The Love Glove (Part Three)

4 Aug
Condom Art

flickr image by Hey Paul Studios

With a hesitant knock, I entered Pedro’s dorm room.

I’m not sure quite what I had expected to find within. But by this point my overactive imagination had conjured up an image of a scorned lover, loaded pistol trained towards the door, his bony finger itching to pull the trigger.

Instead, I found a drunken and dejected Pedro laying on his bed, peering up at me with puppy-dog eyes.

Now, just wait a moment. I know what you’re thinking: I’m a horrendous human being for sleeping with this poor guy, then discarding him like a used tampon. Well, just hold up a second. Let’s not forget that this guy had confidently and aggressively pursued me the night before and was obviously not a novice at picking up members of the opposite sex. He was bold and brazen and wouldn’t take no for an answer. This was not a man searching for true love. This was a man hoping for a bout or two of steamy coitus, and (spoiler alert) little did I know he was just gearing up for round two.

Being witness to me spending time with Connor (please note that I have changed this character’s name since the writing of Part Two), then with Alex, had obviously shaken my Portuguese pursuer’s confidence, as he had now chosen to take a different route in order to score another root. (See what I did there?)

He gestured for me to approach his bunk bed and patted a spot on the mattress beside him; indicating for me to sit down.

Now, I can’t remember exactly what words were spoken. To even attempt to reproduce them here would not do those little linguistic gems justice. Pedro attempted something in that dorm room that I have only ever succumbed to a few times in my life. And those few times have usually been with men that have been my boyfriends.

Please kindly extract your mind from the gutter: I’m not referring to anal sex.

I am instead referring to the phenomenon known as pity sex.

My little Portuguese man-whore laid the guilt trip on so thick, that I felt awful for having ignored him, and after plenty of cajoling on his part, I agreed to another quick bout of fornication.

Afterwards, he informed me he was sleepy from the vodka jam jars and joints he’d inhaled earlier and planned on having a little nap. He told me he’d meet me out again in an hour or so. I played along, but we both knew this was a lie. The only place Pedro was going that night was Snooze Town, as he’d just received what he’d wanted all along: a follow-up shag.

As horrendous as it sounds, I wasn’t upset. Instead, I was relieved. By having sex with Pedro again, I had in fact just bought myself immunity against him for the rest of the night. I was free to head back out with my friends and track down Alex, the Radelaidian man-god.

As it so happened, our paths crossed sooner than expected. As I was walking down the hostel stairs, I practically bumped into Alex. He was walking towards me, propping up a ridiculously drunken mate. Alex informed me he was going to put his friend to bed, then would meet me at the Why Not Bar in five minutes.

I tingled with the thrilled thought of hanging out with Alex again, and also with the exhilaration of the near miss, as he and his mates were staying in the same dorm as Pedro. That’s correct; Alex was about to enter the very room in which Pedro and I had just been shagging nigh on five minutes ago.

Now, this tale isn’t about my dalliance with Alex, so I won’t delve into the juicily sordid details of our romantically sexy encounter.

Sorry, what’s that? You insist?

Ah… Well, okay then. But in order to do that, I’ll have to come clean. Disappointingly, there isn’t much to tell. The details of our short-lived affair can be summed up quite concisely in a few pitiful paragraphs.

As promised, Alex met me at Why Not Bar. We continued to drink and chat. We both got ridiculously intoxicated; Alex far more so than me. The pair of us ended up on the hostel balcony, very close to kissing. However, it didn’t eventuate, and I instead made my way back to my dorm room to sleep it off.

One of my travelling buddies had just returned to the hostel after a night out, and we were debriefing next to our bunk beds. She ducked to the bathroom, situated at the other end of the large dorm room, to brush her teeth. Upon her return she informed me that Alex had snuck into our bathroom and had asked her to let me know that he would wait for me there. I shared a little laugh with her over the absurdity of the situation, then made my way to the bathroom. By the time I arrived, Alex had passed out in the bathtub. Meanwhile, a petite French girl had discovered him and was trying to wake him up, to no avail.

We eventually managed to wake him and he stumbled back to his own dorm room. But not before suggestively dangling his locker key in my direction (which was attached to a large numbered keyring, that also corresponded to the number of his bed), and asking me to come and meet him in his dorm. In my drunken ridiculousness, I actually considered the proposition for a minute, before remembering that a certain Portuguese male whom I’d already had sex with that night was slumbering peacefully in that very same room.

No, thank you. Even Dawn Dash has her limits.

The next night I ran into Alex again, but he seemed embarrassed by his antics from the night before and could barely meet my gaze. When I informed him that he’d fallen asleep in my bathtub, his mate laughed and said it explained why Alex’s shorts had been discarded in a soaking wet heap in the corner of the dorm. It also explained why Alex had been struggling, pantless, to climb up onto his bunk the night before; his man-bits apparently dangling dangerously close to his friend’s face whilst he had been attempting to peacefully sleep on the bottom bunk.

But, Alex isn’t the star of this story. Back to Pedro.

The next morning I awoke with the mothership of all hangovers. You know the kind I’m referring to. The degree of hangover where merely existing is horrendously painful and the horrific waves of nausea are unrelenting.

There’s only one thing worse than this level of hangover. And that’s knowing you’ve already bought a ticket to an all day boat cruise that departs in less than an hour. Death by stoning would be less painful.

But being the trooper that I am, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and met a group of my (also deathly hungover) friends in the hostel restaurant for a quick breakfast before the dreaded boat trip. And who should confidently approach me for a romantic morning-after breakfast? That’s correct, my Portuguese prince.

I attempted to eat my breakfast whist sitting beside him, making pathetic chit chat and trying not to vomit. However, at one point I was left with no choice and had to run to the toilet as I felt the all too familiar burning sensation in my throat. Classy, I know.

Pedro informed me that he was about to catch a bus to Dalat that morning and wouldn’t see me again. In the wake of this revelation, I resisted the sarcastic urge to tell him that I was experiencing a quick burst of déjà vu. For, hadn’t I heard this story once before?

Before I departed for the dreaded boat trip (which, in case you were wondering, when teamed with the hangover from hell, was every bit as horrific as I’d anticipated), Pedro and I said our farewells and wished each other a safe onwards journey.

As lovely as this ending would have been, the story doesn’t quite conclude here. By this point you must have two niggling little questions:

1) This recount seems to have wrapped up quite respectfully (apart from the vomiting and incessant nausea), so where is the ‘Walk of Shame’ element?

And,

2) How does this elusive love glove fit into the tale?

To be continued…

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