Less than three months to touchdown, red wine in hand and it's time to do what I do best, loosely apply the English language to my thoughts and share it with others. After all, apparently, it's what I do.
Flights. Check. Hotel. Check. Spending money. Check, well in twelve weeks time courtesy of liberal use of the "cash advance" function on the credit card, check. Most importantly, a healthy dose of libido. Check and.............check.
I'm yet to determine how to confront this trip. Do I simply arrive, plough my way through, or do I take my time and then do some ploughing. Even those closest to me look at this trip as being out of character. It is. It's fucking hot up there, there's some shady shit going on, who's going to look after me and "shit dude, they've got ladyboy's everywhere up there!"
I'm beyond tempted to leave my passport at customs with several recent photos and a copy of my return flight details stapled to a note asking the officials to send out the search party if I'm late. The sweaty embrace of the Los beckons and part of me wants to be swallowed. People will miss me, who will apply the English language to inappropriate subjects and most importantly, if I'm swallowed, who will do the ploughing?
I've traveled, I've stayed beyond five star in the middle east and I've received a hand job from a two bit hooker in Vegas while playing black-jack. The Los though provides an interesting mix, I wish to take it at face value, but as an almost virgin to her shores, I do not wish to be consumed by her engorged appetite.
I crave the experience. The shudder of my heart when not quite comfortable, but among friends, the sweaty embrace of an amped nightlife and the downtime that will allow me to soak in her beauty.
Enjoy the thoughts and a glimpse into the soul of a man at the precipice.
