I got a bit romantic today, so I think this will go best with
Passionate Kisses (presented for your convenience, as always, at the
I have mentioned before that, as the road to Llojeta begins, we are presented with an assortment of motels. And how appropriate that I needed some form of romantic distraction and I should happen to let this nugget into my head.
Once you pass the little rotunda that serves as a cab stand for shuttle cabs that are never fucking there when you need them, you are faced with a little road that displays this for your viewing pleasure:
I like how they spell candy with a K. It’s kind of chic, don’t you think? Plus, more importantly, it reminds you of that hooker that looked like a tranny who offered you a BJ the other night and you turned her down because she didn’t resemble Nicole Kidman.
But… I’ve said too much.
My point is: There it is. A big blue sign that screams KANDY – Just 300 meters away!
But the powers that be over at Kandy must have assumed that drunken businessmen, looking to get laid, have short attention spans… Because just a little farther down the road you are faced with this:
So with all that pomp and circumstance you absolutely do not miss the fact that you have finally arrived at this holiest of places when you finally see this:
Sorry… It’s just truth.
But, you know? Motels are pretty much a turnoff for me anyway. Which brings me to my greater issue here: What’s the fucking point?
That is not really a rhetorical question because I honestly don’t understand. I mean, yes… If you want an indiscreet tryst with Jill from accounting and your wife wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the two of you going at it in your living room – this makes perfect sense.
To a point.
But people spend so much fucking money on these things! When all you need is a bed and some pillows. I have not been inside Kandy. (I don’t mean it that way… Shut up!) But a friend has described it to me. It sounds like a theme park for douchebags. Heart-shaped beds… Jacuzzis… And rooms with themes. The Roman suite. The Greek suite. The Arab suite. And so on.
So, after you’ve spent a great deal of cash buttering her up by getting her plastered, you can spend another small fortune getting into her pants in a tacky room with mirrors on the ceiling where the last thing you will really be paying attention to is the Mediterranean décor adorning the walls.
And, since chances are you’re either cheating on your wife or are probably a fucking asshole anyway, you deserve to lose all your money for 7 seconds of happiness. Or is it 5? Unless you’re Sting – who can apparently go on his jack juice high for hours. But Sting is full of shit. And so are you if you believe him.
But – Does it have to be so cheesy? Go ahead… Take a look at that picture again. Does that look like a place where you would like to spend a couple of hours making love? Does it really?
Well… Fuck you then. I don’t want to know you and, chances are, you smell like boiled turnips and own the entire collection of Riverdance on Blu-Ray.
Seriously… Go fuck yourself for this.
But… Ok. Confession time. I have been to a motel. I’ll explain how and why this happened…
I had a wife once.
No. I didn’t cheat on her. She’s the one who went with me. And I certainly won’t bore you with the particulars of what we did because you don’t need (and I’m sure DO NOT WANT) to hear it and I don’t particularly feel like writing it out and re-living it for reasons that should be painfully clear to anyone who has ever been married.
Anyway… We were in Santa Cruz. A Bolivian city where people enjoy getting laid a lot. I like to call it the premature ejaculation capital of the world. And there are a lot of motels. Many more than in La Paz. So, many of them are really not as spectacular as Kandy. Though, some are I’m sure. But the one we went to was pretty basic. The room looked like a cheap hotel number. Not unlike a room at the 3-star Hilton down the road. There was a Queen Size with a radio built into the headboard. I thought that was convenient. Except it was set to a station that seemed to only play Kenny G. And I didn’t feel like laughing while screwing. There was a TV bolted to the wall… And a spacious bathroom with a gym-like shower and a small tub that, I suppose, was supposed to be a Jacuzzi.
We were there because we had been staying with friends at their small apartment and, after several days of celibacy due to lack of privacy, had decided that enough was enough.
But, in any case… Doing what was meant to be done there felt no more or less different or special than doing it where it was normally done.
Except that we could have had the luscious sounds of Kenny G for company. But, frankly, I guess we’re just not that cool. And I didn’t appreciate that the room itself smelled pretty much like Palmolive dishwasing liquid.
They charged by the hour and it was dirt cheap.
But, would I ever want to spend much more money to essentially have the same anti-climactic experience at a place like Kandy?
Please remember to shoot me in the nuts if I ever say yes.
And so… I thought of all this as the bus wound down the road and the wonderful Pilsener odor of the cholita (btw – term of endearment for an Andean señorita) made its way into my nostrils. And I lamented the sad state we live in that people need to go to places like that to get a sense of excitement for their mundane love life.
I wept for them. But only on the inside… Outside it was all laughs.
Ok. Down to the wire… Still have not varied my routine. But, three days in, I’m not as sore as I got on the first two sessions. Maybe I can start pushing the envelope next week… I’ll let you know. But I actually got through all the sets with minimal fucks and shits. I’m getting better.
This time I slept over at Ram’s and he allowed me to hibernate on his mother’s spectacular King Size. I fell asleep watching Charles Bronson dubbed into Spanish on a 40-inch Sony Bavaria.