My Rumble on La Rambla


Haven’t really spoken much about my travels. I’ve actually been to 33 countries and have had a butt tonne of fun adventures… This one was ultra fun, though. And is written per request from some of my more *ahem* eager readers.

In 2009, I went on a trip with one of my Besties to Portugal, Spain, and Malta. To provide context, this was post-break up (see here) and post post-break up butt sex phase (see here).

Barcelona is weird though, eh? Like La Rambla street.. have you guys been? What the FUCK is happening there? Weird-ass street “performers”… AKA: people just standing there in costumes wanting your money. Sorry you dressed up like the tin man today, bro… but are your poor life choices really a talent worth my hard earned Euros? They even sell chipmunks. Like they have chipmunks crowded in a cage and you can buy one (see above photo for evidence). You probably don’t even have to explain WHY you want one. OR what about those random brown dudes who are blowing those buzzy-sounding whistle thingies?.. and then they follow you around saying “beer marijuana hash coke” as if it’s one word… “beermarijuanahashcoke” … and try to pick pocket you.  Or when you’re sitting on a stoop eating stracciatella gelato and one of ’em comes up with a rose and starts stroking your face with it and you just don’t even react or break  the conversation with your friend because literally nothing can weird you out anymore. Yea. La Rambla.

So many Americans too. God damn Americans. Americans everywhere. So I did what any good travelling Canadian would do. I fucked one.

We stayed in a wicked hostel known for partying and we hooked up with another hostel and went on the typical backpackers pub crawl. I dunno what kinda pheromones I was emitting that night but every dude there was trying to bag me. There was one in particular, however, that I had my eye on. I noticed him immediately: Black dude, long beautiful immaculate dreds, gorgeous face and body, New York accent.

I got absolutely hammered off free long island iced teas that every dude was crawling over each other to buy me. Then I walked up to the kid and started talking to him about hip hop -Is it racist and geographist that I assumed a black dude from NYC would know about 90s hiphop?- Well, he did.  And we talked and danced all night while the other dudes sat begrudgingly on the side lines. The last thing I really remember is saying to my friend “yo, you have to help me sleep with this dude tonight“. I had never said that before. This was my first legit one night stand. (O-M-G you guys.. that is like TOATS scandi).

So we went back to his hostel dorm. DORM?! Yep.. it’s a room of 8 bunk beds. Bunk beds. Remember those? With people in them. All of them. EACH bed. And we had sex in the room full of people on the TOP PART of a bunk bed. While someone slept underneath it.

And by “slept” I mean did this:


Yea, man. He worked me. And that bunk bed was rrrrrrrrumbling. I can’t say I entirely remember the whole session but I do remember a LOT of dred tugging. And a LOT of dirty talking. I also have this visual of the condom on his dick and it looking a bit murky and a bit bloody… And I remember asking “Did I tell you to put it in my ass?” and looked confused and said “Yea.. that JUST happened“. That’s how drunk  was. I couldn’t remember if 1 minute ago I had someone’s long-ass hard dick in my arse. And it was BIG too. There was NO way I even tried to muffle the accompanying vocals.

I sure as flame hope the dude below us… or anyone else in the room for that matter wasn’t a virgin!


*And THAT, children… is how babies are made….*

After, he walked me back to my hostel and wrote his name and email on a napkin. Then he took a picture of me on his phone and called me “London fit“. Lol. Whatever that means.

The next day my friend and I took the train to a nearby deserted beach and frolicked topless while I contemplated life and other pressing matters like… man my butt feels kinda “mashy”… You know like that mashy feeling? Did I have ass sex last night? (It was still kinda foggy). Of course I did. What is wrong with me? 

Also I didn’t know his name. And I couldn’t read his writing. Later at dinner with the rest of our hostel crew I passed around the napkin so everyone could have a turn at trying to decipher it.

It didn’t matter, anyway. His name could have been Priscilla Penelope the fucking 3rd for all I cared. I still woulda let him hit. He was hot as hell and certainly top 3 of the best looking dudes I’ve been with. It was definitely a good memory for my first and one of my only one night stands.

Me and Penelope and our rumble on La Rambla. And all without permanent anal damage. Good times, P.  Good times.