The Forgotten Year

What I owe is scary. In the grand scheme of things, it’s really not bad; certainly nothing comparable to a recent graduate from an American university but enough to seriously cut into my yearly income. So, let me ‘splain how this came about.

I went on vacation. What started off a 10-day tour of the Mediterranean ended up in a year-long free-for-all involving booze, boys, boats and beaches. I had just enough money to bluff my way into into the B-list partiers’ circle and maintain the charade as I played the free-loading groupie. Not flattering but what a way to say goodbye to my 20’s.

I wanted to experience Ibiza. The parties, from what I remember, were epic. One of my new friends let me stay with her and we’d raid her closet each afternoon, champagne in hand and in our skivvies. I passed on the recreational pills she kept in a crystal dish on the bedroom fireplace mantle. I never had and never will. “More for you” I said.

We bypassed every line for the most exclusive clubs and settled into the best booths the VIP section had to offer. The tables were littered with empty bottles of very expensive alcohol and beautiful women were draped over devastatingly handsome men. We would laugh and joke, the topics becoming more risqué and scandalous as the evening wore on. More often then not I’d be carried back to a hotel by one such perfect specimen of manhood.

For a few months this was the routine. I’d wake up just in time to scuttle over to my current home for a bath, fresh clothes and a bite to eat.

The morning I woke up and couldn’t figure out if Ke$ha was standing in front of me or if I was looking in a mirror I knew I had to stop. I was off to my next adventure.

I ended up on a yacht of a European playboy, some years older than me but very sexy. My new group of lady friends and I spent countless hours on the helicopter pad sunbathing naked then take a dip in the champagne jacuzzi. The boys would lounge close by, smoking expensive Cuban cigars waiting to help us dry off. The ship did lazy laps around the Mediterranean, stopping here and there for a few hours of shopping, a night of partying or a few days for some sightseeing.

It was one particular moment when we were in Barcelona that I decided I was tired of things. So, I waved them off as the yacht sailed off and I headed into the city to explore. There I met The Matedor. We had a torrid affair for a few months. He was handsome, suave, sophisticated and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I would watch him with my heart in my throat; the excitement was almost unbearable at times. The nights were hot and steamy. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. He took me to see the sides of Barcelona that tourists have no idea exist. I was courted by painters, writers, musicians, bullfighters and it was breathtaking and exhilarating.

The Matedor wanted to marry me but I couldn’t. As much as I loved him, I just couldn’t. It broke my heart but I had to come back to reality. So, I cried myself to sleep on the flight back home and shuffled through the motions of someone readjusting to real life. It’s been long enough now that there are moments when I wonder whether that was a dream or if it really happened.

So. Now you know how this all came about. We all need stories like this to prove we’ve lived or at the very least enjoy a very active imagination.

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