Adrenaline by Enrique Iglesias

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That summer many years ago, I spent my nights studying and listening to music on Radio 3.

When I finished my exams, I planned to meet Montse. I’d known her for several months. One afternoon, I met an old schoolmate on the train. She was heading to Barcelona to meet a friend, and since I was also meeting a friend, we decided to have a drink together. When I saw Montse, my eyes widened. I really liked her and managed to get her email address, back in those days when the internet was still in its infancy. I made a small space for myself and started talking to her more and more. There were plans to meet up, but Montse lived in Tarragona, which was quite far away. To make matters worse, she had fallen for another guy. As I started opening my heart to her, she began to act cold, and we lost all contact just after the summer. It was Montse who, to my surprise, contacted me. She had spent a few weeks in a village in England, had forgotten her old love, and wanted to meet up with me. One night, to see a concert in Tarragona and then sleep at a friend’s house. The day before, she called and said her friend only had one bed and that we should sleep together. Did it matter to me? Of course not. I told my brother, and he said, “Buy condoms.” I couldn’t believe it because I’d never touched a girl. Sex was very present in my thoughts but very far from reality; it was almost a chimera, a dimension that had always been closed to me, and it was strange, sensational, that it opened up suddenly. That afternoon, I showered, put on a long-sleeved blue shirt, rolled up in the style of Íñigo in “Al salir de clase” (my prototype of someone cool at the time), waxed my shoes, and bathed in perfume. I don’t remember which one, but I’m sure it had to be by a celebrity. Here I’d like to pay tribute to this type of perfume. In those years, it was unthinkable to have a Dior, Chanel, or Guerlain. For me, as a student with no money, it was completely out of reach. Daily, I used my father’s cologne (Agua Brava, Herbíssimo, Boston Men, or whatever it was), and for special occasions, I wore the one my mother had bought me. It was always a celebrity scent. Maybe it was Antonio Banderas. No idea. I went to the station, took the last train, and met Montse in Tarragona. I got very nervous because she was gorgeous. She was a small girl with long, wavy brown hair, huge green eyes, and a perfect smile with white, aligned teeth. She was wearing a short black dress and, since it was cooling down, a denim jacket over it. We went to the outdoor concert: Paco Ibáñez. But I spent the whole time wondering what I could do, far from any naturalness about it, and remembering songs by Los Planetas, the band I liked at the time. Afterward, we had a few drinks. And finally, very late at night, we walked along a promenade by the beach to her friend’s house. I tried to get things going in the clumsiest way imaginable, and she said nothing, just smiled. I would have been content with some kisses, honestly. Climbing almost in the dark up the stairs of that old, Mediterranean house, she threw herself on me and kissed me. We entered the room in silence. The window was open, letting in the moonlight. I couldn’t believe it: that, finally, was happening. She took off her dress and was wearing a black outfit. I took it off. There before me was her naked body, with small breasts and white skin, ready to quench the thirst that had been nesting in me for too many years. Every small step was a discovery. Her skin was tight, smooth, and emanating a sweet scent from her body. She reacted to every test I made with my hands, with my tongue. I crossed, without a map, unknown, amazing, and exuberant territory. But suddenly I was inside her; I felt like jumping down a slide that would take me to a new stadium in my life. While her legs wrapped around me, I heard her moans very close to my ear and realised that one of my great doubts as a virgin—how long I would be able to hold out—was resolved with every thrust, every kiss, every scratch of her nails on my back. I could last a while, but I had no idea how long was necessary. So, at one point, I decided to finish in case I was dragging it out too long. I still had much to learn about the unwritten rules of sex and to understand the language of naked bodies. Montse fell asleep by my side, and I hugged her. I couldn’t sleep all night. The violet light filtering through the window fell on her. The sound of the waves was crisp, and I enjoyed watching her curves and the smooth skin of her buttocks. My body asked for more, but I was completely paralysed. It was one of the most beautiful moments I’ve ever lived. The next day, we said goodbye at the station with a kiss. I went home full of illusions, love, and hope: my heart wouldn’t fit in my chest. Of course, I didn’t imagine I’d ever see her again. Adrenaline by Enrique Iglesias won’t have the best components in the world; in fact, it’s very synthetic. Nor will it be original, as it’s something like a One Million with a lot of apple. And its performance won’t be that of a Mancera, but it lives well for about six hours. I didn’t wear it then, but I could have back then. I think celebrity perfumes fulfil a valuable role in the spark and fantasy of very young boys who are just starting to live. People without the necessary background to appreciate the nuances of life and the grey spaces between black and white. And who simply want to enjoy, without more, something accessible and seductive that puts the accent on those moments that mark a before and an after.

• Longevity
• Sweet
• Night
• Violet