I went on a cross-country teen tour for a couple summers in high school, and the second time around, I got lucky. Her name was Amber, and she was a total firecracker of a girlfriend: hot, adventurous, and horny, every high school boy’s fantasy. Problem was, this tour was heavily chaperoned, and finding time alone with Amber was difficult. Most nights, we stayed at youth hostels or in cabins, and the boys and girls were strictly separated. But as luck would have it, we had a couple nights ahead of camping in the woods. An ingenious plan was hatched.

Amber would be spending the night in a two person tent with her friend Sara, who just happened to be going out with my friend and tent-mate Matt. We agreed that at two in the morning, after everyone was asleep, Maria would slip out of her tent and sneak into ours. I would then sneak into Amber’s tent, and the two couples would spend the next three hours getting down and dirty. Condoms were purchased in anticipation of the campout, and the four of us could hardly contain our excitement.

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I was dating a guy I probably shouldn’t have, but I was young (22) and I didn’t know any better. He was 30, he made a lot of money, and he was the sort of guy who liked to show you how much money he made, the sort who would aggressively pay for everything just to show you how little money mattered to him. At this stage in my life, I’d be repulsed by that, but at the time I didn’t know any better (or maybe I did but wasn’t listening to the voices in my head)

Did I mention he was hot? Um, yeah. He was kind of hot, which is probably why I let myself get swept up by him instead of running away.

We’d gone out a handful of times, and while we hadn’t technically slept together yet, we’d gotten pretty close. So when he told me he wanted to take me away for Valentine’s, I was pretty darn excited and very ready for the next step.

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I was spending my summer on Cape Cod, and I’d managed to start dating this local girl (we’ll call her Kate) who was on the verge of being out of my league. Young, beautiful, taut, frequently in shorts, you get the picture. And she was a good girl too, not the sort who was gonna sleep with any old guy who blew into town. And I liked that. But my point is: I knew I had to pay my dues if I wanted things to get as physical as you better believe I wanted them to get. I had to be the good boyfriend.

She had a little brother. Cute kid, maybe eight years old. I’d met him once and we’d hit it off. “I love that my brother has so much fun with you,” she’d said. Later that day, Kate’s bra came off for the first time. My simian male brain made the following connection: nice to Kate’s brother = hot love with Kate. This would be my undoing.

Couple weeks later. Big party at her parents house. Real WASPy New Englandy fancy backyard affair. I wore my best slacks, my best shirt, and my only blazer. Kate was fancy too. And deadly gorgeous. I was in lust, but had to control it until later. I had a feeling it might be my lucky night.

But first, I’d lay the groundwork. Play with the little brother. And so I did. I made him laugh. I used funny voices. Stupid voices. Probably-not-so-attractive-to-the-opposite-sex voices. I was silly. Too silly. I played pretend. WAY too well. I really had a blast with this little kid. Too much of a blast. Throughout the afternoon, I could see Kate slowly losing her interest in me, but I used all the wrong tactics to get it back. I doubled my efforts. I played tag with this kid. Football. Badminton. I got sweaty. And not just sweaty. I got arm-pit stained funky smelling unkempt hobo-at-the-tea-party sweaty. Really not a turn-on. And by the time I realized exactly how royally I’d screwed myself, it was too late to do anything about it.

Would I see her that night? No, on second thought, she really ought to help her parents clean up. And the next day? Well, maybe she had enough time for a movie, but not much else. You get the idea. A slow fadeout. To this day, I’m still kicking myself…

Submitted by D. White, Age 33, Philadelphia, PA

It was Sunday in Madrid, and I was on a 24-hour layover. It had taken two hours from the airport to the bus to the train to my hostel, which had a McDonald’s on one side, porn shops on the other, and a shower that fell off the wall. I needed a night out.

Manuel, my only friend in Madrid, was away for the weekend, “would be back to hang out, but probably late”, and wasn’t answering his cellphone. I didn’t have a phone of my own, but figured I could call him from anywhere. So I set out, armed with Manuel’s number, my Rough Guide, and enough Spanish to get myself in trouble.

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I used to really have a thing for Spanish guys. Why? I don’t know… I guess there’s just something about them speaking in Spanish with that sexy accent that’s a turn-on. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Spanish guys actually let you know that they’re interested, as opposed to American men who just stand in the corner and avoid eye contact. At least, that’s what I once thought.

So I had just arrived in Spain for my semester abroad and was out at one of their hottest nightclubs when I met this very attractive Madrileño man. He was hot. We spoke in Spanish together, I got a little drunk, and before I knew it, we were making out on the dance floor. I gave him my digits. I have to say, I was psyched that I’d managed to meet this really sexy, cool Spanish guy on one of my first nights in Madrid. But then later, he began to text me…

And text me…

…in English, what became a long series of cheesy, lame, slightly incorrect English pickup lines. And the thing was, I could tell he was actually being serious. He actually thought he was using these suave American pickup lines on me. They were hilarious. My favorite was: “C’MON BABY, LIFE MY FIRE”

I had a good laugh, but needless to say, his sex appeal was completely gone for me… I never saw him again.

Submitted by Annie, Age 26, New York City

On a recent trip to Mexico, my friend and I met two American guys in an Irish pub (Yes, we went to an Irish pub in Mexico; it was recommended by our waitress). One of the bar’s regulars had already had his hands all over me, so when we were approached by two new guys schooled in American social graces, we welcomed their company. Nice enough guys. We probably wouldn’t have been friends with them back in the States, but good times had by all.

I wound up as the keeper of the email addresses, and upon our return to the States, I sent an email to my friend with everyone cc’ed. “Hey guys, just wanted to touch base with everyone’s email addresses. Photos shortly; hope you had a great rest of trip!”

A few days later, I had an email from Mike, who my friend and I agreed was the cuter of the two.

It began: “Hey, what a surprize to hear from you!”

Continued with a few details about “interesting” museums he’d seen, and ended with “I almost never make it to the city (New York, i.e., where I live), but it’s only about an hour away. Maybe I just need a good excuse, hint hint…”

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