Memory is a Liar

 By the summer of 2003, my double life had stabilized. Catarina had ended our affair to save her relationship, and I let her go without a fight. Losing a "sex pearl" like her stung, but I couldn't really complain. I still had Beatriz. She might not have had Catarina’s perfect body, but she was a friend, a lover, and a woman who knew exactly how to handle me.

We planned a holiday to her family’s summer house in the south. She decided to go ahead a few days early to visit her family, leaving me unsupervised in the city.

Naturally, the old instinct woke up immediately.

I called the old crew for drinks: Ricardo and another friend, Tiago. The surprise of the night was that Tiago brought Mónica along. Seeing her triggered my memory instantly: I forgot the boring sex and just remembered those massive, perfect tits. I wanted to touch them again.

But Mónica was pissed. I hadn't called her since our last encounter in the back of the car. I hadn't even called on her birthday. She felt used—which, to be fair, she was.

The night started cold. We drank at a bar before moving to a club, but she kept her distance. I tried to explain myself on the dance floor—"I'm living with my girlfriend now, I have no free time"—but she wasn't buying my excuses. I wasn't just dancing; I was campaigning.

I needed a strategic advantage. I pulled Tiago aside. "You take Ricardo home," I whispered. "Leave Mónica to me."

It made zero logistical sense—Mónica lived on Tiago’s way home—but he understood the assignment. He was a good wingman. He grabbed Ricardo and vanished.

I drove Mónica home. The car ride was a negotiation. I kept talking, my hand drifting to her leg. She blocked me at first, but persistence is my superpower. By the time we parked in front of her building, the walls were crumbling. The goodbye kiss turned into a make-out session. My hands went into "octopus mode," finding every curve, reminding her of what she missed.

Ten minutes later, I was in her bed.

And ten minutes after that, I remembered why I hadn't called her.

Memory is a liar. It highlights the good parts (the tits) and deletes the bad parts (everything else). Mónica was, once again, a lousy fuck. She lay there like a beautiful piece of furniture. No blowjob. No action. No seduction. She didn't even ask for anal this time. I fucked her, played with her tits, and left feeling empty.

It was a conquest, nothing more. The thrill was in the seduction, not the act.

After that hollow victory, I drove south to join Beatriz. The rest of 2003 was a Golden Era. We traveled to Croatia for three weeks, exploring the coast and each other. We ended the year with an amazing three-week trip to India.

It was probably the best year of my life. I had a great partner, I had experienced the wildest sex of my life with Catarina, and I had seen the world.

But as the calendar turned to 2004, the golden era began to crack.