Thought I would give writing in retrospect a go:

I spotted her across the room - the mark. She had travelled a long, long way to come meet me, and, as far as I was concerned {exclusively}, for sex. She seemed to be having a good time, and more importantly, she hadn't seen me. I slinked away. The night was young and I was not willing to sacrifice the promise of fun for anything (especially small talk). Besides, I knew where her room was, and I knew the thought of those long, shapely legs; large breasts; narrow waist and acceptable face would draw me to that door at some point that evening. So my night of hedonism, that evening, went undisturbed by petty concepts such as common decency. Later, as I skulked to her chambers, congratulating myself on what would seem to be an eventful end to an evening, my ears were assailed by the sounds of love-making - it didn't take me long to realise the moans were hers. This realisation was accompanied by a warm flood of anger; not because, as usual, I had left things too late, but because I was stranded in this awful -Central American- cultural mecca with nothing to do; and thanks to the s*** bus times not even able to escape from this godforsaken, quaint, quasi-island town with its picturesque lake-dominated scenery for an entire day. Why does all the words injustice find itself at my door?