Men You'll Almost Certainly Sleep With On Your Gap Year
The Debrief: Including the ex you went on a gap year to get away from in the first place
Illustration by Sara Andreasson
Gap-yahs, also known as ‘gap years,’ are traditionally a time where one travels around a bit to explore the world and learn new skills and that. It’s also a time where you’re supposed to, ‘find yourself,’ but if we’re honest… that part often translates as ‘finding yourself in someone else’s bed’ (hi mum). If you’re still labouring under the misapprehension that the guys you shagged on your gap year were all part of the totally unique and spiritual trip only you’ve experienced, you’re wrong. Everyone else was also having sex with the same seven guys. We’ve ever written them all down for you, you lucky thing.
Sex-starved 40-something going through divorce
Ah, the older man. So charming, so suave, so… umm, grown up. You’ll find him being all lonely on a business trip somewhere in Tokyo or Hong Kong. He’ll talk you into bed over an expensive dinner his witty words and his manly man-smell. The sex on the other hand, the sex doesn’t last as long as the starters. If you can get past the photo of his wife and kids on his phone and the indent on his ring finger from the wedding ring that’s been squishing it for the past 15 years… it might last longer than a few stolen weekends in a countryside golf and spa hotel in Hampshire. Equally, it might not.
This dude could be from anywhere but you can guarantee you wouldn’t find him wandering around the provincial English town where you did your A-levels. Hell no. This guy has been places, man. He’s got a necklace a bone hanging on it. He’s not even wearing shoes. He’s the one who knows where the best full moon parties are (largely because he’s not left that island since arriving in the late nineties). The fact you can only understand maybe half* (*a fifth) of what he’s saying really doesn’t matter, because he lit a cigarette whilst he was going down on you and his eyes are really pretty. Oh, and the way he says your name…
This guy. This fucking guy. You’ll meet him late at night on a terrace full of gap year clichés. He’s only there for two weeks because he’s flown out to meet a friend who’s travelling. His patter? Perfection. His clothes? Immaculate. This is the guy who when in his company your most rational thoughts include, 'I would kill all of my friends to marry this man.' He’s incredible. He’s the one you can’t quite believe is true. Is he a witch? He’s too pretty. Why does he want you? No, don’t question it. Just go with it. A guy this hot could like a girl like you. He totally could! Maybe. So you give in hastily and oh boy oh wow, do you fall. Head first. Which is a shame, because he has a girlfriend. Didn’t he mention it? Oh, he swears he did. And he is TOTALLY cool sleeping with you again if you don’t tell anyone. So sweet, right?
You know what? Don’t fucking ask. This one just, happens. You’re attracted to him because he’s got this grumpy, sexy Julian Casablancas thing going on and you can’t work out if that really is eyeliner (it must be, and how the hell does he do it better than I can?). You’ll only come across this one if your gap year involves a spot of inter railing, as he tends to stick to cooler climate, lurking in the depths of some grunge bar in Northern Europe where his sallow skin won’t burn (like Gollum, and the similarities don’t end there). His love of scream-core tricks you into thinking he’s deep and troubled. He can fit into your jeans and you like it. You also, stupidly, think you can save him. But you can’t. He’s a little boy. The realisation that he’s not for you hits in around the same time that you realise grubby fingers are only sexy on gardeners and smoking roll ups on the floor of a car-park isn’t cool, ever.
I’m not sure of the exact effects that Made in Chelsea will have had on the bourgeoisie’s bonking appeal but posh genes always have a certain allure. Let’s face it, at one point or another, we all get sucked in by some glossy haired prick with a deep voice. He pronounces his t’s as ‘d’s and he has the skin of a man that’s seen a thousand boat decks and polo tournaments. You know he’ll only talk about himself, but it’s all worth it for that moment of panic when you run out of money halfway down Vietnam and he magically produces a his dad’s emergency black Amex from the front of his jock strap and saves the day. Hurrah!
For some reason, six months on the full moon trail makes some guys think they’re a poor-man’s Ron Jeremy. No idea why, but there you go. You’ll find this dude knocking about the edge of a dance floor in Phuket, he’ll be the one with no top on, winking at every female who passes – you can’t miss him. See? There he is. He’s kind of cute, I guess, and the second fishbowl you shared made his cute-glass seem half full, so you give in. Now, every so often it’s wonderful to spend an evening with a man that makes you feel like you’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil (or Cirque le Soir if it’s really freaky) but when he starts shouting ‘YEAH’ in an American accent with every thrust (especially when they’re from Doncaster) NO. No to that.
This’ll happen in one of two ways. First way; he breaks up with you (the shit!) and you flee the country TO GET AWAY FROM HIM THE SHIT but then you talk a little bit after a few months, and decide it probably is a good idea if he meets you for that final leg of Thailand. And then there was a pretty moon and you were a little stoned and LOOK, it wasn’t my fault ok? The second scenario goes a little like this; you break up with him and you go away for a year to get away from him (the shit!) and when you come home he comes round to see you… and err… oh fuck it.
Follow Emily on Twitter @Miss_EBP
At work? With your gran?
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