His name was Rafael, but I called him Calvin as an inside joke between me and all Back to the Future fans. He had the jawline of a Greek God and the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to move their body. He dropped secrets in my ear after each kiss. His mouth like mints and cigarettes, and I loved every bit of it.  

 My Sexy Summer Abroad Felt Like Something Out of an Indie Film.

My afternoons were lazy. I enjoyed tapas, siestas on the beach, and trying to understand Catalan. But the nights? The nights belonged to music and dance.  One particularly sweaty Friday, I met a redhead named Camila at a dive bar. She ordered us shots of something delicious with no name and convinced me to dance on the bar. I did! She told me she was a “freelance tarot reader” and well, that made perfect sense to me. We made out in a dark alley like horny idiots, almost knocking over her scooter frequently. Her lipstick was still on my earlobe when I woke up the next morning.

Barcelona Blurs the Lines Between Love and Lust, Light and Dark.

I found myself naked in the Mediterranean with a group of Norwegian exchange students who had names I couldn’t pronounce, which they didn’t seem to mind. I kissed a bartender and enjoyed a free bar tab, and I may or may not have woken up once in a hammock that was not mine It wasn’t all crazy nights and “te quieros,” though. Somewhere between the rooftop and the beach, I found this new confidence I never had before. A sexy summer abroad will do that to you. You realize that life isn’t meant to be measured by work, but by experiences. 

Finally, By Week Four, I Was Tan, Broke, and Happy as Hell.

My phone was filled to the brim with naked photos and contact names like “Flamenco Man” and “Maybe Married.” In this case, my suitcase was lighter, possibly from all the lost underwear and none of the added tourist crap. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced, of course. Barcelona, on the other hand, was irreplaceable. Would I do it all over again? Oh, yeah. Would I suggest it to anyone thinking of a sexy summer abroad? Absolutely—just pack accordingly. Extra condoms, a Spanish dictionary, and a shot of penicillin.

Barcelona gave me more than just a foreign glow-up and a possible UTI. For one thing, it gave me stories filled with kinky possibilities.  And above all, it gave me a damn good reminder that sometimes, the best version of yourself is the one that makes out with strangers, in public, kind of shit-faced.

Be sure to check out my other fun blogs like- Alien Sex Apocalypse.

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