It's one thing to get a blow job from a stranger, but it's quite another thing to get a blow job from a stranger on the side of a road in Mexico.

So when the hot Scot I'd met at Karamba suggested during the walk back to our respective hotels that we find a dark place to fool around, I politely replied, "No gracias." Besides, the night up until that point had been so amazing that I didn't want to jinx it with any criminal curbside canoodling. For once in my life, I had a blast dancing shirtless with other shirtless men, and no amount of anonymous sex could have improved upon what was already six hours of spontaneous glee.

Thank god I had decided to sneak out. It was Saturday at midnight, and for the past five days, I had endured enough family time to make even Dr. James Dobson go mad. Once my mom and dad left the hotel bar and retired to bed, I snuck up to my room, slipped on my pink polo, and hailed the next bus to downtown Cancun — all by myself. Miss Independent, that's me.

If you know me, then you also know that gay clubs are not my scene at all. I don't like the music, I don’t like the drug culture, and most times I'm too shy to just let loose and have a good time. But desperate times call for desperate measures. There was not an ounce of gay at our all-inclusive resort — except for that one (glorious!) moment when the afternoon DJ played a spicy remix of "Spice Up Your Life." But aside from that, I was a lone fish in a gulf of doe-eyed heterosexual honeymooners and barely legal Texan high school grads. Do you know what that does to a man?! It breaks him! And, oh, sweet lord, how it broke me.

When I finally found myself at Karamba — don't ask how I made it, I was still very drunk from family hour at the hotel bar — I paid the $5 cover, walked inside, and simply observed. It was beautiful. I had never been so thankful to be among a crowd of sweaty gay men. So for one night only, I co-opted the unsavory but freeing persona of international circuit boi, tossing aside my shirt and embracing the music, the alcohol, and the people (to be specific: Gabrielle, the sexy Mexican; Mark, the sexy Scot; and so on…).

Of course, 5:30 a.m. rolled around sooner than I'd liked, and so it was back on the bus to Straightsville for me. But at least I fell asleep that morning with the welcome sound of bass thumping in my head — and a place to crash if I'm ever in Glasgow. (Thanks for a great night, Mark!)