The Kiss Counter

Posted on September 11, 2011


So I officially fail at any consistent upkeep of this blog. I could blame it on the fact that I’m back in the States with few experiences worth documenting, but that would be a lie. I’d have to say the culprit is procrastination, or maybe even general laziness. Either way, I’ve done a horrible job. So in the spirit of getting back on the blogging horse, I reckon I should do so with a revealing and lighthearted piece. And so, I have created the Kiss Counter – a list of all the nationalities I have managed to swap spit with while abroad. Here it is: a public record of my skankiness. All I can hope is that you gain some amusement at my expense…and that my father doesn’t read this post. In the interest of sparing the dignity of those mentioned, this post will not include photos of the victimized.

Ah, beer.  Turning innocent, well-meaning youngsters into whorish fools in hostels worldwide.


Okay, so technically, this didn’t happen abroad. It happened, very sloppily, with an exchange student from Rio at a homecoming dance during my sophomore year of high school. Considering the fact that he didn’t speak any English, I suppose it could have gone worse.


I don’t remember this guy’s name, but we met in a hostel in San Jose, Costa Rica. He served the sole purpose of pretending to be my boyfriend, in an attempt to ward off creepers in some trashy club we decided to attend. It was, in fact, an effective strategy.


This one I almost feel guilty writing about, because I actually really liked him. My friend Anna and I met three lively young Swedes at a bar in Jacó last year, one of whom was at least six-foot-two inches of blond, Scandinavian handsomeness. For some reason beyond me, they were into us too, and the five of us spent the next week together. When he wasn’t teaching me how to say inappropriate things in Swedish, we were surfing, drinking or watching the sun set on the beach. Try to tell me that isn’t romantic.

Why, thank you Sweden!  We ♥ you too.


I blame this one on whoever decided women drink for free anywhere in Playa del Carmen. I met this particular fellow at the hostel bar (shocking) and ran into him later at The Blue Parrot aka Bar of Bad Judgement and Slutty Behavior. I figured that if all the drunk, Texan soccer moms could indulge in the plethora of European men in the club, why couldn’t I? His name was Mikey, and he had a fauxhawk and three angel tattoos…because one wasn’t enough…? He was also 28, and the oldest person I’ve kissed to date. In my defense, he didn’t look a day over 22, and wannabe mohawks are always more appealing after about ten beers.


I’m fairly certain I’ve kissed more than one Brit in my lifetime, however only one comes to mind. Like the Swede, he was also more than six feet tall and blond. I think his name was Josh. We half danced, half awkwardly made out for way too long atop a rotating dance floor, surrounded by strangers in Dady O’s club in Cancun. It was, quite possibly, the classiest moment of my life.

United States

I’m not going to elaborate on this one. Needless to say, there have been a few. Or a lot.

Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica;  December 2010.


Somehow, the fact that his hair was braided into a rat tail didn’t stop me. Or that he was clearly younger than he claimed to be – I’m guessing somewhere around 17. Luckily, we were in Mexico, where I’m sure there exists no serious ordinance against tangling tongues with minors. I’m not sure what is more shameful – that I kissed an infant, or that we were both on vacation with our parents when it happened. At least he was a gentleman, not that it makes any of this any better.


Fernando was a manager at my favorite club in Mérida. One of my friends was kind of into him, so of course I went out of my way to set them up, right? Nope, I got shitfaced and made out with him behind the bar. Maybe at the time I thought I was being a good friend. In retrospect, it wasn’t my proudest hour.


Don’t remember this guy’s name either. I’m sure I could find it if I actually took the time to scour my friends list on Facebook, but I just don’t care enough to expel the effort. I discovered him at a hostel bar in Isla Mujeres. Starting to notice a pattern here? He had a friend, I had a friend…at least it worked out mathematically. Seemed so logical at the time! I enjoyed his accent enough to let him buy me lots of beer and make out with him in a hammock. After extensive day-after deliberation, my friend and I have since decided that Australians make horrible kissers.

As if beer wasn’t dangerous enough!  Beachside with Señor Cuervo.  Tulum, México;  March 2011.


He showed up in Isla Mujeres the day after my forgettable Australian friend took off. He is the third guy on this list to join the tall, blond and gorgeous club. Clearly, I have no idea how to learn from past mistakes. Even better? His name was totally not pronounceable. Whoever the hell decided that Lasse was to sound like Leeehhhhssuuhnn and not simply Lace or Lass was a total idiot. I officially hate the Danish language.


The last shreds of my dignity were lost during my most recent trip to Cancun, where my sister and I met Italian cousins. I’m still wondering why anyone thought I looked attractive shoveling french fries doused in ketchup and mayonnaise into my mouth by the forkful. Somehow, one of those boys did, enough to kiss me at least. The male psyche is far beyond anything I’ll ever understand. We usually spoke Spanish, since he spoke little English and I, no Italian whatsoever. Luckily, lip-locking is a universally spoken language.

That concludes this list…for now. God only knows what sort of shenanigans I’ll get myself into this Winter when I return to Central America. To those of you who were mentioned in this post…hopefully I haven’t offended you too badly. All in good fun 🙂

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