“Turn around. Get on your stomach.”
You can’t make out the hole when a girl is on her stomach. You just aim and if all goes well, your dick slides right into the abyss. You begin pumping and see just the back of her head, her hair, maybe her shoulder, but this is how I like to get my orgasm. It’s a vulnerable position for her; legs together, no escape. Sometimes she’ll grab the sheets real tight, maybe it’s hurting her, but she can take it. I keep pounding until I cum, a man beast on top of yet another European girl who came upstairs for “just one drink” and to “listen to some music.” I roll off in a heap. With one hand I touch her body to let her know that I’m still there and won’t demand she leave. I tell her she can stay and sometimes I don’t mean it but many times I do. I want to do it again, the same way. She will quickly realize that I like that ass.
This is what I wanted back in 2007 when I left for Ecuador. I wanted to fuck my way across South America, but it fucked me instead. Thinking “this would make a good book,” I learned, is a sign of struggle, not pleasure. I went back to South America, stubborn me, to try again. It was better. Not the stuff made of fantasies, not the stuff that would make guys jealous, but I did feel redemption’s hand on my shoulder before giving up for good in Argentina.
Europe. I was in Italy for one week, Spain for two weeks, but no flags. I was young, as young as 25 can be. But I’ve become wiser, now with logistics. Before this trip, I set my expectations low. If I can just get a flag here or there I’ll be happy. Europe wasn’t going to be easier than South America, it couldn’t be.
Oh, it is easier. It is so much easier. Europe is the promise land. I thought I knew sex before, but I didn’t know Europe. This is the trip I have always dreamed of when I was an obedient little microbiologist in Maryland. The trip that I would only see in movies, of fucking many women in one city and then moving on to the next. For twenty months I have thrusted. They say that after a while you get tired of it, that it just eases out of your system, but give me one week off and I’ll be hungry again like I’ve never seen a vagina before. How Europe produced all the artists and philosophers and great inventors of the world with women like this walking around, I do not know. When I compare it to America, beastly America, with no class and no feminine grace, my mind begs me to stop. Force me to move back, imprison me in a suburb, and I will personally cure cancer with all the free time I’ll have.
I remember the date I came here: January 11, 2011. And today is the day that I leave. For as you read this I will be on an airplane over the Atlantic Ocean headed to Washington DC. Before you see the sun come down, if my plane doesn’t crash, I will already be among you, walking in awe, I’m sure, at what I’m seeing. And if you are wondering why I would stay in DC, you are wondering correct, for I will not stay.
Within the next two weeks I will buy another ticket. I will look on the map and I will see South America, and I will remember Colombian beauty and Brazilian booty, but it’s too rough for me, a coffee shop guy who rather take shots of espresso than hear gun shots echo. And then I will look at Southeast Asia, a land I feel obligated to explore for my readers, but where my penis yawns at the prospect. And then I will look at Europe, and I’ll feel warm thoughts as I remember Karolina, Natalia, Gosia, Magda, Paulina, Martina, Maarja, Simona, Aiste, Mary, Mari, Sophia, Vera, half a dozen Ana’s, and all the rest. It’s hard to stay away when I know there are so many more just like them, lonely, waiting for their first American to come from nowhere and take them home and tell them to turn around and be in complete submission to a man who can’t seem to get tired of this.
Europe has its problems, no doubt, but for me it’s paradise. It’s my pussy paradise.