Whoa, whoa, whoa, you’re saying that you three were stripped naked, hands tied behind your back, in a cold-ass room full of cockroaches, and instead of trying to figure out how you could escape, you were thinking of how to make this threesome happen?
Yeah.
Look, Donny’s right. How in the fuck could you have even gotten hard in a situation like that? I’m inverted just thinking about it.
You’re missing the point. We all thought we were going to die that night. It only took one of us to speak up – and I was the one with the courage to. Plus, I figured since we were already on our way to doing it anyway that night, I might as well bring it up. It was my dying moment…
Hey, you gotta tell Donny that part.
Yeah, I haven’t heard the fucking prologue!
Alright. So I had been road-tripping with this couple down the Pan-American for about two months already. We had become real close by the time we got to Lima – best friends, really. Spanish, my kinda people, and it was convenient. Plus, they made up for my butchered language skills. Anyway, Marta had always gazed in my direction right before they went to bed. I swear it wasn’t a normal “good night” look. And on top of that, I’d sometimes hear Marta mumble my name while she was in their room.
If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is.
Yeah, but I ignored it. They were too cool for me to fuck it up by saying anything, and you know I’d be too prude in a sitch like that.
Yeah you wouldn’t know a wet pussy if it slapped you in the face.
Shut up, John. Let him finish.
Right. So it was coincidentally going to be our last night together. Jose and Marta were gonna be taking off to stop in NY before going back to Sevilla the next morning. I was going to continue south. So we decided to celebrate with one last push to the clubs.
Cocaine central?
Right. Lots of people don’t know it’s purer in Peru. So we invited a few others at the hostel and made it a night. At some point, while I was having a smoke outside the 6th or 7th club, this short old Incan-looking dude approached me in silence. He grabbed my hand and looked into my bloodshot eyes and tapped into my palm three times. On the third tap, these five black pebbles appeared, and he said something in what I think was his native language.
What. The. Fuck.
I know, man. He disappeared, and here I was under this buggy street lamp, bass thumping inside, not knowing what the fuck just happened or what I was supposed to do.
Hey, I’ve heard this part. Donny or you want a drink?
Yeah, get me another IPA.
Thanks, John. I’ll take another tequila-prosecco. So I go back in, these pebbles are starting to melt in my palm. Everyone’s gone except for Jose and Marta. They’re just making out on the dance floor. And I approach them and open my hand, and they look at me, smile, then at each other, and each take one and swallow. They couldn’t even hear the story of the Incan I was trying to tell them.
So you took one, too, huh?
No, I took the other three.
You’re fucking insane.
Drinks, fellas?
John. He took three fucking rocks.
I know, Donny. He’s a prude, but a fearless one at that.
Suddenly, Marta is between me and Jose, and making out with one and then the other and so on. And Marta starts walking towards the exit and Jose pushes me on and I follow, and she follows me.
Tres-ome City! But, really, no homo though?
That was apparently the plan. The pebbles felt like an MDMA of some sort at first. We got into the first cab we saw and immediately Marta started touching me again. This is where my memory becomes hazy.
Uh-oh. You were a burundanguiado?
I don’t think so, man. As fucked up as we were, you know how vigilant I am about that shit. And I trusted Jose and Marta’s judgement with those pebbles. I thought the Incan somehow knew what was about to happen and gave us something to forget it and have the courage to get through it.
What happened?
I don’t know exactly. I remember the taxi driver yelling at us and he pulled over somewhere and got out. Two scary-looking dudes got in, and one pointed a gun at us and told us we were “jodido, putas.”
What?
“Fucked, bitches.” That’s when I got sucker-punched and blacked out.
Fuck.
Yeah and when I came to, we were in this damp concrete room, and I had a massive –
Hard-on?
No! You fuck. Hang-over. I had no idea how long I had been there. My hands behind my back and a blindfold on, I starting whispering Marta and Jose’s names. They responded immediately and thanked God that we were all alive.
Sooooo, when does the threesome happen?
Chill out and let me finish. So as soon as we realize we’re ok, we try to recollect our memories to figure out what the fuck kind of situation we were in. None of us could remember anything past the guys getting into the taxi, but all three of us were butt-naked and had no idea how long we had been in this room. We all thought that we were being held for ransom, but then realized no one would really do that to some random tourists. Then we came to the conclusion that they just wanted to take our cards and chop us into pieces and we’d just become another set of missing tourists who did too many drugs.
That shit happen a lot?
Yeah. We had heard a dozen stories while we were down there. So here I am, thinking it’s the last moment of my life, and I don’t want it to end like this. I always thought I’d die in my sleep, or something peaceful like that. This shit was too intense. So I wanted to make peace.
So you wanted to fuck.
No, I wanted to make love. These two people were the closest I had at that point. I wanted to be with them.
Dude, we said no homo?
Shut the fuck up. It wasn’t even about that. It was about a union of three souls. But to calm your guttered and prejudiced mind, I didn’t even touch Jose. Marta was our bind.
So romantic.
Fuck you. I didn’t even have to say anything. I approached Marta and started kissing her. As soon as Jose heard that, he approached her from behind. It was like being in the eye of a storm. Everything around us seemed so chaotic – our thoughts and fears surrounded us. But in the middle, here we were, just three bodies growing warm and soft.
This is just gross now.
No what’s gross is your 9th IPA.
So Marta kept turning from one to the other. Her goosebumps rubbing against us. Her now damp hands touching me, guiding me. My lips caressing her collar bones. She shivered, and I gripped her neck with my teeth. I could only hear the three of us breathing heavily.
Fifty shades of gay.
John, shut the fuck up and let the man speak.
We were making love in the most inopportune places at the most inopportune time, but this was likely the most sensual I’ve ever had had or will have. Jose, Marta between us, and I were transcending something.
Ok so the sex was great, then what the fuck happened?
We were all reaching a point where we couldn’t hold back any longer. It was an eternity in the making, and the anticipation was almost more satisfying than what was forthcoming. We were in a rhythm, a beat, one heartbeat between us. And just before we reached our peak, a door swings open and hits the wall, and a metal bowl hits the ground, and all I hear is “Madre mia, Jesus, que dios os bendiga, no me creo, no me creo” and some other mumbles to God in Spanish.
Hahahahaha who the fuck was it?
This old toothless woman had just interrupted what very well may have been the best moment of my life with a bowl of fucking mashed yams. She was just as in shock as we were and ran away. Our blindfolds had fallen down our faces during the heated moment, and we noticed we were in some concrete brick shack and it was early morning. We stepped outside and there were machetes hanging on the wall which we used to cut the binds around our hands.
Holy shit dude!
We were surrounded by rolling farmlands and just started booking it. We ran so fucking hard and when we found a dirt road we slowed down a bit and tried to calm down.
You didn’t even finish!
I know. It was still the best. So we’re strolling down this road and it’s hot and a bus full of nuns suddenly rolls by and stops. They get out and hand us some robes and a few bottles of water and invite us on board. Eventually we’re dropped off in central Lima, but not until we had ridden together through three hours of silence. I didn’t even say anything to Jose and Marta. We just kind of gave each other this look and parted ways.
Insane, man.
Yeah. So a few months later, when I finished my trip in southern Argentina. I was telling this old business-man my story on my flight back to Minneapolis. He seemed disinterested and sort of just chuckled the whole time. Turns out, those pebbles weren’t drugs.
So what the fuck was going on?
Apparently, it’s common for criminals to target the most intoxicated tourists, and trick them into thinking they’re getting mugged by being drugged this way. A lot of tourists are convinced they’re taking a psychedelic native drug, but then all the muggers do is knock them out. The taxi driver must’ve seen the Incan guy give me the pebbles, and probably tried to warn us that he wouldn’t have a choice but to let the muggers steal his cab, otherwise he would’ve been fucked.
That is fucked up. But then what were the black pebbles?
Yeah. So I asked the businessman the same question. He laughed and said, “ah my naive little backpacker, that was dried guinea pig shit.”
