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Can you train your brain to not feel pain?

The year I turned 30, I bought myself a one-way ticket to Cartagena, Columbia on a mission to make my fantasy of being swept off my feet by a stunning, non-English speaking stranger a reality. I rented a quaint little flat in the center of town and wandered the streets daily searching for my one-night Romeo. In the evenings, I let myself get tipsy at various bars, dressed in flowy dresses, no bra, hoping to be hit on. Of course, I found my non-English speaking Adonis the second I stopped looking for him.

I was reading ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez at an outdoor café one afternoon when he sat down across from me. He had wavy dark hair, a dimple in his chin, an upside down triangle for a torso, and six-pack abs. I could tell because he was shirtless. He was also sweating—just enough so that his ripped body glistened in the sun, but he didn’t smell at all bad. He was deliciously ripe.

After I shook his outstretched hand, he didn’t release me from his grasp. Instead, he stood and pulled me up towards him. Within seconds we were making out in public, our pelvises pressed against each other. He was the most overtly sensual man I’d ever met. We fucked all day and into the night, undaunted by niceties or conversation. Just how I wanted it. Our bodies did the talking, and each of my five scream-worthy orgasms was as satisfying as I’d envisioned.

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