Well folks, great news!
It was a highly explicit weekend here in Colombia.
Sex, drugs, ruined bed sheets and the like.
Yup, I got you covered.
Friday – CLUB NIGHT
I hadn’t been proper clubbing in over a whole year. So you KNOW ol’ Darbs was going hard that night. Little did he know: just how hard.
I merely wanted to go out and dance. That’s it! I would not allow myself to get drunk that night!
Of course: there are other ways to get fucked up.
The club was called Kaputt—which I’ve been told means “fuck” in German. How apropos.
Kaputt is one of the best dance clubs I’ve ever been to. EVER! As for why, let’s see: 8-10 dance floors, music genres ranging from house, reggaeton, 80’s, dark EDM, and techno; food trucks; a little booth that will test your drugs’ potency; the ability to consume drugs openly, right in front of security; arcade games; a old-timey automobile that sells drinks out of the trunk that you are allowed to climb on top of and stomp the roof; an indoor bonfire; a surplus of bathrooms; other things.
I went to the club with Gemela, who I’d guess is somewhere in her late 40’s, has two teenage kids, and loves to dance to beats. She was a great ally. And so is my friend Dani, who I met a year ago.
It took less than 10 minutes in the company of Dani and her two friends before she asked me if I would “like some water with MDMA in it?” I sampled the product, of course. But before I could recognize any of the effects, Dani said, “Want to try some coqueta?” Spanish-speaking natives would recognize that as the word for “flirting,” but let me point out that this was not that. This was not that at all.
This was coke-KETA: a powdered mix of both cocaine, and ketamine.
According to her, if you took only ketamine, you would be majorly fucked. It’s a downer, you see? So you need the cocaine to balance it out.
I took a whiff from this nostril and a whiff from the other. Because of course, we are all about balance here.
Well goddamn motherfucker, after I had done roughly 16 bumps of this shit (and taken one half pill of E) I was FUCKED. Ginormously… FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED bro! Definitely floated the idea that this was the “most fucked up I’ve ever been.” But upon further reevaluation, I’d say it wasn’t the most fucked up, but definitely in the top three.
I will try and elucidate what happened. Simply put: I left my body. I was no longer there, behind the wheel. I was experiencing the party third-person, as if I were playing a video game, or watching a drag race from the stands. The 120 beat-per-minute house music seemed to have dropped to 60 BPM. All sense of time was altered. The astroturf carpeting I’d been dancing on on the tiny rooftop three stories up felt like it became a wall, like I was dancing not on a flat surface but an angular one. I was completely out of my mind. But still, I wasn’t the most fucked up there; that honor belongs to Gemela. I had to guide her around and convince security that she didn’t need to be removed from the premises. There was a lot of hand holding. Me and her, we bonded immensely that night.
At 5 AM the party ended. And still high as shit, but a bit less so, me and Gemela walked home to the nearby hostel. And then we… didn’t bang. No! (The banging took place the next night.)
SATURDAY – An “innocent night”
My long-time friend Andrea invited me to a “cafe” that she’d just started working at. A cafe sounded like a welcome idea, considering my brain was still operating at 50% capacity. But when I got there I realized the place was more like a bar—a cool, neighborhood speakeasy bar that her boyfriend had opened just two weeks prior. Despite being so new, the place had a great crowd, and some tasty craft beers on tap. I had drank three or four by the time a girl I’d met online showed up and was like “Hi, nice to meet you.”
The girl was in her early 40’s. Born in Colombia to Bolivian parents. Spoke good English. Pretty tall. And would reveal, through conversation, that she was almost as much into debauchery as me. She had a weed vaporizer so I took a few hits of that, and the next thing you know we are at some library-themed bar near where I was staying. So once we crushed a couple more beers, we ended up back at my place.
We went from the roof straight to the bedroom, and it was right when I was making out with her that she announces, “I’m a squirter.” But she didn’t say that when I was kissing her mouth–she said that when I was kissing her vagina.
You can probably guess what happened next:
She came on my face! A warm, tiny blast of liquid entered my mouth, my nostrils, everything. And I was like, “What the fuck do I do now? Gargle this liquid? What is this anyways–piss?!” It was a chaotic moment while I tried to think of how to best expunge this mystery liquid from my mouth in a smooth way. I ended up spitting it out all over her vulva, trying to make it seem like it was saliva, but I’m not sure I had her fooled.
Eventually I took a condom out and she said, “Finally!” And then we banged, and she drenched my bed sheets another three or four times before asking, “Aren’t you gonna come?” I offered to come on her tits, like the gentleman I was, but she was like ewww, gross, and I resisted telling her she had ruined my bed and turned it into an uninhabitable sleeping environment and just came in the condom like the good little manservant I am.
We took a nap and when I woke up an hour later, she was gone. “Wow,” I thought. “That went… swimmingly.” (Never above quoting a good pun.)
As if that already wasn’t an epic weekend, there was still
SUNDAY – SUPERBOWL
On Sunday, over in my home country they played something called the “Superbowl,” the championship game between the top two American football teams. I knew that I was leaving Bogota the next day and said, “Fuck it, I’ll go have a couple beers and watch this shit.” I sat at the bar by myself, watching the first half of the game in relative reticence.
Then at some point an Argentine staff member comes up to me and is like “Sho, would you like to guessh the shcore of the football game? It’sh free. The person closhest to the shcore wins a bottle of guaro.” I was like sure. I guessed the score would be 23 points, LA Rams, and 28 points, Cincinnati Bengals. That same worker approached me shortly after and asked if I wanted to be part of a beer pong tournament. I told him yeah, but I was alone, so if there were any other strays like me, let them know and I’d team up.
Ten minutes later an American guy named Mark comes up to me and introduces himself as my beer pong partner. “Are you any good?” he asks, and I answer honestly: “I used to be! Back in college. 15 fucking years ago, oh my god I’m so old!!” I hadn’t played beer pong in 1-2 years, but I would be happy just to participate.
Me and Mark beat four other teams and won the whole goddamn tournament. By the end, we were getting pretty cocky, and being the only two gringos in the tournament, we had more than half of the whole bar cheering against us. So we hammed it up. Calling our shots, bouncing balls sneakily, calling people little bitches when they wrongly complained about our elbows being over the edge of the table.
So we won, and what did we win? A bottle of tequila.
Oh, and the person to come closest to guessing the right score? Twas me as well. Bottle of guaro (the nickname for aguardiente, the national liquor here).
So me and Mark went from being the most hated people at the bar, to pouring everyone shots of tequila and aguardiente and being the most liked. I think my coolness only went up when I crushed some Sam Smith and Rage Against the Machine at the karaoke party that followed. I met some cuties, got some numbers, and made it home around 3 AM.
All in all a GREAT weekend, and now that I’m in Medellin, it should only get greater (and even more explicit-er).
Stay tuned.
And stay thirsty, my friends.
[Brought to you by Dos XX beer]
