The Love Glove (The Finale)

13 Aug
Cabbages and Condoms

flickr image by Mr. Hepe

Now, dear reader, it’s finally time to conclude this saga.

I hope you haven’t just eaten, as this part of the tale may get a little nauseating.

Remember Connor from Part Two? After our travels concluded we remained friends. Once we both returned to Sydney we’d often hang out over beers.

One fateful night, as we were reminiscing about our adventures in Vietnam, the topic of Pedro somehow arose (as Connor had  stayed in Pedro’s dorm room). By this point I’d consumed a few alcoholic beverages and was feeling a little loose of tongue. I let slip my shameful little secret: that I had indeed shagged Pedro.

Sure, having had sex with Pedro (twice, but who’s counting?) may not have been the proudest moment(s) of my life. But, in the whole month Connor had been traipsing around South East Asia he’d been unable to find any girls willing to seal the deal. As regrettable as my antics with Pedro may have been, those nocturnal encounters sure trumped energetically masturbating in a communal hostel shower.

Touché, Connor.

Connor’s eyes lit up in sudden comprehension. “I knew it!” he exclaimed.

Realistically, the awkwardness between Pedro and I had been pretty fucking obvious. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure out that the pair of us had in fact partaken in a bit of beast with two backs action.

But little did I know that there was a significant detail missing from this sorry little story.

Connor was only too happy to divulge the rest of the tale.

Cast your mind back to the morning of the boat trip. You will recall that the night before, I had bestowed pity sex upon Pedro, who had then passed out in his bunk bed. Not exactly the stuff Mills and Boon novels are made from.

On that particular morning (right before breakfast) Connor practically ran into Pedro in the doorway of their dorm room. Pedro’s scrawny shoulders momentarily blocked Connor from entering the dorm (I’m assuming it was a pretty small doorway), while fixing him with an intensely blazing glare. As the two boys peered at each other, Connor becoming increasingly awkward, Pedro gave a little shake of his denim-clad leg.

A flaccid object fell from the bottom of Pedro’s jeans and landed on the linoleum floor with a soft splat.

Both males looked down at the object in silence.

Connor fought to keep a neutral expression plastered to his face, despite the revulsion he felt. For there, on the floor between them, was a used condom.

It seemed Pedro had gotten lucky the night before and hadn’t bothered to remove the rubber sheath before falling asleep. There it had resided all night, like a slumbering slug.

The Portuguese beast slowly reached down and retrieved the offending love glove, shooting a smug look in Connor’s direction, before sauntering off to join me for breakfast.

After Connor revealed the story, he burst out laughing. “At the time I didn’t realise that condom had been inside YOU!”

I shuddered in horror. Not only was my friend now privy to my sordid little Nha Trang secret, but Connor’s revelation meant the story was even more revolting than I’d first thought.

I had assumed I would leave the Pedro story behind in Vietnam, along with the recurring bouts of sunburn, penchant for wearing hemp pants and my impressive collection of twine bracelets. But, with Connor’s insider knowledge, it seemed this particular walk of shame had followed me all the way home.

I was never going to live this down. Ever.

This would be the “walk of shame” that would just keep on shaming.

The Love Glove: The aftermath

I had assumed Connor would never let me live down my misdemeanour with Pedro. But as it turns out, I am no longer undertaking this ongoing metaphorical walk of shame. In between the writing of Part One and Part Two of this story, the friendship between Connor and I ceased. Due to events I have no interest in rehashing, I am no longer in contact with this person. So in actuality I can now hold my head up high in regards to the Pedro hi jinx, shame free!

Ah, well, except for the fact that I have now just immortalised this horribly shameful story in print.

And as for my sweet Pedro, did I ever hear from him again?

Well, remember how I said he had informed me for a second time that he was heading off on a bus bound for Dalat the following morning? He wasn’t. There he was again that night at the Red Apple, like a stray cat hoping for another dish of milk. He sidled up beside me at the bar, no doubt angling for round three. But by that point I had well and truly had enough of him.

He clued on, picked up a Japanese girl and made sure he passionately locked lips with her right in front of me; his eyes disturbingly trained on mine as his mouth sloppily devoured hers. And when she disappeared into the night, leaving him high and dry (clever girl), he pulled a blonde girl, and again ensured I was standing directly in the firing line as he went in for some more lip on lip action.

Was it wrong to hope all that revolting pashing would lead to a nasty bout of mouth herpes?

By this stage of the night I’d seen enough of Portugal’s answer to Fabio, and cleverly went to bed alone.

Apart from a fleeting glimpse on a street corner in Saigon a couple of weeks later, I never set eyes on that magnificent man again.

My darling Pedro: the one that got away.

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