Years late to the party.

Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
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Trip End Ongoing


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Flag of Colombia  ,
Friday, February 10, 2012

So after the debacle that was last nights gringo sausage fest, surely tonight will be better?

At the moment I realise I'm spending far too much time and effort in clubs.  Not only am I pissing money up the wall, but I'm not really getting what I want.  It's different over here.  Girls are certainly not as promiscuous as our European counterparts.  I have heard of the 'three day rule'; you meet them on the first night, then twice more on dates before you get anywhere.  Some have said you meet the family before anything else happens, yet when it does, apparently it's well worth it.  If you're looking for a long term partner, this is the place to be.  Colombia and Medellin are clearly not for a casual pick up.

So why so much effort?  Why do I feel I need to do it? What good is it doing me, particularly from a financial point of view?  Is it just because I'm a guy, or does it lie deeper than that?

When I was younger I was badly bullied both in primary and high school.  I didn't have many friends, and not one girl took a look at me until I was in my late teens.  I had very bad acne, was something of a mummy's boy and would cry at the drop of a hat.  An overly sensitive soul if you will.  I had my first kiss when I was eighteen and lost my virginity a year after.  At around the same time, the people who would eventually become my friends, were having all sorts of adolescent relationships, when it was deemed OK to kiss one girl at this party, then date her best mate the week after.  It was all part of growing up.  Snogging behind the bike sheds at break time.  Well I never had that.

As you enter your teenage years your hormones run riot.  I suppose I never found an outlet for these new feelings, save spending days on end in the bathroom looking at a postcard of Jet; my favourite female gladiator.  All I wanted was a girlfriend.  A kiss would have done.  The in-crowd were living it up, drinking booze on park benches, having two day relationships and experimenting with sexual encounters.  I was playing my Atari STe.  Followed by a Super Nintendo.  Those were the days eh?  As good as it is, somehow I wasn't satisfied with playing Mario Kart, compared to seeing a nipple.

Fast forward to 2012, and the vast majority of the friends and acquaintances I grew up with are settled, with long term relationships, married, two-point-four kids, house with a car in the drive way, working steady, respectable jobs.  Of course there are exceptions, but I only have to visit a few facebook pages to know the observation generally rings true.  And yet here am I, cavorting around the world like a thirteen year old horn monkey.  Perhaps it is this lost childhood that is causing me such problems.  There is more to life than that.

Yet it's easier said than done to change a psyche so deep rooted in my make up that I'm frightened it will never leave.  I'm doomed to perpetually chase the perfect girl, not acknowledging I have it until it's gone.  A friend once said; "if you put as much effort into acting as you do chasing women, you'd be a superstar."  That speaks volumes doesn't it?  Perhaps porn is the way forward, if only I had a huge penis and could grow a convincing moustache.

So here we are again, propping up a classy bar in downtown Medellin, wearing Issy Miyake, a fitted shirt and special underwear.  The black ones with the stretch band waist.  My chances of pulling are significantly reduced by a drunk gay lawyer who wants to practice his English, smashes a whiskey and a half from my friends hand, and scares everyone else away.

"My sister...live...in...Brighton."  He slurs into our faces.

Aye very good.

"Do you know Brighton?"

Of course.

"My sssister...live...in Brighton."

Yes so you said.

"I like...boys."

No problem dude, we like girls.

"I like...boys."

Yes. 

"My sister...live...in Brighton."

And so it continues.  Until we're the only ones left as the doors are shutting, and any potential has eeked away.  We make an escape into a cab and arrive late to a 'super club' called Fahrenheit.  It's as dead as Pablo Escobar.  We get the impression we're two hours behind everything.  One big party and we're not invited.  It feels like I've been late to the party for years.  It's only saving grace, is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen working behind the bar.  A massively wide, thick, heavy, black granite bar. 

Don't think the irony was lost on me.
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