The Encounter

Enough time has passed where I feel comfortable sharing something that happened to me in Venezuela. The emotional wounds have healed.

It was my fifth night there and I was on Margarita Island. That night I met a couple waitresses at a restaurant who took me to a club two blocks away. I thought I was going to hook up with one of the them but that didn’t happen so I was on my own for the second half of the night.

Going through the back of the club put you directly on the beach. I dodged couples making out to sit on a sand ledge facing the ocean. The wind was strong that night, my friends. I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the sand behind me. This is the type of moment that is enhanced with a girl, I thought. Not two minutes later, a random girl I never met before did show up. She sat right next to me.

She was alright looking. Maybe a 6.5 out of 10. Cute but not hot. In bad English she asked me where I was from. I told her and then she said she was from Brazil. Then she gave me this lazy look and glanced at my lips. If you’re a guy, you know what I’m talking about. It took less than 30 seconds for us to start making out on this sand ledge. I guess all those things they say about Brazilian girls are true.

We went back inside and I bought a round of Polar Ice beers (a dollar each). This girl is dancing in front of me as I’m sitting down enjoying my beer. Then she asks me where I’m staying. I had a $50 a night apartment with its own bedroom and kitchen, luxurious by Venezuelan standards. She asked me if I wanted to go back to my place.

Now this concerned me. I’ve had girls move fast on me before but this is exceptionally fast. And she is from Brazil, a land known for its casual prostitution. I told her that I wanted to hang out at the bar a little longer because I like the music. If she saw me as a potential client, I wanted her to get discouraged and move onto easier fish. But if she wasn’t a prostitute, she wouldn’t mind hanging out for a bit longer. I got a second beer and we hung out for another 30 minutes.

Once I knew her for an hour, I concluded that she definitely was not a prostitute. I was ready. “Why don’t we go back to my place?” I said. She agreed, and we walked there. Inside I gave her a tour of the apartment that ended in my bedroom. I went to the kitchen to get some water and to put my cash in the refrigerators butter compartment—just in case she tried to rob me after I went to sleep.

Things progressed quickly in the bedroom. Within 10 minutes we were both completely naked. My condom use can best be described as a hair short of full safety compliance, but with this girl there was no fucking way I’m getting near her without one. She didn’t look that clean anyway.

I put on a condom and got ready to make big penetration. Then she said something which has been permanently etched into my brain, Brazilian accent and all.

“Pay me.”

Part 2: Live and Learn

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