Discover more from Vic Koopmans
Dios mío, Medellín
I don’t recall booking this room. Why is there a picture on the wall of a Colombian man staring at me so angrily? And why is his daughter’s magnificent ass pressing so firmly against my... ah, that makes sense.
By god she’s beautiful, she’s heaven sent. Okay, calm down, penis. Stop being egotistical. You’re taking up all the blood and the brain needs some as well. Let’s reminisce: bus ride, arrival, check in, pizza, bed, decide to go for a quick sneak peek downtown... There you go. Mystery solved, holmes - Sherlock that is.
Man I do dislike these five hour bus rides that always turn out to last eight hours. But hey, I’ve made it. I can’t say anything about the city yet, since it’s already dark. So I’ll take a taxi, I don’t really feel like getting shanked tonight.
Two minutes in the taxi tell me that the traffic is as anarchistic as the traffic in Bogota, that traffic lights are optional and that honking the horn gets you bonus points for some secret Colombian lottery foreigners don’t know about.
The hostel is nothing special, my room mates are out and my stomach is empty. I decide to order a pizza. Whilst waiting I notice that I overdid it with the painkillers, a rookie mistake. Oh well, a coffee until the pizza is delivered, a food coma once the pizza sets in - problem solved.
Okay, so now I’m fat with a caffeine rush. Nice plan, moron.
Fortunately one of my room mates enters.
A brief conversation tells me that we’re probably not going to become friends.
The only things that are more visibly white than his eyeballs are his nostrils, he’s misogynistic, his accent is too overly Californian and his behaviour is as well. I’m fairly sure he’ll take offence to anything I say that’s remotely funny.
“We’re gonna bang some hot Latinas tonight,” he yells.
“Who are you even trying to be?” I ask.
“Come on, dude, are you gay or something?”
“Yes,” I reply, “I’m all about the cock and balls.”
I decide to follow this depraved lump of sadness to where the party is and will get rid of him there.
After having amputated my ears four times during our walk, and his monologue, we arrive at our destination. Ditching a man who’s lost in his own madness turns out to be easy and I find myself alone in purgatory.
Loud music, bass crippling my eardrums, prostitutes and drunk, obnoxious foreigners. That equals four aspirines and a set of earplugs. To hell with it. When in Rome, right?
Usually I don’t set foot in clubs. Immediate cancer in the head and two weeks of additional pain are guaranteed, but my horniness and curiosity prevail over my reason.
The club is jam packed with women that actually know how to dance, people molesting their liver and a loner or two hoping that being quiet and holding a beer in front of their chest will get them lucky.
Whilst my head gets abused by the music I walk to the bar, order a glass of water and confirm myself that I’ll survive this heathen fire pit for five minutes.
I look around: dark hair and dark eyes everywhere and exquisite female bodies that look like they were carved out of marble.
“Gracias a Dios,” I whisper, or shout. I don’t remember. Who actually gives a fuck in a place like this?
My five minutes turn into fifteen and the feminine protagonist of my night notices that I’m basically the only one not dancing.
Don’t stare, I think to myself, don’t be a creep. She approaches me and smiles. She has a smile that would’ve made me gone weak in the knees if I hadn’t been such a numb individual.
“¿Quieres bailar?” she asks.
“I don’t dance.”
“I know. I’m too white. I’m about as stiff as a board suffering from rigor mortis.”
“I’m a great kisser, though.”
She smiles again. “¿Verdad?”
Apparently the lamest one liners accompanied by overly loud music work over here.
Bumping, grinding, painkillers and a taxi - sometimes life can be that simple.
My parents read this as well, so I’ll spare you the dirty details. Let’s just say that names were shouted, nails scarred backs, sweat was poured and the ‘que rico’s’ made me feel like I was acting in a bad porno flick.
Night turns into day, certainty turns into regret, kebab turns into vomit.
Rays of sun find their way through the curtains. The sheets smell like a night well spent. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale the scent of femininity. My arms wrap tightly around all that evolution has blessed her with. She moves and I feel how she reciprocates. Her hand strokes my leg.
“Una vez más,” she mumbles.
I heave a sigh of delight, look her father dead in the eye and caress perfection.
“Si, señorita, una vez más.”
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