Wild Weekend in Bogotá
Because I’m in Perú on a tourist visa, I have to leave the country every 90 days and return for a new tourist visa and new 90 days. My first exit was to Bogotá, Colombia for a long weekend. An American buddy met me in Bogotá to kick off his two week vacation in South America. After Bogotá, Dennis will meet me in Arequipa.
I had a terribly reckless and irresponsible time in Bogota that left me with the inclination to make my way in life towards Colombia instead of Brazil. Because this post is so long, I’ve divided the content into subsections: The City (for people who care about what Bogotá looks and feels like), The Play by Play (for people who actually like to read about what we did as American idiots), The Women (for the perverted voyeurs), The Aftermath, and Pictures.
The City
With just over 8 million people in the metro area, Bogotá is about the size of Chicago. Throughout the city, skyscrapers shoot into the skyline against a backdrop of green, tree-covered mountains. The elevation is over 8500 ft – another city over 50% higher than Denver. The mountains behind our hostel were often partially submerged in clouds. Although Bogota is close to the equator, it isn’t hot because of the altitude. Also because it is so close to the equator, the city does not experience seasons. They have one climate year-round, which is relatively temperate but it rains often.
Our hostel was in La Candelaria. It’s the historic part of town with one-lane streets and old buildings. It’s a hipster neighborhood, if such a thing exists in Colombia, where the artists live. The personality of the people, the restaurants, the bars, and the architecture captivated me. Almost every wall on every block was covered in graffiti. Unfortunately, the neighborhood is also packed with degenerates, bums, and generally sketchy people. It felt a little dangerous sometimes. But if I move to Bogotá, I’ll probably live in La Candelaria.
Zona Rosa is the high-end part of town where we ended up drinking every night. Zona Rosa is so nice I couldn’t believe I was in South America. Since my Latin American experience is limited to four cities – Recife, Rio de Janeiro, Arequipa, and Bogotá – I may be going out on a limb here at the risk of inaccuracy. But none of those cities have any area as nice as Zona Rosa. Most American cities, including my hometown of St. Louis, have nothing on the size and scale of such a high-end area of consumerism.
Zona Rosa features high-end bars and restaurants one after the other interrupted by Hugo Boss, Bang & Olufson, Gucci, and other stores I don’t shop at. Drinks, after accounting for the current exchange rate, cost about the same as an average big city in America. Even outside of Zona Rosa, I noted how nice and developed everything in Bogotá was. Again, I was constantly wondering out loud if I was actually in Latin America. I could’ve taken pictures of the streets and passed them off as Florida.
The only downside to this excellent city is the aggressive panhandlers. We were approached with a hard sell our first afternoon and the pitches never ceased. La Candelaria was crawling with them. It seemed as if we always had some loser walking behind us, unwilling to give up the sales pitch that never stood a chance given his prospects.
The Play-By-Play
I touched down in Bogotá at 8:30 pm. I arrived at the hostel (The Platypus) at 9:30 and actually met Eduardo before Dennis did. Dennis has a Colombian co-worker in DC who set us up with a buddy to show us around. After introducing each other and reuniting with Dennis, we hopped in Eduardo’s shiny black Benz. We told him we weren’t interested in any sites or views our first night; we just wanted to start eating and drinking.
Luckily for Dennis, Eduardo spoke fluent English. However, something was lost in translation as we shared a delicious dinner and discussed what we would do that night. Eduardo knew of a special party, but should we get some girls first? That sounded like a great idea to me and Dennis. He said he knew some girls that we could get before we go to the club. So we hopped back in his shiny black Benz and headed to a discreet place on a side-street. Inside we found a dim bar packed with model-quality women in skimpy clothes. Dennis and I looked at each other and realized we were in a brothel. Communication breakdown?
The three or four dozen models who were staring at us outnumbered the male patrons at least 5 – 1. MODELS. We told Eduardo that we misunderstood him and that we wanted to go to a bar with girls who might let us touch them for free.
Eduardo took us to a liquor store to pound Red Bull and scotch before we hit the party. The party was a techno-club featuring one of Colombia’s most famous DJs: DJ Fruto. The place was packed with beautiful, well-dressed people – a scene as cosmopolitan as anything you could find in New York, Chicago, LA, London, Amsterdam, etc. Unfortunately, they were playing techno and I was looking forward to salsa and a more authentic Colombian experience.
I got more and more disappointed that I’d have to dance to techno. I’m a staunch capitalist, but I started to ponder one of Karl Marx’s predictions in the Communist Manifesto: the homogenization of culture. He predicted that in a global economy where money rules, we’ll see the erasure of languages, values and overall national identities. This is already happening as English dominates the language front and techno conquers the dance floor. Why would I come to Colombia to see this party? I’ve been to this same party on three different continents in five or six different countries. I decided to get really drunk so maybe I could have a good time. I bought a pint of aguardiente (‘hot water’, an anise-flavored Colombian liquor) and started chasing it with beer.
My strategy worked well enough that I started dancing. Dennis made out with a fat girl and then escaped her. He and I started dancing with a different group of girls. I put in some time dancing with one in particular – the hottest one with huge breasts and a cute face. I patiently waited three or four songs before I started touching her.
Then Dennis started making out with a girl who was not fat. We all went out to the patio for some air. Outside, there was a bonfire, another bar, and jazz music under the beautiful night sky. I met some gay guys who passed me their joint. I indulged. I started making out with the short hottie I’d been dancing with. We made out the whole night.
It came time to leave around 3 or 4 am. Eduardo, Eduardo’s roommate, Dennis and I wanted these four girls to come back to Eduardo’s apartment. The girls were skeptical. Eduardo explained we could all fit in his car. The girls became more skeptical. Eduardo was losing the sale so I held my short hottie close to me and told Dennis to not let Eduardo talk. Dennis was helpless without Spanish.
Eduardodisappeared and reappeared behind the wheel of the aforementioned shiny black Benz. The girls were no longer skeptical and we piled in, me in the front seat with my hottie on my lap. Keeping consistency with the club and Benz, Eduardo’s posh apartment is smartly decorated and overlooks some upscale part of town. We drank scotch and danced reggaeton until dawn. At one point, Dennis lied down on the couch and went to sleep. I pulled him up and pointed out the window to the beautiful view of Bogotá in the morning. He admired it and returned to his couch. We passed out on Eduardo’s couches that night.
The second day, after a meal withEduardo, Dennis and I went to a museum district which featured the Botero museum, the gold museum, and a few others. I’d never heard of Fernando Botero, but have learned that he’s the painting pride of Colombia and still alive at 76.
Botero has some kind of fat fetish and only painted images of not just fat, but obese people. Several paintings of naked fat women reclining on a bed or naked fat women from behind. He re-created famous paintings with fat people (e.g., a fat Mona Lisa). You get the point. He did some interesting paintings – one of a house in which a mob had interrupted a party to shoot everybody up. The characters in this painting were still roundish, but not cartoonishly obese. I asked some of the employees of the museum and learned that, in fact, Botero is not fat. Go figure.
Then we toured the Gold Museum with a handful of Colombian girls we met – to be described in better detail in the section devoted to Colombian women. We were thoroughly bored with the Gold Museum despite its being Colombia’s most famous museum and the only one I’d heard of before arriving. All the gold work was small and simple, made by the indigenous tribes of the region pre-Columbus. We hit some more museums and took goofy pictures of ourselves in front of paintings, statues, and whatnot.
After the museums, Dennis and I went for a coffee because it seemed like we had to drink coffee while in Colombia – like getting robbed in Detroit or getting drunk in Ireland. There were two girls and an old guy at the table next to us. The girls casually stole glances at us.
Dennis and I finished our coffee and went out in search of food. About a block from the coffee shop, we saw one of the girls walking with the old man. I asked them to recommend a restaurant in the neighborhood. She told us about a great place we could walk to with them as it was on their way. We arrived at the restaurant in minutes and said goodbye. After ordering a couple beers and lunch, that girl came into the restaurant – without the old man. She came back to say that she was returning to the coffee shop and that we should join her and her friend after we finish our lunch. After she left, I proclaimed “I love this country!” and the bartenders laughed. After lunch, we didn’t go to the coffee shop because the girl wasn’t gorgeous and we wanted to take naps and get drunk.
After naps, we met Eduardo in Zona Rosa. He had a party to go to. We suffered another communication breakdown in the kind of place we would go to that night. However, this breakdown was not a language failure but rather Eduardo not following directions. I specifically told him many times that I wanted to dance to salsa that evening and that I absolutely did not want to hear techno. Furthermore, I explained we wanted to dance salsa in a cheaper place with sleazy women. A more authentic Colombian experience.
So Eduardo took us to another high-end nightclub. It was even pricier and more posh than the first one. Dennis and I agreed that Eduardo probably wanted to show off the best of Bogotá as well as show off to his friends that he knows gringos. La Alma was a three-story club, the top floor was open-air with techno and the second floor was reggaeton / hip hop.
I was initially annoyed that Eduardo had taken us to another kind of place that I can find anywhere in America or Europe. And I’d already paid the exorbitant cover so we wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. The place was crowded so it wouldn’t even be easy to dance. So I decided to drink myself retarded again. I ordered a pint of Smirnoff with some chasers. Dennis and I put down the bottle in about thirty minutes. He expressed concern for how fast I was drinking. I went to the bar for beers. I didn’t tell Dennis until the next day, but I did a shot of scotch at the bar every time I ordered a beer.
After some time, my strategy worked again. I got drunk enough to enjoy myself in this place. At one point the DJ played House of Pain’s “Jump Around,” to which I always show off how high I can jump for the entire song. After one jump I landed into a ledge and knocked over three or four drinks. I didn’t really feel sorry and the song wasn’t over so I kept jumping.
I met some gringo at the next table (we were in VIP). He and the other gringos worked for the American embassy. I started dancing with a couple girls from their group. Then Dennis and I took these two girls upstairs to the techno and fresh air. At some point, Dennis made out with some other girl. He told me she was smoking hot but a bad kisser.
Back downstairs and extremely drunk, the bouncer wouldn’t let me near the American embassy gringos’ table. I didn’t really care. I met some new people – two guys and a girl. I made particularly good friends with one of the guys. He told me we should go to this other club together. I agreed.
I can’t understate how drunk I was at this point. I don’t remember this happening, but Dennis explained the details the next day. Apparently, Dennis found me outside and I told him that we are hopping in this taxi and going to a different club. He told me that he has a group of five girls that want to hang out with us. I was so drunk I insisted we go to this other club. According to Dennis, he firmly demanded to know why I was cock-blocking him. “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU COCK-BLOCKING ME?!” He reiterated that he had five girls with him – one of which he had already made out with and one that was interested in me.
I managed to win the debate and we hopped into the taxi with these new friends headed for the next club. Although he may have been angry that I accidentally cock-blocked him, Dennis conceded the next day that this second club was worth the trip. Located on the top floor of a 41-story building, we admired a view of downtown Bogotá from the balcony high above the city. I don’t remember much of what happened at the club, but apparently Dennis made out with another girl and I drank more alcohol. It was dawn and the skyscrapers, mountains, and lush green foliage looked majestic in the early blue sky. We left around 6am and got to sleep around 6:30.
Sunday was the day I hoped to see the modern art museum of Bogotá. It was far from La Candelaria but we made the trek on foot anyway to learn it is closed Sundays. We weren’t mad because it was in a beautiful park. We took pictures. We returned to La Candelaria on a different street – I think it was called Carrera 9.
It was a major thoroughfare with sidewalks completely packed with poor people selling cheap, worthless stuff. There were lots of seemingly sketchy people around. Dennis didn’t like these people. At one point, we heard a loud whistling and three cops took off running toward the sound. Against Dennis’ objections, I insisted we go check out what was going on. There was a punk rock concert in a medium-sized venue. It seemed to be getting out of control inside. Twenty or thirty cops mobbed up outside in anticipation of this concert letting out. We started to notice all the punks in the street with mohawks and torn denim jeans. The cops were preparing to give these punk rockers beatings with batons. I agreed it would be a good idea to leave before the concert let out. We went back to the hotel to take naps.
Sunday night was my last night and I had high hopes for a good time. We went out with two guys from our hostel – Tom from England and Scott from Scotland. We ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant and drank at a microbrewery called Bogotá Beer Company. Dennis was sick so he wasn’t drinking. I drank for him by taking a double shot of aguardiente every half hour or so in addition to the three foot pitcher of beer I shared with the Brits.
I had a great time drinking with these guys and kept trying to find common ground by drawing similarities between America and the UK. I’ve often heard Americans and Brits, grouped together, being complained about in Europe because we share a culture which drinks a lot, drinks fast, and is loud and obnoxious in the process. I hadn’t drank in such Anglo-Saxon fashion since March so it was fun. We were the rowdiest table in the place and I imagine we annoyed all the other patrons on the patio. We made inappropriate and politically incorrect comments. Dennis doesn’t mind making fun of himself for making out with fat chicks. Scott explained that Equatorial Guinea was rated to have one of the worst human rights records in the world. And then he toasted to never having felt safer in all of Africa. Tom told a story of how drunk he was in Amsterdam’s Red Light District one night. After visiting a prostitute, he stumbled out for more money or booze or whatever. After deciding to visit another prostitute he was embarrassed beyond belief to get undressed and find he still had a condom on his dick. For some reason, the jokes are funnier when delivered in English / Scottish accents and slang. (I still had the old Johnny on!) And then he toasted to how cool the girl was about replacing the used one with a new one.
There was a group of girls at a table next to us and we kept talking about one of the girls’ giant breasts, which Dennis insisted were real. We don’t know if they spoke English, but Scott made cup shapes over his chest with his hands a few times so I’m sure they knew what we were talking about. After a restroom break she came out of the bar with her arms crossed over a newly zipped-up jacket.
Dennis had enough and took a taxi home while Scott, Tom, and I hit an Irish bar for a shot and a beer. Then the Irish bar, the last bar open in Zona Rosa, closed at 1am. We walked around for a half hour in search of a bar but the streets were dead. I still don’t understand how a city of over 8 million can completely close down because it’s Sunday.
We got a taxi. The taxi driver told us the only places open were brothels, which the Brits weren’t in the mood for. We got back to the hostel to look for people – empty. Even worse, the office didn’t have cold beer. Only room temperature beer, which I drank but this prompted Tom and Scott to go to bed. And so I sent for a taxi and went to a brothel. And this brings us to the section of the article completely devoted to Colombian women.
Women
This is an email exchange between Dennis and I before he arrived in Bogotá.
Dennis to me:
“it sounds like the nicer part of town is in the north (our hostel is downtown). my friend actually suggested we try to find a hostel up in the north, my only problem with that is that all the hostels seem to be downtown so we have a much better chance of finding other travellers (aka easy white girls) but the north sounds like thats where all the locals party. what do you think?”
Me to Dennis:
“easy white girls would be nice, but i wouldn’t get your hopes up for them. the kind of white girls i see here in arequipa are NOT the kind of girls that want anything to do with guys like us. they are the type that are here to go backpacking in outdoors gear, climb mountains and ponder the injustices of the world and shit. we want to meet colombian women! just remember: deep inside of every latina is a very special person that needs – no CRAVES – a tall gringo, his penis and intellectual prowess.”
This email is obviously a joke and I’m being silly. However, it’s funny because there is a hint of truth in it. We were stared at everywhere we went. Dennis told me a group of girls were staring at us on the dance floor the first night. We dismissed it more or less and kept moving to find space to dance. When we found space, Dennis told me that the girls followed us.
This was the group that ultimately came back to Eduardo’s apartment. I put in a considerable amount of time dancing with my hottie, being patient because I sensed this one might get scared off. I don’t remember how we started kissing, but she was an excellent kisser. We made out all night. Dennis was surprised I didn’t get her phone number. Honestly, it didn’t occur to me.
Claudia was short and beautiful with huge breasts. I was surprised when she told me her boyfriend was out of town. I was disappointed when, at Eduardo’s apartment, she said she didn’t want to lay on a bed with me. I don’t remember saying goodbye or anything. I just remember waking up on Eduardo’s couch alone.
We got stared at the next day at the Botero Museum while observing Botero’s bizarre fat-fetish art. I noticed a group of five girls taking turns staring at me – maybe at Dennis on accident. Then the ringleader of the group came up to me with a camera and said, “¿Foto?” I assumed she wanted me to take a picture of them. I agreed. Then she gave one of her friends the camera while she and the others jumped in line with me and Dennis to take a picture with us. I was thrilled because they were really hot and clean-looking. Dennis wasn’t thrilled because he thought they were too young. They didn’t think I spoke Spanish so we parted ways. We ran into them later at this big statue of a hand and took more pictures together. They still didn’t know I spoke Spanish so we parted ways again. I insisted to Dennis that two of them had to be at least 21 years old. He sort of agreed.
Outside the Gold Museum, we ran into them again as I caught a glimpse of the ringleader. She was my favorite with a slim physique and an innocent, gorgeous face without a blemish or wrinkle on it. She wore plaid pants that accentuated her beautiful, round bottom.
This time she came up to me with paper and pen and said, “Mays-aing-yair?” Messenger? I answered her in Spanish and wrote down our email addresses. Her friends appeared and I proposed we all see the Gold Museum together. They agreed and I started to talk with the ringleader while the others listened. Dennis moped around thinking these girls were too young and wishing he spoke Spanish.
The girls told me they were all studying to be teachers. I relayed this to Dennis. At least they’re in college, right? He agreed and started to believe they might be in their twenties after all. The word for “we study” and “we studied” is the same in Spanish – “estudiamos.” I told them that we studied business but they probably believed that we study business (as in we are still students, as opposed to MBAs).
Then someone’s dad showed up. Well, we don’t know if he was a dad or who he was, but an older guy came out of nowhere and had a brief conference with the ringleader. He apparently didn’t have a problem with the girls talking to us, but it made us feel like pedophiles again. They were from some small town hours away, so it was probably a family trip. We all said goodbye after the Gold Museum and I occasionally thought about the ringleader from time to time throughout the weekend. I’m a sucker for sweet girls. I remember thinking I could be happy forever with a clean sweetheart like her with her beautiful, caramel-colored face and apple butt.
On our last day, I found myself in the lobby of our hostel talking to another hot Colombian. She was telling me Dennis and I should go to Zona Rosa with her and her friend later. She was also short with huge breasts and a beautiful face. While she was talking, she laid back in this hammock and got comfortable. She seemed so relaxed reclining in this hammock, like a girl you have been with for a long time who is ready to be cuddled and spooned to sleep. I wanted to jump into the hammock and kiss her all over her face.
Before I arrived the first night, Dennis walked her to a store down the street. She didn’t speak any English so they couldn’t talk. But ever since then she was always asking me what he and I were doing and trying to coordinate hers and her friends’ plans with ours. Dennis insisted we ditch them all weekend because neither one spoke English and her friend was ugly.
So this should bring us to where I left for the brothel. I’d been dreaming and drooling over the women all weekend long. This was my last night and there was only one kind of place open. Plus, Dennis had made out with four women by this time. If we were competing, I would be losing 4 – 1. A perfect storm developed of my insecurities in losing the game combined with a strong desire for these Colombian women, combined with the fact that I probably wouldn’t have been able to go to bed at 2 am after two nights drinking until dawn.
The taxi took me to the curb and pointed out the door. A mustached man dressed in a suit came to the cab and opened the door for me, gesturing me in politely and confidently. This mustached man came to be my primary caretaker in my time here. Resembling a Latino version of Borat, he ushered me into the place, sat me down at a booth, and brought me a Heineken.
I surveyed the field and took a liking for a slim black girl with huge butt and breasts. I took her to a bedroom downstairs within twenty minutes of arriving. It was OK, I was finished in ten minutes or so. She had a body as good as God makes them.
When I got back upstairs, I realized this was the only bar open and I still wanted to get drunk. So I sat down in the same booth and ordered a shot of aguardiente and another Heineken from Borat. He told me to move from my current table to a table where three girls were sitting. I obliged but focused on my precious booze. The girls left and I drank alone for twenty minutes or so.
A caramel-colored cutie walked down the aisle wearing a coat. She said goodbye to a few people around the place, but when she saw me she sat down and started a conversation. She asked how I liked the negrita. I asked her if she wanted a drink as I ordered another shot and a beer. She wanted scotch – the most expensive drink on the menu. I don’t remember what we talked about but it must have been nice and time-consuming because I found myself wanting to be alone with this one. I consulted Borat to see if I could use my credit card for a room if I felt the need, which he told me I could.
We were downstairs after an hour or so. While this one didn’t have as much of a brickhouse body, she was hot with wide hips and a cute, brown face. She was the type whose bodily architecture needs to be on top in order to achieve orgasm. In my experience, I’ve found that this type gets the job done pretty quickly once they are up there. So she was on top, but not sitting up straight because she was also the type that needs constant clitoral stimulation. Her head was right next to mine as she ground herself into my pelvic bone while riding. This is somewhat painful for me. However, I enjoyed her persistence and tenacity in finishing herself off, which must have taken more than twenty minutes. I’ll never forget the spectacular view of the mirror above the bed: her beautiful backside spread-eagle and my disgusting pink balls.
After a lot of hard work, she stopped altogether and laid her cheek against mine. Her hair was wet with sweat against my face. We put in a little more effort for my sake, but those twenty minutes left me content. I had no orgasm by the time a knock on the door let us know my time was up. (the next day, I had bruise pains right on my pelvis bone)
We went upstairs, said goodbye and she went home. It must have been 4:30 and I still wanted to get drunk. I ordered another shot and a beer. This is when drunk irrationality tells me that I had already broken out my credit card. I might as well have a good time, right? Borat asked if I wanted a girl to join me. NO! Thank you, but I am fine. He brought me more aguardiente.
I noticed a girl eyeing me. She was lighter-skinned (think Italian or Spanish complexion). Very beautiful. She sat down and we started to talk. She was very sweet with something magnetic about her. I usually dislike the personalities of prostitutes and strippers, who are generally cold and completely transparent about only being interested in money. This one refused a drink. She drank club soda with lime. I insisted she drink with me. She didn’t want anything.
Borat offered me a pint of aguardiente for 150,000 pesos (about $95). I refused and made a face like he was hurting my ears. I really didn’t need that much liquor anyway. He had a conference with the bartender and I went back to talking with this new whore who I had no intention of having sex with, but was admittedly charmed by. Then Borat came back and offered the pint for 100,000 pesos (about $63). I refused, I really didn’t want a whole bottle. I turned my attention back to my little buddy sitting next to me. She asked me if I liked the two girls. I told her the first one wasn’t that cool but the second one and I had some kind of chemistry. She shook her head at me. Then Borat came back and offered the bottle for 60,000 pesos (about $37.50). His price has come down a full 60%. I finally agreed and he brought the bottle.
I already broke out the plastic. Might as well have a good time, right? The girl and I took a shot together. I told Borat to bring a shot glass for himself, for this cop that was working, and for this little fat dude that seemed like he worked there. We had a big toast. Borat took two shots. Then the cop took a second shot. I drank a lot, too. I noticed it was dawn outside and decided I shouldn’t go to bed before my 1pm flight back to Perú.
The girl sitting with me didn’t come off like a prostitute at all, but a girl who really enjoys sex. She told me one of her favorite activities: “fumar la marihuana y tener sexo – es RICO.” She really loves to smoke weed and have sex. Really? WHAT A COINCIDENCE! I also enjoy smoking weed and having sex! Isn’t it amazing that we have so much in common?
I came up with the clever idea that it might be fun to smoke weed and have sex together. She agreed that it was a good idea. I asked Borat if he could get me some weed. He told me he can’t and I wouldn’t be able to smoke it in the bar anyway. Plus, they were closing soon. However, he would have this little fat dude take care of anything I need from now on. But I would need to pay 50,000 ($31) to the house to take my new honey with me. I agreed and the three of us – me, my hot honey, and Little Fat Dude – hopped into a taxi for an ATM.
After getting money, the taxi took us to a disgusting motel not far from the whorehouse. The hourly rate was like 15,000 pesos ($9), which I would pay afterwards. Little Fat Dude took care of all my arrangements and showed us our room. The dingy room had nothing but a bed. The hardwood floors were in need of replacing and the paint on the walls was peeling. Little Fat Dude said he would come back with the weed. My hot honey and I got in bed and couldn’t wait for it. We were naked and I was inside even before I paid her.
From the moment I started touching her until the end of our episode, my hot honey was moaning and breathing hard and looking at me with those pleasure eyes. She was on fire. ¡Viva Colombia!
Ten or fifteen minutes after starting, there was a knock on the door. I flung the door wide-open wearing nothing but a condom to find the surprised Little Fat Dude. He had two joints for me for 10,000 pesos ($6). My hot honey, motionless on her back, didn’t bother covering up. I fumbled through my wallet only to find 50,000 peso bills. I gave him the 50 and told him it was for the motel and the weed. I told him to leave and I didn’t want any change (100% tip).
I got back inside my hot honey and we lit a joint. We passed it back and forth while I slowly rocked from up top. After deciding she had enough marijuana, she carelessly tossed it aside on the floor and grabbed a hold of my shoulders.
This was an amazing sexual experience. I pulled out every trick in my book of how to get a girl off. I went down on her for at least ten minutes while she pulled my head into her pelvis. Before doggystyle, I dove into her butt with my tongue and she said “Oooh, ¡me gusta!” At one point while on top, she was squeezing my chest muscles and shoulders so hard that her nails dug in and hurt. Nobody beats me up. So I grabbed her neck with both hands, choking her while pounding away. For about five full minutes, I was strangling her with both hands, only easing up to allow her a breath every 30 seconds or so.
She started to hurt after a while so we stopped. Her eyes teared up and she began to sob a little. I asked her what was wrong. She told me she has only had sex like that with one other guy – her ex-boyfriend who she had a kid with. Then she started getting hysterical and worried. She said it was so late and she was a mess and I hadn’t even paid her yet. I cuddled her and kissed her on the cheek and told her not to worry.
I paid her and she started to come back to reality mentally. She seemed to realize that I am not her boyfriend and she is a whore and this is her job and she has things to do and I would go back to Perú and we would never see each other again. I assumed we would share a taxi to her house and then my hostel.
We stepped outside to a bright sun and rush hour traffic. We walked together and talked. Before I knew it, we were back at the brothel. She said she lived there. “¿Vives acá?” I asked in disbelief. She said she’d only been in Bogotá two weeks. Then she asked for a tip. I made a disgusted face and said “No seas fría.” I disappeared into the pedestrian traffic. I bought a beer, lit the second joint, and took a taxi back to the hostel.
Aftermath
I got back to the hostel at 9:30 am. Dennis, Tom, and Scott were already awake and laughing at me. I told them an abbreviated story and kept drinking. At the airport a woman at security waved her hand in front of her nose, implying that I reeked of liquor. I asked at my gate if I had time to get a beer before it was time to board. I was told I shouldn’t drink any more because it was against regulations. I went for one anyway. On board, I fell asleep before the plane had backed away from the terminal. I didn’t wake up until the violent landing in Lima three and a half hours later.
Then the shame set in – that shame you feel when you leave Amsterdam. Did I really do all that? Drink and smoke all that? Bang all those whores? Spend all that? Am I a degenerate piece of shit? Yes, I am.
Then I realized I would talk to Rosa soon and felt even more shame. Did I miss you? Of course I missed you, mi amor. Mucho. What did we do? No mucho. I saw some museums. We ate some good food. It was nice to see Dennis again, you know I hadn’t seen him in over a year. I met some British guys who were pretty cool. That was about it, honey.
Dennis’ illness got worse. An email I received from him late Tuesday night while he was in Lima:
“I’m doing a tour of the city tomorrow (if i feel ok) so i should get to see enough to judge but so far i dont think so.
here are my symptoms by day:
Sunday – light-headed, cough, some nausea
Monday – vomiting, fever, I felt so hot i couldn’t even sleep with a sheet
Tuesday – uncontrollable shivering, congestion, BAD fever, runny nose, diarrheai think ive covered all the bases so tomorrow i should be good!”
He arrives in Arequipa Thursday and we do it all over again. God help us.
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4 Responses to “Wild Weekend in Bogotá”
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wow, random colombianas. wow, i like it!
nice experience. But if you make that much effort describe also the name of the places so others could experience the same.Without names its a little weired..:-)
@Cesar – I don’t remember any names of any places!
“I’m a sucker for sweet girls. I remember thinking I could be happy forever with a clean sweetheart like her with her beautiful, caramel-colored face and apple butt.”
Like a quote from my own mouth my friend!! I loved this story.