I rolled out of bed last Tuesday in the early hours of the morning with a hangover, ready to get my flight to Byron Bay. With only half an hour to pack my case (no, I am not a morning person) I opened my wardrobe and swiped the row of coat hangers in my wardrobe, and proceeded to the bathroom to grab whatever was residing on the top of my cabinet, resulting in a serious lack of product (including my fake tan). Violating Universal Law 1.1, which states one should never leave home without gloss, was a move I was to later regret.

After making my flight in the nick of time, I departed Melbourne for the Gold Coast. Upon walking out of the airport to meet my bus for the one hour trip to Byron Bay, I was greeted by glorious sunshine, and its warmth pervaded every part of my body, thawing me out post a long Melbourne winter and immediately elevating me to a new level of happiness.

After a beautiful trip through the NSW hinterlands, I arrived in Byron Bay ready to check into my first set of accommodation. Hello Villas of Byron. It was there I was to spend my first few days, luxuriating in the sub tropical weather and 5 star Balinese style accommodation. I’m talking a grand two bedroom villa compete with marble floors (which could be heated) and a private outdoor pool, spa and shower.

I took the short stroll into town (or should I say skipped like a six year old who has just started their summer holidays from school) and made an immediate beeline for the beach. As an ex Perthite who has not set foot on a beach in at least three years since becoming a Melbournite (one can only use the word beach in relation to St Kilda with a large amount of poetic licence) I was in what can only be described as heaven. I took my off my knee high boots and rolled up my jeans (hello, spot the city girl) and ran down to the shore.

As I walked back down the main street of town, I was engulfed with a sense of freedom, which personifies what I was soon to learn Byron Bay is all about.  I quickly acquainted myself with the stark contrast of sub cultures that seem to harmonically co-exist in the town – a mix of local hippies (real locals versus the people that have moved there during the past 10 years), transient holiday makers and the wealthy who’ve decided to make a sea change.

Come on tell me more about this Pacey, hurry up and get to the good stuff will you? I will, I will, I promise, but first I need to walk you through my first four days. You see, the main reason for me going to Byron Bay was to work on my book and get back in touch with my health, post a long wine fuelled Melbourne winter which had resulted in me carrying a lot more junk in my trunk in the form of a few extra kilos.

I declared a self imposed embargo on wine and committed to eating organic food, drinking water and daily beach walks to restore serenity to thy soul (and more importantly, my thighs). After two nights of luxury that was the Villas of Byron, I packed up my case and moved onto Seaview House on the other side of town, set high above the hill that overlooks the ocean.

It was there, that I found my writing mojo. The beach has always been special to me – not only does it seem to cleanse my soul, it also helps to clear my mind. Sitting on the balcony and taking in the spectacular view of the ocean whilst listening to the waves roll and crash into the shore, I realised I had been walking around all this time like a jigsaw that was missing its final few pieces. Yes, life in Melbourne has been fabulous these past few years, but it took me leaving it to realise there were in fact some gaping holes – like a painter rubbing his hands over a wall in preparation to paint it and filling the imperfections with Selley’s spack filler.

As thoughts naturally sifted through themselves, settling in the form of epiphanies and perspective, I clicked the final pieces of the puzzle into place, finding answers to questions I didn’t know I needed and it restored a contented peace to my heart. Following this came an insatiable urge to turn on my mac, as the inspiration flowed for my book. I suddenly found the words that I need to complete chapters that I had been previously agonising over for months, and, well, let’s be honest – years. My hands could barely keep up, as I furiously typed away in a quest to capture the steady stream of thoughts that were running through my brain.

Every time I took a break to have a cigarette and walk down through the steps which were surrounded with tropical trees and plants, I would have to butt it out and race back to my mac, scared I would forget the unexpected moments of literary brilliance. I went to bed contented, with the doors and windows open so that I could sleep with the sound and breeze of the ocean washing over me.

The following day I was scheduled to check into an apartment right in town. Any travel writer reviewing accommodation learns that the glamour of staying for free in luxury accommodation is abated by the early 10am checkout and not being able to check into the next hotel until 2pm. I soon learnt that this was the window of opportunity to sample the local day spas and beauticians. One delightful manicure and pedicure later, and I was ready to collect my suitcase from the apartment’s lobby and enter my room.

I settled in with an organic meal and a mango smoothie, and put on some Billy Holiday. I’m not sure if it was the jazz coupled with the writing, but I was soon hankering for a sauvignon blanc. After a few moments deliberation, whereby like any woman on a diet or detox, I started to deals with myself (well, I’ve been good all week, so surely that means I’ve earned myself a bottle of wine) and it wasn’t before long I had decided that I’d had enough of this health malarkey and headed to the nearest bottle shop.

Back in my room, I savoured three delightful glasses of wine, when I was overcome with an overwhelming need to hit town and meet some people. Sure, I was my on own, but what did I have to lose? Being adept at being able to get myself out of any unsavoury situation, I threw on some clothes and slapped on my face, and hit the Beach Hotel.

I circled the establishment and my initial suspicions that the place would be full of bogans were confirmed. Not one to be easily defeated, I did one more lap. It was then, there in the corner that I spotted three young boys. Ding, ding, ding!

“Hello, my name is Gaynor and I am in town on my own, would you like to be my friends for the night?” There were two intoxicated boys batting for Australia with the consumption of illicit substances, but then there was Peter. Cute, ever so tanned with gorgeous green eyes Peter – and more importantly unintoxicated Peter. Cool, calm and real – just, the way I like my men, or should I say, boys.

He reminded me not only of the kind of boy I would have been attracted to when I was 16, but also of a taller and better looking version of Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. I immediately informed him, from there on in, he would in fact for all intent purposes be called Pacey (for all my casual sex conquests are never referred to by their real names – I could tell you stories of Jesus, Robin Hood and Dave the Dapper Electrician, but I’ll save that for another time).

I moved onto another bar with my new friends, and soon began reveling in memories of my misspent youth. Oh, have I not told you that Pacey was only 23, and his comrades slightly less younger? The age difference became visibly apparent when they ordered “Jungle Juice” whilst I ordered a sauvignon blanc from the bar. However, I was in Byron Bay, and my new motto became “Only in Byron”. A motto that soon extended to many other escapades and violations of my normal code of conduct (including my “shoes are never an optional item in public” rule – but, more about that later).

After a few drinks we ventured back to the boys’ house, where Pacey cooked us all dinner. I looked around and realised that it was in fact one of those fabulous nights where you end up far from where you thought you would when you woke up in the morning and washed your hair and brushed your teeth – my favourite kind indeed – because these are the moments in life when you feel most alive.

Whilst the other two boys continued to hit sixes for Australia, Pacey and I headed back to the Beach Hotel for another drink. Whilst he was at the bar, I decided that it would be a good idea to go for a night time walk along the beach. “Pacey, here’s what I propose. I’m going to smuggle your beer out of here in my bag (an easy task considering I previously have done the same with bottles of wine under my coat in other establishments with much more security many a time) and buy us another packet of cigarettes, and then we’re going to hit the beach.”

We walked for miles along the beach, which seemed to stretch on forever. We eventually found a place to sit and spent the next hour chatting (or was it an hour, because it was one of those nights where time stood still). The kind of meeting random people on holiday conversation that means you skip past the obligatory getting to know you chit chat and get straight to the good stuff, knowing you may never seem them again. Magic.

On our way back, Pacey decided to walk into the water. It was surprisingly warm, and it didn’t take me long to run back to the shore to deposit my bag on its sand, in the name of swimming fully clothed in the water at midnight.

It was about this time that I decided I was going to take this new younger model for a test drive. For what he may have lacked in experience, he could surely make up for in stamina. After walking through the town bare foot and dripping wet, I whisked him back to my apartment so that I could have my way with him.

Now, I am usually all grab them by the collar and push them up against the wall. However, I displayed an unusual level of composure and restraint and snuggled up against him in bed whilst watching a DVD. It reminded me of encounters with high school crushes, when the anticipating expectation builds butterflies in your stomach, and you ever so surely, yet ever so slowly move closer and closer to the warm body in your bed, whilst your swirling sexual attraction is heightened by the will we, won’t we?

After an hour or so, we finally kissed. He was soft, tender and attentive. Warning, warning, Will Robinson, this kind of  encounter was not in the confines of my normal code of conduct for casual sex 101. Let me explain.

I have casual sex down to a fine art. The name of the game is to avoid the over production of oxytocin, which is a chemical produced when two people have sex, making them feel bonded to each other, in the name of procreation of the human species. Not wanting to get involved in a menage a trois with genetics, I have learnt that the less affection there is coupled with kicking them straight out of bed in your Dolce and Gabbana heels, the less production of oxytocin that there is, and the resultant danger of getting emotionally attached to what is essentially nothing more than a one night stand. The deviant coquettish side of my nature that underpins my Audrey Hepburn demeanor, doth love the juxtaposition of this kind of scenario.

But the kissing and the affection was far too nice. Like a teenager deciding whether to pop another ecstasy pill, I had a choice to make. I could milk this for all it was worth over the next few days and risk the inevitable oxytocin comedown, or I could play it safe. I, of course chose the former. After all, I was on holidays, and was never going to see him again and it was nothing a bottle of vino and a few cigarettes couldn’t fix when I got home … and did I mention how cute he was? It also appealed to the investigative nature of my writer’s mind – would this young boy’s equipment be up to the job?

After a number of nights and days of non stop shenanigans, I can report, that yes indeed, whilst he was young, he sure did know a few tricks of the trade. I always file men in the category of those who don’t like to go down, and the men that do, and let it be known that he was of the latter – and mighty good at it to boot (the former is a sexual deal breaker for me).

The only side effect that I must warn all women in their 30s who like myself might decide to indulge in the younger of the male species is this: the words “older woman” gets bandied around far too much, and whilst it is meant to be complimentary (fulfilling a fantasy or two for them) it can leave you running to the mirror to inspect the state of your wrinkles and seriously contemplating botox.

But, would I trade places with my young 20 year old counterparts? Not on your life. For, whilst I may have felt 16 during those few days, I have the mind of a woman in her 30s, who is able to see the situation for what it is and not get caught up in the lunacy that is fantacising about your holiday fling being something more, other than a straight sexual transaction, and well, if you get to actually connect with him and have some great conversations with him at the same time, well that’s a bonus, but something that is left behind at the destination.

I spent my last day of post coital bliss writing postcards, reading a magazine, filling a notepad with my thoughts and ideas for future articles and dispensing a few well timed vinos as I caught my last glimpses of the beauty that is the beach at Byron. Pacey came to briefly meet me for a drink, before I said goodbye and prepared myself to leave the paradise of Byron Bay.

Like an Italian woman in mourning, I put on my mandatory Melbourne black and greeted my limousine that was to drive me to the Gold Coast airport ready to board the plane for the big smoke. Yes, there was a definite lump in my throat and I was as flat as a day old pancake in desperate need for some maple syrup, but it was all worth it.

I am of course today relishing in my perpetual post shag high, which will be sure to see me through to the end of the week. Thank you Byron, and, yes, of course Pacey. You were magic. Thanks for the holiday memories – and I am sure you will be checking off the rest of your list over summer.

Madam Holiday xx