I’ve been wanting to write something….different. Something about me. But what is that exactly? I’m many things but since this my blog about who I am as a writer and what I write, [romance, erotica, erotic romance, etc.] I will focus on that, or better stated what brought me here. I guess that’s pretty simple to figure out.
It was sex.
We all have sex, some more frequently than others. In my twenties I had a lot of it, loads if you will. Some of my experiences still haunt me today, for whatever reason. I do not know why. In my early twenties I lived in a city called Zaragoza [Spain] a city near and dear to my heart and a city I’ve written about on many occasions. It’s a great place but I am bias since my mother is from that area and I still have family there. During this period of my life I was very sexually active. I found, and still find, Spanish men attractive. Also during that time I was DRUNK. Not just tipsy or buzzed but tripping and stumbling drunk. Was I pathetic? Probably to some but I had a good time, at least the parts I remember. I used to think that blackouts were the worst but now I think they were a gift from God. I don’t need to remember what I did in a blackout. I’m sure I was rude and vulgar. Most drunks are. Thankfully I was attractive and somewhat witty so people usually forgave my uglier, darker side. Not all but most.
Back to the sex. Let’s talk about the first time I was handcuffed. I remember [vaguely] getting picked up [Off the floor! Hehehehehe] by a Spanish guy who once lived in Holland. He loved Holland but found it to be an expensive place so he returned to Spain to work in a friends restaurant. Now looking back he would be considered a bear. [hairy stocky guy] I wasn’t familiar with that term then but I am now. It was the normal drunken night, two men hook up and one offers the use of his apartment and other things, blah blah blah. The next morning when I woke I was in a nice[ish] apartment full of natural light which was awful due to the mother of all hangovers. After some collateral damage I engage in some small talk [I speak Spanish] trying to work out my exit strategy since it’s a school night [day after] and I’m already late for work. Finally when I decide that I could make a break, Mr. Bear whips out handcuffs [from where I have no fucking idea since he was naked] and in a blink of an eye [more like four or five for me since that hangover thing] he handcuffs me to the wrought iron headboard.
Shit got real.
I tried to play it off like this was an everyday occurrence but within thirty seconds of being incarcerated I started to beg for my release. It didn’t work. As I tried to lure the key out of the guy [I don’t want to know where he stored it] with promises of a blowjob [he knew he’d get that anyway so he kept the key] Bear [don’t remember his name] set about making breakfast [omelette and garlic potatoes] telling me about his life as a cook and other tidbits and side stories. I pretended to be interested but was a little preoccupied because at this moment I believed that I was going to end up in or as his next meal. I’m must’ve looked like a total psycho, blinking and sweating and smiling, all the while devising some sort of escape/murder [him not me] thing.
After Bear ate his breakfast [seated by the bed using the bed like a table] the guy took mercy on me [plus I said I was going to pee on his mattress and he didn’t believe me until I made a bearing down face] and he calmly and gently unlocked the handcuffs. As he rubbed my raw wrists he asked if I would drive to Denmark with him to get married since it was legal for two men to marry in Denmark. I have to admit I give it some consideration [I hated my fucking job. A lot.] but I didn’t want to worry my family so I turned down his kind offer. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I said yes. Oh well, that is the path not taken….which my gut tells me is a good thing.
I miss my life. It was exciting at times. My life is not boring now but I can get married in the U.S. and I know what a bear is and I my alcohol intake has reduced substantially preferring to consume empty calories in the form if ice cream instead. Get my drift. Maybe I’m jaded? Who knows?
Or, maybe, I need to buy my own pair of handcuffs? Now that’s a thought.
Side not: I find it strange that I remember this in great detail but never got his name. I’m sure it was Juan or Pablo or Jose. I’m not being a dick. These are popular names in Spain.