Skin hunger:

Satisfied.

So, for those of you who had money riding on how long it would take me to get some while abroad, the official count is...exactly three weeks.

There was no sex, for a variety of reasons, most importantly because I wasn't looking to get laid last night. There was, however, a great deal of making out, preceded by discussions of US politics and people and Spanish culture as viewed through foreigners' eyes. What can I say, I'm a sucker for intelligent conversation. Especially because it happens so rarely when randomly meeting someone at a bar.

We'll call him Pedro (to quote a fellow blogger, "for the good and sufficient reason that that is [his] name"), and he's from Mexico. Yes, those of you who know me can now have a good hearty laugh. Leave it to me to come to Spain and find a Mexican man to make out with. He's here getting his MBA, and he speaks perfect English, but is way sexier when he speaks Spanish. (As is often the case.) He's taller than me (even in my heels), a little metro, and has cloudy blue-grey eyes that are a little too easy to get lost in. My girlfriends and I started chatting with him while we were out last night, then the girls left (the rest of the group we'd gone out with was still at the bar), and so he and I picked up the conversation. He was impressed that I knew, well, much of anything, it seemed, about Mexico, and more so that I am so fond of it. We talked about Spanish views of Mexican culture and people, and then the conversation shifted to international perceptions of Americans. (I actually don't like the term "American" because it implies that anyone from the US are the only Americans, when we aren't even the only North Americans, let alone mention of South America. In Spanish, I can say I'm Americana or Estado Unidense, and I always use the latter, which basically translates to United States-ian, but that doesn't work as well in English.)

I made a joke that I should start telling people that I'm Canadian, because being from the States doesn't always put one in a favorable position here. Especially being young and from the States, when everyone assumes you're just here to party and that you're loud, obnoxious, and uncouth. While I can certainly be all those things at times, I make a concerted effort not to allow those to be my default behavior.

Pedro brought up Barack Obama, saying that if he wins, it might not be so bad to say I'm from the US. Conversation quickly turned to US-Mexico relations. Pedro went off on a rant asking why more US people don't speak Spanish. I responded (in Spanish) that I didn't know - which was true. It makes no sense to me that being bilingual is such a specialized skill in the States, where as I've seen it's the norm here abroad. Certainly in Spain, everyone speaks Spanish, most speak English, and a significant majority also speak French (and a plethora of other languages). Pedro seemed surprised to see me not defending people from the States, but rather empathizing with him.

We talked about how people, both abroad and in the States, seem to forget that Mexico shares a border with us, unless they're talking about people crossing it illegally. I told him I'd spent some time in Mexico and where my favorite places are (which are nowhere near Cancun or any other tourist trap), and we talked about Mexican Spanish phrases that don't translate or aren't used here. He was impressed I knew them. I finally said something about thinking more people from the States should speak Spanish or just be aware of other cultures (specifically Mexican and South American), and he smiled at me. Told me I wasn't like any girl from the US he'd met, placed his hands along my jawline and kissed me.

The talking and kissing continued, and I sipped on the drink he'd bought me. (I only had a few drinks over the course of the night, which means my head was still very much about me. Hence the making out with a relative stranger.) It was about 3:45am, and the bar was getting ready to close. A cab ride home is about 10 Euro for me, and I'd bought a drink earlier, so taking the cab would have cost me all the money I had left. I had planned to stay out until 6, when the Metro starts running again, and Pedro asked if I wanted to hang out with him until then. He pointed out that he lived a few blocks from the bar, and I thought it over. At this point, we'd been talking exclusively for almost three hours. I looked at him, and as seriously as I could, said "OK. I'll come over. But I'm not having sex with you tonight. Are we clear?" He said of course, and I clarified again in Spanish. The bartender asked if we were ready to head out, and Pedro kissed my forehead, took me by the hand and led me out of the bar.

He continued holding my hand as we walked towards his apartment. Because of the hour and the fact that it was a Monday night (at that point, Tuesday morning), there was no traffic, but we still stopped at each intersection making sure we weren't going to get run over. At one point, we had to cross to the other side of the main drag, and as we walked across (clear of any traffic in sight both ways), he stopped. "Kiss me. Right here," he said, smiling.
"I can't kiss you in the middle of the street!" I replied, laughing.
"Yes, you can!"
And so I did. The whole walk back felt a little like something out of a chick flick. I can't remember the last time I walked down the street with my fingers intertwined with someone else, just enjoying the moment like that.

We got to his apartment and walked in the heavy green door, made of metal, it seemed, that had some design on it. I was surprised at how nice the neighborhood was (an area I'm quite familiar with), and more at the marble staircase which wrapped around the elevator we took to the seventh floor. As he turned the key and walked into his apartment to turn on the light, he apologized for the mess. There were a few magazines on the table, which I suppose was what he was referring to. He'd already told me he lived alone (which is unusual for Spain), and I was impressed with the hardwood floors and classy, while minimalist, taste in furniture. I set my purse down on his dining room table and surveyed the space. It was huge. A two-bedroom, with a full bathroom, kitchen and dining room. He was still standing near the door, smiling at me. As he approached me, I pointed out that I'm nowhere near as tall as I was (what with the heels on), and sat on a chair to remove my shoes. He asked if I wanted help and knelt down to unbuckle my strappy sandals. He kissed my shoulder as he stood back up, and brought a hand under my chin to bring my lips back to his. I had to stand on my toes just a little bit to be able to kiss him. Which is exactly how I like it. He kissed down my neck to my collarbone, to the scoop neckline of my haltertop. He asked if he could take it off. I told him he could, and he kept kissing me, wrapping his arms around my now-exposed waist.

I trailed my fingers along his hips, tugging at the bottom of his shirt, and pointed out that if I was shirtless, it was only fair that he was, too. With his nod of approval, I peeled his shirt off him and pulled his body back against mine. There is no feeling like skin on skin. I love the physical and psychological connection that comes from touching someone and being touched. He asked if I wanted to come and lay down - I said yes, reminding him that I wasn't going to be having sex with him. He chuckled and said he remembered, and that he'd be happy if this is all we did all night.

He took me to the bedroom, still kissing me, and when the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed, brought a hand behind my head to lay me down. I threw my arms around his shoulders, and once we'd fallen, he leaned over me, surveying my body. Usually this is where I get self-conscious or hesitant, but he was smiling, and so were his eyes, and so was I. He ran his hands down my sides, tracing my curves and making me shiver just a little bit. He brought his lips to mine again and kissed me deep and slow. He pulled away slightly, staying close enough so I could feel him breathing, far enough to look directly into my eyes. "Me encantas," he said, without a hint of irony or the joking tone we'd adopted all night. I melted a little more.

We'd been speaking Spanish exclusively since we left the bar, but that phrase was particularly poignant and damn near touching. It translates, essentially, to "you're enchanting." Which is a really fabulous thing to hear. And of course, Spanish being a romance language and sexy as hell on top of that, makes it sounds even better.

We kept kissing, touching, biting and licking, and save for a few verbal requests to let him go down on me (which I declined), he entirely respected my limits. By about 6am, we were both exhausted, and he asked me if I wanted to stay and sleep for a while or if I wanted him to take me home. I'm never one to pass up sleeping next to someone, so I settled in with my head on his shoulder and legs tangled with his. I fell asleep to him stroking my hair, punctuated with gentle kisses on my forehead. When I awoke several hours later, we had moved positions, but his arms were still around me. He looked peaceful and happy, and as I turned to kiss him again, he smiled and wrapped his arms tighter around me.

I could, perhaps, get used to this.