The Colombian Gringo Hunter (Part 5 of 5)

PREVIOUSLY READ: PART 4

Over the course of the evening, we exchanged some heated glances. When Maria went to the bathroom, I quickly gave Lola my phone and asked for her number, to “keep in touch.” She typed it in without hesitation, and I hastily stashed the phone away before Maria came back. The rest of her friends were too busy talking amongst themselves to notice this act of disloyalty.

Later that night, while we were walking around the city, Maria walked over to a taxi stand and had a quick chat with one of the drivers. The driver drove for twenty minutes, well past the city limits, until we arrived at a nondescript building with about ten enclosed parking spaces. The cab pulled into one of them, the door behind us closed, and we got out and went up the staircase to a room.

We entered a very simple dwelling. The room had just a bed and a bathroom. There was a little rotating device to move objects between the motel workers and yourself, such as food and drinks, or the bill and money. The ordering itself was done over the phone.

Out of all the love motels I’ve been to in Latin America, including numerous ones in Brazil and Argentina, this one was the most discrete ever.

As Maria undressed, my suspicions were confirmed: she had gained weight. Not a whole lot, but for a girl who wasn’t an 80-pound bulimic model to begin with, every new pound mattered.

After getting hard with the help of a blowjob, I started fucking her in the missionary position. I was just going through the motions; the excitement of our original hook-up all those years ago was completely gone. As her pussy got wetter, my dick got limper, and seeing all that extra fat hanging off her belly wasn’t helping.

To help my dick get hard again, I started to fantasize about Lola. I imagined her letting loose while she rode my shaft. It helped, and as I was close to blow, I pulled out, removed the condom, and shot gallons of my man juice all over Maria’s body and face.

I paid the bill, and a taxi promptly arrived. I went back to stay at her house but wanted to get my own place as soon as possible. Being so dependent on someone else was suffocating; I needed my own place.

The next morning I debated whether to stay longer in this little town or go back to Bogotá. Maybe I could get a room in one of the hotels in the center and try my luck with the local talent. If that didn’t work out, I could try calling Lola. Even though there were virtually no gringos around, the city was shit: dirty, noisy and unwelcoming.

After almost five months in Colombia, I was ready to leave. I was tired of the fried food, of speaking Spanish, and of validating myself to every Colombian by how “pleasantly surprised and impressed” I was with their country. Having to inflate the ego of every Colombian I met was exhausting.

I pulled up Lola’s number on my phone. Sure, I could call her and invite her out, but as I learned all too well in Medellin, nothing is ever as easy as it seems. I’d gone out with plenty of spoiled bitches in Medellin, and every time things looked like a “slam dunk,” I’d end up going home alone with shattered pride and blue balls.

I met Maria for lunch and informed her that I would be leaving the same night. She was upset but understanding. I was no longer attracted to her and didn’t want to want to fuck anymore. I’m sure she probably realized something to that effect – women have an amazing sense for these things.

An hour later I grabbed the first minivan back to Bogotá, where I stayed for a few more days before boarding my flight to New York.

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