Matt Forney
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European Travel is Better Than American Sex

This is a guest post by Kid Strangelove. Kid originally published this article at his own blog on August 2, 2013, but he deleted the site a while ago so he could focus on other projects. He asked me if I’d be willing to re-post some of his articles on my blog and I said yes.

Let me get this out of the way: in my two weeks in Europe (one week in Barcelona, one in Paris) I did not have any sex.

There, I said it. In fact, the most action I got in those two weeks was a kiss from an Irish girl I met in a Barcelona bar.

Got it? If you think sex is the only measure of a man, and you can’t listen to a word I’m saying about my trip (LOL incel, amirite?), then head on over to Netflix or something and watch Justice League.

However, in the two weeks that I was gone, I learned more about myself, my goals, my motivations and my attitude than I ever did in my hottest of hot streaks. Strange how that works, isn’t it? When a lot of guys begin to learn game, they think their lives are perfect and they’re just missing a woman (or two, or three) to share them with. Many are mistaken. I know I was.

American sex has hit the bottom of the barrel for me, a realization I had 72 hours before I was scheduled to depart for Barcelona. After witnessing a shouting match between two gay friends over their recent breakup, I talked to an adorable Anna Kendrick lookalike for about 45 minutes. Went for the number… whoops, boyfriend bomb, sorry bro. By this time—Tuesday night around one in the morning, I believe—the only girls that remained at the bar were either surrounded by sausage or had the appearance of an average XoJane blogger. No thank you.

As I walked home, I was glancing inside bars to see if there were any lone-wolf sex-starved girls sitting at the bar, slamming down drinks to rationalize the one-night stand she was about to have. I found one. She was a faded Southern belle in her forties. She was still pretty, but as I soon found out, her head was scrambled.

She was divorced from a rich man because—for lack of a better term—YOLO. She laid out all of her problems. We’d only known each other for twenty minutes at this point. I guess I was supposed to be the Taye Diggs to her Stella. And yes, I just referenced How Stella Got Her Groove Back, because I have excellent taste in movies.

And then the fucking happened. And in no universe can what we did be confused for making love. Before I knew it, I was being asked to slap her, choke her, spit on her face, fuck her ass. I decided to amuse myself and dirty talk her with manosphere phrases, such as “you eat my alpha cum” and “another man wined and dined you, but I get to fuck your dirty little asshole.” Yep, I said those things. Wasn’t the first time. I woke up the next morning feeling dirty. Ugh.

Yep. That was my most recent American sex. And that was one of the good nights.

But the flip side? Is it ever grand:

  • I tasted bodega food that was the same quality as Whole Foods.
  • I saw Sagrada Familia, a church so beautiful it moved me to tears.
  • I went for a morning run, got lost, and ended up in an Olympic park. Needless to say, it was the most epic run of all time.
  • I drank good, cheap beer, ate good, cheap street food, and talked about life with my friends, discovering the sides of them I never knew existed, deepening our friendships.
  • I saw the museum of Salvador Dali, the man that took “quirky as fuck” to levels never seen before.
  • I saw beautiful paintings, large and small, from every corner of the world, in the Louvre.
  • I saw paintings in person that I have only seen in books, and doing so made a giant difference. Yes, I artfagged on vacation. A lot.
  • I saw how much the world draws from America for inspiration, from the theaters showing Despicable Me 2, to people wearing superman T-shirts, to the Harley Davidson festival in Barcelona. I felt proud to be an American.
  • I read every chance I got and I learned every chance I got.

That is just a small sample of sights and activities I got to experience in two weeks. I was inspired, and writing these words right now is reigniting that fire all over again.

I am unstoppable when I am inspired. Look out, world: here I come.

I know this is said a LOT in the manosphere, but it must be repeated… travel.

Travel far and wide. Travel to places where the language and culture are not your own. Travel because no matter where you are and what you do, familiarity doesn’t just build contempt: it builds prisons. Plan your fucking vacation. It might just change your life.

Read Next: Do Travel Writers Go to Hell? by Thomas Kohnstamm