The Love Glove (Part One)

26 Feb
Happy Condom

flickr image by celebdu

A few years ago, I holidayed in the hedonistic Vietnamese city of Nha Trang. Here, standard drinks are served in buckets, a growing plethora of young backpackers drunkenly play pass-the-sexually-transmitted-disease, and packs of Vietnamese ladyboy hookers roam the streets, ready to disconcert heterosexual male tourists by placing a forcefully suggestive hand on their crotch, whilst slipping another hand into their victim’s back pocket and grabbing a fistful of a different kind of dong – the Vietnamese currency.

It was here in this wondrous city that I had sex with Pedro.

Oh, how I would love to encase that moniker in inverted commas, or follow it up with a promising asterisk and a footnote at the bottom of this post. These grammar conventions would imply that Pedro was not my sexual conquest’s (I’m using the term ‘conquest’ quite loosely, I may add) real name. It could have merely been a clever pseudonym for a man named Andrew or Ryan or, or, some other normal non-porn-star-sounding title.

But, no. I let a man named Pedro put his skinny Portuguese penis inside my vagina. Not once, but twice.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Let me begin from the start.

I was travelling alone, but along the way had met a variety of travelling companions whom I was out drinking with one night. We all made our way to a bar appropriately named ‘Why Not Bar’. Why not, indeed.

It was here that Pedro spotted me from across the other side of the establishment and proceeded to pillage me with his eyes. Merely bestowing this brand of sexually-soaked staring upon me would have been grounds enough to warrant undergoing a pregnancy test the next day.

After ten minutes or so, I ducked outside to call a travelling buddy who was supposed to have met me at the bar but hadn’t yet turned up.

Upon concluding the call, I turned around and quickly realised the sleazy-looking Portuguese guy who had been eye-raping me had followed me outside and was now standing a mere couple of metres away, hungrily eyeing me up and down.

He’d obviously been watching me while I made my phone call. “How can you be calling me if I haven’t given you my number?” he lasciviously asked.

“Ha!” I replied, too taken aback to quickly muster a witty retort.

“Do you want my number?” he asked, taking a confident step towards me.

“No!” I squealed in disgust.

To be fair, Pedro wasn’t a bad-looking guy. He had dark brooding eyes, a shock of curly black hair, a prominent nose and generous lips. He obviously possessed some brazen confidence, which I’ll admit can be quite an attractive quality. But there was something unmistakably sleazy about this guy.

I laughed cruelly. “I think I’m a bit old for you, love,” I patronised. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” he replied in heavily accented English.

“Oh, come on,” I scoffed. “You look about eighteen.” I went to walk past him, back into the club to join my friends.

But Pedro wasn’t yet finished wooing me. He flung a skinny arm out to prevent my exit. “I’ll make a bet with you,” he said.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked, mildly intrigued, despite my better (read: sober) judgement.

“If I can prove I’m twenty-eight, you owe me a kiss. If I can’t… I’ll leave you alone.”

“The last part sounds fantastic to me,” I venomously replied.

He peered at me expectantly.

“Fine,” I haughtily conceded. I figured I really had no choice, as I was being a colossal bitch to this guy and it still hadn’t dissuaded him from pursuing me.

He rifled in his back pocket, then handed me his passport.

Quite predictable really, but in my drunkenness I hadn’t seen it coming. There it was in print: Pedro, aged twenty-eight.

“You owe me a kiss,” he smugly quipped.

At that moment a few of my travelling companions ventured outside looking for me. I roughly shoved the passport back into Pedro’s hand.

“Is everything okay?” one of my friends asked.

“No!” I snarled. “I lost a bet to this guy,” I jerked an annoyed finger in Pedro’s direction, “and now I apparently have to kiss him.”

Okay, so I’m well aware that in reality I could have told him to fuck off, then ignored his sleazy advances until he gave up and began targeting another victim. But I’m fiercely loyal, and if I give someone my word, I mean it. Even if that particular someone happened to be a skinny Portuguese guy named Pedro.

And, just quietly, between you and I, the court jester in me was secretly loving the attention.

I quickly rehashed the story to my friends.

“Well, a deal’s a deal,” one of them stated, trying not to giggle.

Everyone stared at me expectantly, Pedro included.

“Fine!” I conceded, “but I’m not doing it in front of you lot!” I then grabbed Pedro’s hand and led him onto the dance floor where we were safely ensconced amongst other backpackers.

We kissed. And to be brutally honest, it wasn’t bad.

It was here; in the middle of the dance floor, my lips locked with Pedro’s, where my friends found me. They of course proceeded to whoop and cheer and generally make the already embarrassing ordeal even more mortifying.

I pulled away from my pursuer, and continued to drink and dance. Pedro danced with us, along with a few other backpackers who were all staying in the same hostel as us. He continued to molest me with his retinas, and attach himself to my side like a barnacle, even though I was now refusing to acknowledge him.

But I’ll admit, my lips were still tingling from the sexually-charged embrace, and with each subsequent alcoholic beverage, my persistent suitor was becoming more and more desirable.

However, Pedro finally gave up, leaving my frosty side and slinking over to the pool table where he continued to wistfully gaze upon me.

It was then that one of my travelling companions decided to pull me to the side of the dance floor and give me a talking to. “You know what, Dawn, you’re being a real bitch to that poor guy.”

“I can’t help it if I’m not that attracted to him!” I whined defensively, in the tone of an insolent adolescent.

“Oh, come on,” she replied in her German accent. “You’ve been staring at each other all night. What’s the problem? He’s hot. And smart. I was chatting to him in German before. Did you know that he’s fluent in Portuguese, Spanish, German and English?”

It’s time I told you all a secret: I’m pathetic. As much as I like to proclaim that I don’t care what others think of me, it’s only marginally true. I do. Well, I am burdened with the dreaded Court Jester Syndrome, after all.

To hear that my friend thought Pedro was attractive, shed things in a completely different light. I’d been given the go ahead. If I was to hook-up with Pedro, I wouldn’t be made fun of the next day. Because one of my friends thought he was hot; despite his cheesy pick-up lines and ridiculous name.

Game on.

Within minutes Pedro and I were back at the hostel, frantically pashing and groping like a pair of sixteen year olds in the back row of a movie theatre. We stood in the middle of his ten bed dorm, vertically dry-humping with gusto.

After a quick inspection of beds, which were fortunately vacant as everyone else was obviously still out partying, we proceeded to engage in a bout of energetic coitus on his narrow lower bunk. My dress remained on in case someone were to walk in, and my Portuguese lover remained clad in his shorts and t-shirt, with only the essential appendages exposed. It certainly wasn’t the most romantic love-making session, nor the most satisfying. Mercifully, it was over relatively fast.

As we lay on the cramped bunk bed, post coitus, he stroked my hair as we discussed our ongoing travel plans. I was due to remain in Nha Trang for the next few days, while he had booked himself a ticket on a bus bound for Dalat at eight o’clock the following morning.

This was perfect, as it meant there would be no awkward post-shag run-ins with each other over the next day or so.

We remained uncomfortably hugging on the constrictive bunk bed until fellow drunken travellers began trickling into the dorm room. Before we said farewell, Pedro spoke of us sharing a hotel room together in Saigon in a week or two. I gave a non-committal response, but proceeded to accept the facebook friend request he’d just sent me from his iphone, whilst connecting to the free wi-fi provided by the hostel.

Damn you, apple.

I then gave my Portuguese lover a goodbye kiss, bade him farewell and safe onwards travel, before returning to my own dorm room upstairs.

I knew my retinas would never again rest upon my sweet Pedro’s face.

But as it turned out, I was wrong.

To be continued…

7 Responses to “The Love Glove (Part One)”

  1. Dick Douglas February 27, 2012 at 4:09 pm #

    Am actually looking forward to the day when you write about having GOOD sex…

    How come most of your experiences involving sex isn’t positive?

    I hope not all women are like that, cos I would probably be worried that my partner would be complaining to her friends that “it ain’t that good with me” even though I manage to get her squealing like a pig in bed.

    Reading your articles always make me have doubts about my manhood…

    • Dawn Dash February 27, 2012 at 7:43 pm #

      Come on, Dickie, of course I have good sex too. But the whole angle of this blog is to write about the ridiculously bad experiences so that people can get a laugh out of them and feel better about their own horrid experiences.

      You could always try reading a Jackie Collins novel if you’re after some hot and steamy sex scenes…

  2. Amy February 27, 2012 at 7:16 pm #

    By thunder dawn, you do have a way with words you funny funny lady! Can’t wait for the next instalment 🙂

    • Dawn Dash February 27, 2012 at 7:43 pm #

      Why, thank you! Stay tuned…

  3. Dick Douglas February 27, 2012 at 7:48 pm #

    Then why don’t you provide us with some fap material by telling us how you squealed like a pig at times? And throw in some pictures while you are at that also…

    You are not gonna post that comment up aren’t u?

    • Dawn Dash February 27, 2012 at 8:01 pm #

      I don’t know why, Dickie, but I honestly don’t find squealing pigs to be much of a turn on. Each to their own, I suppose.

      Let me know how Jackie Collins works out for you. There’s lots of talk of pulsating love wands and perspiring breasts.

      Something tells me her writing would be more suited to your tastes than my humble little blog…

  4. Dick Douglas February 28, 2012 at 1:05 pm #

    Nope. With all sincerity, I think your blog is pretty well-written. I even have to look up the dictionary for some of the terms you use, probably due to my limited vocabulary.

    I wouldn’t spend time trolling here if I think your blog was a piece of crap, would I?

    So do be a dear and provide your readers with some fap material…. 🙂

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