The Love Glove (Part Two)

29 Jul
كبوت / condoms

flickr image by Paul Keller

The next morning I awoke with a mouth drier than a nun’s undercarriage and the overbearing urge to eat my own weight in chips. (And just for the record, that’s a hell of a lot of chips). I yawned and sleepily stretched my torso as luxuriously as the restrictive dorm bed would allow.

I glanced at my watch, which informed me I had in fact enjoyed a much appreciated sleep-in, as it was now ten o’clock. Knowing I had nowhere to be in a hurry, I permitted my mind to lazily drift back to my nocturnal antics from the night before. Alcohol really is a wondrous thing; encouraging even the most sage of people to engage in behaviour they would normally deem deplorable. Not that I would necessarily consider myself to be sage, nor my drunken acts deplorable. But it was none-the-less comforting to know that none of my friends back home would be privy to last night’s adventures with Pedro. God knows, they had enough ammunition to good-naturedly rib me with, without throwing this tasty little tidbit amongst the ever-expanding mix.

I smiled smugly to myself, knowing my Portuguese lover had hightailed it out of Nha Trang on a bus bound for Dalat nigh on two hours ago. As ruthless as this way of thinking may sound, Pedro’s departure ensured I would blessedly be able to avoid any awkward next day run-ins where he and I would be forced to discuss something menial like the weather, whilst trying not to mentally picture the naked merging of our genitals.

The cardinal rule for no-strings-attached backpacker shags (excluding the one involving wearing a condom in order to prevent your genitals from falling off), is to make sure your fornication-friend is leaving the next day. On much the same level as having your passport stolen is a sure fire way to ruin a holiday; continually bumping into a regrettable one night stand whom insists on slothing around the hostel whilst throwing awkward glances in your direction, is a major holiday buzz kill.

As I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and began making my way downstairs, I knew with absolute certainty that my path would never again cross with Pedro’s.

Okay, no doubt you’ve already predicted the next turn of events in this sorry little tale. I can admit to my shortcomings: the foreshadowing in this story has been about as subtle as the theme music in the film ‘Jaws’ that was loudly sounded before each shark attack.

Actually, come to think of it, that music is also quite fitting to this story. Imagine the Jaws theme playing as I innocently skipped down the hostel stairs and walked towards the computer room. Pretend that music is becoming louder, more urgent, practically deafening as it reaches a crescendo…

Now, just who do you suppose I spotted, sloped across a desk chair, his skinny spaghetti-like arms clad unflatteringly in a singlet top?

What’s that you say? Pedro?


“What. The. Fuck?” I hear you ask. “Shouldn’t he be safely deposited on a bus bound towards Dalat?”

Great question! And it practically mirrors what I happened to ask the little Portugal weasel.

He gave me a shrug. “I didn’t wake up in time,” he responded in heavily accented English.

Fantastic. Not only would this mean awkwardly trying to avoid him for the day and night. It also meant I’d probably end up having sex with him again. Because for all his short comings (his hideous name, for one), I was still bizarrely attracted to him. And the addition of alcohol would only make things worse.

Panicking, I turned on my heel and nearly slammed straight into a tall lanky male. “Sorry,” I blurted, my hands pressed against his chest to prevent myself from falling over and tackling him to the ground.

“No worries,” he replied in an Australian accent, “You’re Australian?”

His name was Connor and it turned out he too was from Sydney. He was friendly and funny and in true small-world fashion, it turned out that we knew some of the same people.

Now, dear reader, I’m not going to lie to you. This was a stock standard case of the deflect flirt. Pedro was seated a mere couple of metres away, ears madly flapping, whist I laughed and chatted with Connor.

Was my intention to dissuade Pedro from attempting to approach me again that night by appearing interested in somebody else? Perhaps. But of course my little charade was only proving to make him more determined to win my affections. (For those of you having a hard time keeping up, that’s merely code for wanting to slip me one).

I made plans to meet with Connor down at the beach with a few friends I’d collected during my Vietnamese travels.

As rude as it no doubt sounds, my extreme embarrassment prevented me from inviting Pedro, whom was now expectantly peering in my direction.

Fast forward to a few hours later, and a crew of us were now relaxing on the beach. Connor and I, along with another of my travelling companions, Rachel, left the rest of the group on the beach while we popped into a seaside café to grab some lunch.

Thinking there could be some chemistry between Connor and Rachel, I began wing-girling in a most unsubtle fashion. It was at right about this moment when Pedro walked along the beach out the front of the café, his neck craning like a giraffe’s in order to get a better look at my luncheon party. Slightly flustered, I ignored him and continued chatting with my new friends.

However, not one to give up so easily, Pedro promptly did a one eighty and charged back the way he had come, his eye balls nearly bursting from his cranium as he strained to get a better look.

Connor piped up first, “What’s up with that guy?”

Rachel, knowing all about my misdemeanour from the night before, smirked.

I, however, had no intention of letting Connor be privy to that kind of information. Let’s face it, you can’t have sex with a Portuguese man named Pedro, without being subjected to some form of ridicule.

A half hour or so later, I said goodbye to my friends and headed back to the hostel to catch up on some emailing. It was here, whilst perched at a computer (yes, the same machine Pedro had been tapping away on that very morning) that I met Alex.

Alex, for lack of better adjectives, was smoking hot. Hailing from (R)Adelaide, he had dark hair, dark eyes, and a tall frame that more than did justice to the wife-beater singlet he was wearing. But undeniable good looks aside, he was talkative and funny, and we’d soon sparked up a friendship.

Having made plans to meet up with Alex that night for some drinks, I returned to my dorm room to freshen up.

A couple of hours later, a group of us were gathered at the Red Apple Bar; a popular watering hole at which many a backpacker has been known to take advantage of the cheap happy hour specials. The majority of the drinks are served in huge over-sized jam jars packed full of sub-standard vodka and adorned with a ridiculous number of drinking straws.

With affordable drinks of this magnitude, it’s really no wonder fornication is so rife in Nha Trang.

It was here that Alex and I sat side by side, nursing ludicrously over-sized drinks, comfortably chatting. Whoever was sitting in the seat on my other side, had no sooner stood up, before Pedro zoomed in. He plonked himself down, scooted his chair closer to mine, flung a proprietal unmuscled arm across my shoulders and glared meaningfully at Alex.

As though I was allergic to his touch, I flung Pedro’s arm from my shoulders, with the impressive reflexes of a mountain goat.

Alex, unsure of how best to proceed, laughed and said something typically Australian like, “You right, mate?”

Pedro, clearly intoxicated, remained silent, but continued to sullenly glare in Alex’s direction.

“I think old mate’s got a thing for you,” Alex whispered conspiratorially, suggestively raising his eyebrows.

Oh, good God! If only he knew the truth… But Alex obviously had no idea of my rather unsavoury antics from the night before, and that’s how I wished matters to remain.

My scorned (and very obviously drunk) former lover sat dejectedly beside me, whilst I turned my back on him and continued to converse with Alex.

At some point, Pedro scampered away, and eventually Alex departed to meet up with some of his friends for a game of pool.

Where once I had been surrounded by interested male parties, there were now none.

It was at this moment that I was approached by Pedro’s French dorm mate. “Pedro needs to speak with you,” he informed me.

I rolled my eyes in response.

Frenchie continued to persist. “He’s waiting for you in his dorm room. He says it’s urgent.”

I slowly finished the last sips of my jam jar. Then, against my better judgement, pathetically propelled by curiosity, I began the short walk back to the hostel.

To be continued…

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