11 - From Frostbite to Foreplay 

Spurred on by my first Tinder walk, I picked my next date using the same basic criteria.

The only difference?

I found the guy hot this time. Maybe it was because he was Spanish.

The fact that I was spending my extramarital free time first with an “almost Italian” and now with a Spaniard led my husband to ask if I planned on exclusively dating France’s historical enemies. That wasn’t the plan—but if I added a Brit into the mix, at least the language barrier would shrink, and my chances of actually being understood might rise dramatically. Plus, more tea in bed couldn’t hurt.

Since the first Tinder walk had already proven successful, I suggested it again. Walks are perfect: they allow closeness and distance at the same time. It was January, a sunny five degrees Celsius—perfectly walkable weather in my book, as a hardy East German girl. His subtle nudging toward a café didn’t escape me, but I insisted on the walk, and to his credit, he showed up. Unlike last time, I knew from the very first hug that the chemistry was right. Within minutes, the Spaniard had me laughing.

He was wearing a heated jacket—in five degrees! At first, I thought it was a joke. Somehow this brilliant invention had completely passed me by, which is surprising considering my other two better halves are total ice cubes. I couldn’t help but think of my husband and my best friend: the heated jacket would make the perfect Christmas gift for them both.

But aside from that one thought, I didn’t spare the two of them another second while I was with this shivering Spaniard. I quickly realized we wouldn’t be walking for long. He took my warm hand in his freezing one—and the shiver down my back wasn’t just from the cold. Step by step, he pulled me closer. He had a heated jacket; I suddenly had heated underwear.

Want the highlights?

Here’s the summary: the Spaniard is hot, he smells intoxicating, and he’s an excellent kisser. – The walk was absolutely worth it: in a park, kissing is far more enjoyable than under the eyebrow-raising glares of jealous waiters. And as a bonus, he’s practical—he’s only in town every other week. That fits my schedule perfectly. On top of that, with this man, I get to play the princess for once. It’s not exactly an inner need of mine, but that’s the beauty of different partners: each one makes space for a different version of me.

There was a spark between us, and by the end of the week, he asked for another walk. We made it all of 500 meters before his icy fingers slipped under my dress for warmth. The whole thing ended on the backseat of his car, in a cinema parking lot, windows fogged up. His hot stick warming my lips, cold, demanding hands diving deep—Titanic vibes, only without the iceberg. Just some melting ice.

Do you remember the last time you made out in a car like a teenager?

For me, it was before the era of car seats strapped across the back.

I’ll tell you this: a little sexual adventure on the backseat takes more years off you than Botox—and it’s a lot cheaper, as long as the police don’t catch you. Anti-aging, free of charge. Immediate effect. Only side effect: grinning.