The South American Connection

'There are few finer things in this world than unexpected adventures into parts unknown.'

She led me up the stairwell, to a windowless hallway. Doors running off on either side. The smell of recently cooked food filled a windowless corridor.

"This way."

On the other side of her neighbour's doors, I heard Spanish being spoken, radio and a TV, a male raising his voice followed by a clash of dishes. She led me onto the furthest locked apartment.

I suppose her voice was considered special to those around her, but I loved to hear her practice English with a Hispanic tongue. That's the mystery of travelling, fresh senses transform mundanity, making it pulse with life: Her voice, the air, the colour and smell, exciting and intoxicating to an Englishman far from home. Otherness—an aphrodisiac to lonely souls the world over.

Her key hung on a chain around her neck, she lifted her hair up, exposing her upper back. She gestured me to help. The air was humid and as I brushed her shoulder with the back of my hand, I could feel the heat of her skin, the sweat. The lock turned twice, and she pushed the door forward.

The room inside was smaller than I expected but bright. A window was open and white muslin hung down either side, partially concealing the view of La Paz.

Her home was sweetly perfumed and she gestured me in, smiling broadly.

"We made it."

Her front room had a sofa and a glass coffee table, two walls were painted a pastille yellow and the others a light bluish hue, an unusual combination but it worked. I approached the window and looked out. I saw the road below, the tables of the bar where she worked. A lot of moving bodies and then following the web of electric cables, I looked up onto the crowded rooftops, onto distant hills, cloaked in favelas. The invasive heat hanging over all rich and poor alike.

"Do you like record art?"

She pushed a door open to reveal her bedroom.

"Look."

Above her bed were an array of records and record sleeves, in a checkerboard pattern. I laughed.

"What is it?"

"Dire straits, money for nothing.” I smiled pointing to the famous red and black sleeve.

On the wall was a very familiar LP to me. One that my mother once played incessantly. It took me by surprise to find the soundtrack of my childhood impaled to a Bolivian bedroom wall.

She explained how she collected each record, which her favourites were. Then I noted the lack of a record player, to which she said hers had recently been stolen.

"50 dollars for a new one."

Her comment signaled something I hadn't thought much about. Perhaps she wanted to be paid for what we were about to do? I'd never exchanged cash for sex, but I wasn't hung up on it being morally wrong. It would have cost more for dinner and wine at a shitty hotel, or even a couple mocha and muffins at the airport Starbucks.

She was beautiful, as I said "exotic," I wanted to know every part of her. I'd paid to enter the national memorial, and paid to reach the sheer-sided mountains that surrounded the city, to taste the food, to hear the music, but all that would become peripheral after her. She would be my most valuable memory, and in truth, she was worth much more.

She offered me a bottle.

"It's OK, save it."

"No beer! Are you sick?"

"No, I don’t drink"

"But you did?"

"Sure."

"You smoke?"

She opened a small wooden box. Inside were some pre-prepared joints.

I hadn't smoked buds for years but I couldn't refuse her hospitality twice.

She sat down unexpectedly near to me. Then without hesitation, lent her head onto my shoulder. It was instantly calming and reassuring. I hadn't had a woman relax like that on my shoulder since I left England. I found myself taking a deep breath and feeling the stress slow.

Her blond hair moved about as she raised her head for each drag.

“You remind me of Shakira.”

“Really! Gracias, Jamie. You remind me of Mark Wahlberg.” Which I have to say, I've never been compared to.

“No matter that he's American, I'm British,” I said kinda smug.

“Shakira is Colombian.”

Game set and match to the Bolivians.

"Fair enough.”

With that she stretched out her arm, interlocking her fingers with mine and bringing it to rest on my lap. She leant forward. I could see down into her cleavage, where a gold crucifix hung. Her white low cut top clung tight to her skin. I began to feel a pulse of energy, in hope and preparation for what I wanted to happen next.

She passed me the smoke. She had turned on a fan in one corner of the room, shortly before we sat. Its welcome air cooled our moist skins; moving strands of her hair back and forth as it went.

“You always smile, even when you aren't speaking," I said.

She didn't reply, placing her free hand on my crotch. She began to unfasten buttons. She slid her hand inside, taking a full grasp of my dick. It swelled, responding to her curiosity. She loosened the jeans allowing her to bring it out, free to stand erect.

She slipped her hands down to cup my balls. I got the impression she was weighing everything up, taking the moment, as I like to do. I never care for rushing, unless you must. If there is time to relax and enjoy the moment then why not?

She got herself comfortable and brought it to her chin, passing the smooth soft head along her closed lips, then to her cheeks and back across to the other side. Only then did she invite me inside.

Beginning slowly, clearly knowing what she was doing, wrapping her lips and then her tongue, circling then enveloping and again and again. I enjoyed the rush, the release. There are few finer things in this world than head from a girl eager to please and is willing to put the work in.

After a few minutes, she raised herself up and strode across my lap pulling her thong to one side and slipping me in. I felt my cock enter her hot core until I felt her every move from the inside out.

I was pleased about how wet she was, it meant we'd both enjoyed her generosity. I pulled her top up and over her head. I undid the bra. As she rode cowgirl I suckled her tits and gripped her arse. I had to guess what she liked. Rough or slow, gentle or frantic? I simply tried to follow the signals she was sending through the pace of breath, her eyes, when she bit down on her a lip a little harder and dragged her nails into my flesh. If I paid enough attention, we would move in time together.

l raised my left hand and gripped the back of her neck, bringing her closer, until her forehead was touching mine. She smiled and began licking and kissing my face.

We remained like that, eye to eye for some period. Her blond hair filtered the light and spread wildly across her bare chest and back. With my right I took her breast in hand, milking it until a little came out. She'd make a good mother I said to myself. Maybe even a wife? As my feelings over ran my senses I licked it up and tasted the faintest trace of creamy milk. It was the richest drink I'd taken south of the equator.

We stayed on her sofa for some time. The sweet scent of her weed in the air, passing the joint back and forth, as she rocked on my lap.

After a while, though I picked her up, remaining coupled together, arriving at the bed and falling with her onto it. My dick slipped out. I pulled her skirt down along with her thong. She was naked now. She reached forward and took a long suck on my glistening cock as if it was coated in sugar.

I spread her legs and suckled. I worked there for a quite a while, passing my tongue into every fold and up her inner thigh, then back down to her centre. I wanted to know every inch like a site of outstanding natural beauty, one that all the guidebooks failed to mention.

Without warning, she pushed me away, flipped herself over, went onto her knees. She grabbed violently at my dick and thrust her self back till I was well inside her again. I began to build up speed.

"Jala mi cabello!"

"What?" Thinking I was hurting her.

"Jala mi cabello! My hair—pull!!" She called out.

So I took a clump in my fist, using it to jerk her back as I thrust forward. She was gripping the sheets and pushed her head away as I pulled into the covers to muffle her moans.

I came then, but kept going, letting it pass without her noticing. Five minutes later she clawed and called out in Spanish. Drawing blood with her nails as she gripped my leg nearest to her, a little wound that I insured scarred later. The next door neighbour's TV went quiet for a moment, then shortly after returned to volume.

As I slowed I looked down her waist, across her backside, seeing my dick pulling her pink skin back as it drew out, then coming closer again. Neither one of us were in any hurry to uncouple.

I suddenly felt very tired and focused on the foreground, looking at the records across the wall. Who would have thought Dire straits would ever be given a fresh potency? Changing its place in my recollections. From that day on it no longer took me back to the back seat of a beat-up Peugeot 306, returning from school on a dusky, wet Old Shoreham Road. Now, it takes me to a heavy heat and a distant blond smile, and the view from a run-down apartment block, surveying a street whose name, only the locals care to know.

We spent the rest of the afternoon, evening and night, enjoying one another's company. She cooked a little food and we took it up onto the roof at dawn. We watched the sunrise through dark distant hills ... Ones I doubt I am to see again. She and I knew right from the beginning that my flight was less than a day away.

Before I left, I placed the $50 with a note saying for the record player. Depositing it well out of sight, hoping she would not find it until after I'd departed. Whether she wanted it or not? "Money for nothing," it certainly wasn't.

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She would initiate proceedings with the whispered words, "Will you baby?" At the same time, she’d be chewing on my ear or kissing my neck and sliding her hands back and forth.