Prior to departing for Barcelona, my friend Shelly and I sat at my favorite local bar in Miami, Little Hoolies, and I opened yet a new Tinder account. I’d deleted my old account a few weeks prior, when seriously considering a relationship with #FakeBae – but more on that guy later, because it’s quite the story to tell. Boy, oh boy, is that ever a story – I actually almost had a boyfriend for a hot minute there, folks. Almost, but not quite.
As my dad would say, “‘Close’ only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades,” and basically, that’s basically what that was – a game of chance and extremely dangerous.
So I reinstalled Tinder and created a new account. I’ve done this quite a few times over the past two years, and I had reached the point where I had zero creativity left when it came to writing a bio and selecting my profile photos. A guy at the bar helped me select which photos I would use for my profile. Then he asked me to dinner.
Le Sigh.
Shelly and I arrived in Barcelona, and as they say, we hit the ground running. We were renting a room in an Air BNB right on Las Ramblas, so we grabbed a seat at a centralized cafe and ordered sangria – which is my favorite thing to do in Barcelona. Hell, it’s my favorite thing to do anywhere! We sipped sangria and opened our Tinder apps.
I may or may not have set my age requirements to 22-28. I wasn’t fucking around. This isn’t Miami, where I’m looking for a nice guy to date. I just wanted a drinking buddy, someone to party with while exploring the city that I love so much. It seemed that every right swipe was an immediate match, and I chatted a little with a few local guys, whom unfortunately all invited me to their apartments or requested a threesome within moments.
No gracias.
That evening, Shelly and I didn’t even have time to meet anyone from Tinder, because we met #TheAussies so early in the evening. That’s where this story really begins. With #TheBrit. He was fairly young, too young even for my taste. We exchanged a few messages and I got a good vibe from him almost straight away. I didn’t really have interest in meeting, but it was late and then…he told me that he and his friend had beer.
We did not.
So we invited them over.
I know, I know. Sorry, mom.
The Brits were pretty awesome, exactly what I was looking for when I opened Tinder that morning: fun guys who were just looking for fun chicks to party with, and respectful enough to not make things awkward or sexual.
Neither of them requested a trip to the bedroom, tried to touch either of us, or inquired about the possibility of a threesome.
Be still, my beating heart!! There are gentlemen left in this world!
About an hour into their visit, I realized something that shook me to my core….I actually don’t hate the British. Not even in the slightest. These guys were, very much like that sweetheart I told you all about from my Mediterranean cruise last year, were nice, charming, funny and intelligent.
They weren’t even assholes, guys.
#TheBrit was 6’4″ handsome, charming, and one of the nicest guys I have had the pleasure to have met in a REALLY LONG TIME. Yeah. I am looking at you, #FakeBoyfriend. Go fuck yourself. I like the Brits now. I’m a convert. I didn’t even bring up the Revolutionary War, Brexit or their crappy food.
I could ramble on forever about the amazing time we had with the new Brit, but it basically boils down to this: he was so much fun. He was sweet, he held my hand, we kissed a lot, he didn’t even hint at sexual innuendo, and one night he literally stayed out until 8 AM with Shelly and I, partying, drinking, walking the streets and talking about everything from family to fashion, to theme parks to concerts. He even bought us street beers. He wouldn’t let me pay!
He took our photos and laughed with us. He even posed for some photos with us, but has asked me not to publish them, so I just basically look at them every now and then and sigh, wishing he lived closer and that we had the opportunity to see each other. One of these days, the guys who tell me that they want me to blog about them (he didn’t ask, but other guys did) and pose for photos will actually agree to let me post them after they sober up. Until now, you guys will have to settle for photos the guys take of me drinking at the pub with them. Try a Magners cider when you get a chance. I love them!
He was an all-around great guy, and it went on like that for three days. We would go our separate ways during the day, he with his group of friends, and Shelly and I on our own, then coming together in the evenings to hang out when he could get away from his friends – who all teased him mercilessly about abandoning them to run off with some girls.
On our last evening together, he came to meet Shelly and I and her Tinder date for drinks and we all hung out and had a great time until the wee hours of the morning. I realized something that night…I tend to meet the kind of guys who are so cool, you can hang out with them with your friends, either in a group setting, or just them and you and the friend, and we all get along so well. It’s never awkward, no one ever feels like a third wheel…that says something about how cool a guy is. He was just as much her pal as he was mine!
Except they didn’t make out like teenagers on the streets of Barcelona.
I was sad when he left. Really sad. He was an amazing guy. We connected on Facebook and Whatsapp, and we’ve chatted a little here and there since we both left Barcelona.
And that’s the story of how I decided that I may not totally despise British men…or guys, as let’s face it, he was only 23.
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