Javier

It all begins in Spain; once again, on my year abroad. It was one of my first nights out in the country, and my long-term boyfriend had very recently and unceremoniously given me the boot – something about not loving me enough to make a trans-national relationship work. Well, his loss was most certainly my gain, because on that fateful Wednesday night, at a ‘botellón’ (fancy name for organised street-drinking session), I met Javier.

My two good girl-friends, Amy and Fliss, were looking for love (or maybe something more short-lived) and I, still wallowing in my break-up, decided to be their wing(wo)man. Confidently inebriated, I approached the nearest group of guys and engaged them in conversation. A shy girl at heart, this show of courage was most unusual for me, which is probably why – even the next day – I blacked out the conversation itself. I remember flashbacks; I know I told them about my puppy, and that they thought her photo was cute, but that’s about it. Anyway, after a while I began to wonder why Amy and Fliss hadn’t joined me with the guys, so made my excuses and set off in pursuit of my friends. They told me they were most unimpressed by my choice of men-folk as the whole group was apparently ugly except for one, who was all over me. Maybe it was my blurred vision but I hadn’t clocked the man or his supposed advances either.

As we joined the queue to enter the club, we were joined by the guys I’d been talking to before, only this time I had my eyes wide open. Let me tell you, drunk or not, he was a sight to behold. It took my eyes a good minute to sweep up and down his body, taking in the big brown eyes; square, masculine jaw; rugged stubble; broad shoulders; and his height. Ohhh, his height. Javier was certainly all man. And the girls weren’t wrong: before I knew it, he had his arm playfully around my shoulders and we were chatting up a storm. His sure knowledge of English made up for the butterflies in my stomach (or maybe somewhere lower). On the dance floor he was true to the stereotypical Spaniard with absolutely no regard for personal space, and the feel of his body and hardness against mine was almost too much to bear. After a couple of hours of dancing and tension, he took me to the bar, leaned in and kissed me, a long, deep, lip-biting kiss full of passion and promise. I couldn’t take it anymore.

When we got back to my flat, I excused myself to use the toilet and pointed him in the direction of my bedroom. I went for a wee, freshened up and had a bit of a pep-talk with myself in the mirror (“Come on, you can do this; show him the inner sex-goddess!”). By the time I got to my room, I was burning with desire and ready for anything. But nothing had prepared me for the sight of him lying there, naked except for his tiny white Calvin Kleins. His bronzed, muscled body was like something out of an advert, and his cheeky lopsided smile was all the persuasion I needed to whip off my bag and shoes and straddle him on my bed.

love... V