But why was he there? I couldn’t see how visiting Macchu Picchu was helping Peru with its development. The puzzle was still bugging me when I bumped into Red and Robbie a couple of minutes later.
‘I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me he’d be here. After all, it wasn’t that long ago I saw him, and he knew I was planning to do the Trail,’ I said, having explained to them – without bringing in the sexual aspect of our acquaintance – that I’d seen my friend from Lima.
‘I think I saw those guys before walking round the grounds of the hotel,’ said Robbie. ‘Four of them, two in white suits, two dark?’
‘That’s right. Carlos is the one in cream with a ponytail. I’m sure it was him because of his hair.’
‘So how do you know this guy?’ asked Red casually.
I told him about Kip and Carlos.
‘And what does he do?’
‘He works for some aid agency – no, not aid, development agency, helping the locals set up industry and so on. It’s called ETP. I’m not really sure what they do.’
‘Sounds very altruistic,’ said Robbie a touch acerbically. I wasn’t sure why; after all if anyone needed to be jealous of Carlos it was Red and not him. Still it was no skin off my nose.
‘Not that it matters. I’m supposed to be seeing him in Chile, in a few weeks time.’
‘Hey, don’t say you’re going to ditch me in Chile,’ said Red in mock dismay.
‘You should be so lucky to last that long. We’ll have gone our separate ways by then, anyway.’
We had already vaguely discussed our future itineraries. I was definitely going to have a look at Bolivia, even if it was only for a couple of days, while they had said they might go and see Lake Titicaca but after that they would head straight for Chile. Still, that was further down the line. We got the bus down to the station and waited for the crowded, smelly, slow train back to Cuzco.
Just because you’ve spent a few days with a couple of guys, fucking one and putting on a live sex show for the other, it doesn’t entitle you to any claim on their time, I know, but when I found them both out next morning and what’s more not back by the next day I felt a bit peeved. Knocking round town on my own wasn’t so much fun and, let’s face it, after Macchu Picchu anything would be an anti-climax. Still on the second day I bumped into the Uruguayans and amused myself by practising my Spanish with them and flirting slightly. All right, flirting outrageously. I was almost minded to go back to their guesthouse with them for a pidgin Spanish threesome but I thought maybe my erotic life was running just a little wild and instead made do with lots of kisses on cheeks and went back to mine alone.
Red knocked on my door just as I was resigning myself to going out to dinner alone again and kicking myself for turning down the chance to be the filling in a Uruguayan tortilla.
‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I said drily before he launched into a sketchy apology for leaving me. Apparently they’d bumped into a couple of mates from home who persuaded them to go back up to Pisac, the mountain village we’d visited together a few days before. It sounded a bit of a coincidence to me, but it was none of my business. I suspected that Robbie was fed up with the rôle of voyeur and had persuaded Red to go off with a couple of girls, but hey, we were all free agents.
After a few pisco sours I got over it and we took the train together the next night to Puno and Lake Titicaca. Robbie was reading out loud from the guidebook about it being the largest freshwater lake in the world. I wondered if his reading was a hint that I should get fresh on the train but it was too full and I was tired and still slightly pissed off and, anyway, I hadn’t turned into one of Pavlov’s dogs. Puno was the nearest thing to a shit hole I’d seen since the Lima shanty town and I decided to head straight out for the island of Taquile. Maybe they’d gone back to close buddy mode because neither of them wanted to come with me, so I left most of my gear in the guesthouse strong room and wondered if they’d be there when I got back.
The boat was good fun, not least because there was an English girl, Ros, who spoke fluent Spanish and interpreted the patter of the captain. He wore traditional dress: a rather dashing full-sleeved white shirt and an embroidered cummerbund, though to my mind a bit spoiled by a Wee Willie Winkie-type hat. He explained that because the end of his hat was plain rather than patterned it meant he was single, but if it was a hint it was lost on both of us. I mean, the islanders knit their own hats, and if there’s one thing that’s more of a turn off than a man in a nightcap, it’s the fact that he knitted it all himself.
The fantastic thing about Taquile, apart from the knitting and the fact there are no cars, is that it’s run as a co-operative, and the islanders refuse to have any hotels built. Instead you sign in and are allocated a place to stay. Ros and I were taken to a cabin built around a restaurant. It was fine though unlit, and the toilet could have been nearer, had a flush and not been at the top of a muddy sloping path, but I didn’t expect luxury. We were told to present ourselves for dinner at seven and walked round absorbing the peace of the island until then.
Dinner was a bizarre affair. The food, which was quinoa soup (not bad) followed by a Spanish omelette (the local fish was off), was entertaining at least, but the turns the conversation took were even odder. The other guests were two couples, not together, one German-speaking Swiss and the other French. Ros turned out to speak French as well as she spoke Spanish but there was no means of communication with the Swiss couple, so they talked among themselves. Ros launched into a rapid-fire conversation with the French couple so all that was left for me to do was launch myself into the wine. Patrice, the French guy, was also knocking it back and I suppose that’s why the conversation went the way it did.
First he was gesticulating and shrugging in that Gallic way and puffing out his cheeks, then he was leaning across saying something to Ros in a low undertone. Gabrielle, the woman, was smoking disdainfully and interjecting scornful remarks, while Ros was giggling coyly. I thought resignedly they were setting themselves up as a threesome and I’d be in the cabin alone, but then Gabrielle gave a final shake of her head and turned to me.
‘Do you mind if I change with her? They want to have sex.’
‘Doesn’t matter to me. I only met her on the boat and I don’t fancy her myself.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t know him very well either. We just met up yesterday and both wanted to come here.’ She spoke to the others in French and they all stood, so I guessed we were going to play swapsies and sure enough Ros’s stuff was removed from our hut and Gabrielle’s installed.
‘You want some more to drink?’ I asked her, switching on my torch. Even with a bit of light it was pretty dark in there and it was still early.
‘No, I’m tired. Patrice is such a bore. He hasn’t stopped hitting on me since we set out this morning. I think he’s creepy, don’t you?’
‘Not my type either,’ I agreed. ‘Well, I suppose we might as well turn in.’
‘Look, you stay up if you like. To be honest with you I’m going to get in my sleeping bag and play with myself.’
Things were looking up, but as she was sick of Patrice coming on to her I decided against asking her if she wanted a hand.
‘Well, I don’t really want to stay up with nobody to talk to . . . do you mind wanking while I’m there?’
She laughed softly. ‘No, as long as my vibrator won’t disturb you.’
‘Oh, wow, I wish I’d brought mine.’
‘You can borrow mine if you like, after me.’
Decisions, decisions: shall I make do with my hands so we can masturbate together, or shall I take my turn with the vibrator, sticky with her juices? Either way I couldn’t lose, and with her long black hair and sulky French girl mouth she was a million times more of a turn on than the rather plain Ros. I just smiled and started to undress. It was cold in the cabin so I kept my top half wrapped up in my sweater and fleece.
I had unrolled my sleeping bag earlier and now moved it sideways so I could sit with my back to the wall and my legs bent, facing in Gabrielle’s direction. She was lying full length on her bed and had already switched on the vibrator. Her body was pretty near perfect; although my legs aren’t fat they’re a bit muscular, and I appreciated her white, slender thighs.
‘God, this is so much better than having to put up with Patrice,’ she murmured. ‘This trip is just not a success as far as sex is concerned.’
‘Mine’s pretty good so far,’ I admitted, giving my clit a little tease. ‘First there was Peter on the plane . . .’
Five minutes later she passed the vibrator over with a satisfied sigh. I knew she had been inspired by my adventures, and hoped she’d reciprocate. While I’d been telling her about my trip I’d merely been toying with myself, having decided I’d hang on for the power pack.
‘I decided on this trip because my sex life was crap,’ she said dreamily, lighting up a post-orgasm cigarette. ‘For six months I had an affair with a married man; you know, everybody does it in France. But he was – what’s the word in English – decadent, perhaps? It doesn’t matter, but he had done everything. He was forty, quite high-powered and successful, and apart from a stream of mistresses he’d had prostitutes from Biarritz to Bangkok. It was like everything had lost its interest for him: he’d seen it all before. I didn’t think it would last, but he had taken me to nice restaurants and bought me some jewellery and shoes and so on; it was fine. Then one day we had a dinner date and I opened the door to let him in and he wasn’t alone.
‘There was a cameraman with him. He said he wanted to make a film of me, of us. First he got me to strip off, like for a porn film, OK, then play with myself. I didn’t mind; the cameraman was all right; I didn’t feel too bad doing it in front of him. Then, you can guess, I had to undress Michel and suck him and then we fucked for the camera, different ways, you know. It was a turn on, and he brought the film next time and we watched it; it was pretty good. Then he wanted another one, but this was a different cameraman, and after Michel and I had been fucking for a bit he got him to stop and then he took the camera and the cameraman fucked me. I wasn’t very keen on it, but didn’t want to make a scene, so I went along with it.
‘After that Michel went crazy for filming me with other men. He got his own camera and started bringing other men round to film with me. He would even pay them sometimes, which was so degrading. Thank God they weren’t too bad looking, and clean. I don’t know why I went along with it . . . but I really liked him, you know? And he always fucked me afterwards so passionately. Then one day he brought a woman. I’d never done anything like it before; the thought had always turned me off, but he talked me into it and in fact I quite enjoyed it. I would have done it again, except that when we out to dinner a week later, before we went back to watch it, we bumped into a friend of his. “Oh, Gabi, it’s so nice to meet you. I’ve loved watching your films,” he said.’
‘Oh shit,’ I muttered. With the aid of the vibrator I’d come as soon as she’d mentioned the other woman, maybe because I rather hoped for some of her myself, but the end of the story was a real downer. ‘Hey, Gabi? You OK?’
She had gone awfully quiet.
‘I’m fine,’ she said at length. ‘But I’d like to go to sleep now. Thanks for your stories; they helped me.’
‘Yeah, well, I’d started to enjoy yours. I’m sorry it ended like that.’
‘Me too. Still, I always wanted to be a film star. Goodnight.’
‘Night.’
Back in Puno was a note from Red and Robbie. They would probably meet me in San Pedro de Atacama in a week or so, if not maybe Santiago where they’d be staying at the Hostal Australe – how apt. I wasn’t going to hold my breath, and anyway Gabi and I were going to Bolivia together.
Quite why we ended up riding bikes down the precipitous road to Coroico, a jungle town twenty miles out of La Paz, I don’t really know. She had met someone who had done it and I was ready for a bit of adventure. It was a different matter though when we were actually on the road contouring the hillside, with a vertiginous drop down into the forest below, the unwelcome squidge of mud under tyre, what seemed like a non-stop honking stream of cars, buses and trucks overtaking us and coming towards us, and the unnerving frequency of roadside shrines to drivers who’d gone over the edge.
Eventually we arrived, booked into the nearest cheap hotel with a pool and plunged into the freezing water, shrieking like a couple of teenagers. Back in the room we rubbed ourselves dry vigorously to warm up again and had one of those magical moments when two people suddenly look at each other and, click, they’re in each other’s arms, without any premeditation. We were both wired by the ride followed by the swim and maybe anybody would have done for either of us, but there was a definite spark that connected us and propelled us towards each other like a magnetic field. Our bodies were cold but our mouths and our cunts were warm and soft. I pulled Gabi’s hair back from her pale fine-featured face while I explored the warmth of her mouth and then laid her on the bed and spread her legs to explore the other warmth. She wanted to reciprocate but first I wanted her to come and my tongue luxuriated in the wet pinkness of her and then teased her clit until I knew she needed my hand. Once I judged my fingers were doing a perfect job I put my mouth back on her and relished her jerk against my face.
‘Oh, Bliss,’ she breathed. ‘What a good name for you – I have got that right, haven’t I? Like really happy?’
‘Yep, like blissed out,’ I told her, stroking the soft gentle roundness of her belly. ‘You know that expression?’
‘Of course. Blissed out, that’s how I feel. Come here and hold me.’
We snuggled together. She was a lot warmer than I was, thanks to my attentions.
‘The only other woman I made love to was for Michel’s benefit, and when I came with her it was as much because he was watching as because of her mouth and hands. But with you it’s just so . . . so normal, somehow. And exciting.’