Bangin’ in Barcelona
His name was Jack and he was from Sydney: two facts that I only actually found out after a brief conversation with him the following night.
On that first night, however, there was no conversation. I lay there hardly moving while he groaned above me, rattling the bed frame as he pumped away. And did he ever pump away. He pumped far away. Like, were that not a mere figure of speech, I dare say he’d have made it to Madrid.
Sadly however, it was a mere figure of speech, and old mate Jack was not going anywhere. Neither, it seemed, was he coming anywhere, anytime soon. Or at least, not until Captain Jack found an alternative berth for his almighty vessel, and could finally unload his precious cargo.
Over-share indeed. I can already hear the cries of pain as readers attempt to gouge their mind’s eye from its socket. I feel I should definitely clarify at this point that the dock for said cock was not myself.
Labouring above me Jack was indeed, yet between us was a bed frame, a mattress, a supple young female and two feet of air, thick with the charming sounds of their union. It was lying there in that bottom Barcelona bunk that I did some of my deepest reflecting on the social customs and etiquette of our times. I suspect the seven other travellers we shared the hostel room with were similarly pensive – they sure as hell weren’t sleeping.
Over the course of an astonishing four hours, not one person uttered a word. Well that’s a lie actually, Jack gave verbal encouragement at times, whispers that may have been intended to arouse, or at the very least to rouse, his partner, who must have been close to passing out from sheer exhaustion by this point. Whispers travel far in total silence, and in those close quarters they don’t have to. Yet surprisingly, still nobody spoke up.
I can only assume my fellow audience members shared a common sentiment about the situation: This is horrible and we hate you for it, but we too know what it is to be young and drunk and foolish. You’ve scraped together your pennies to travel this world, on your quest for a piece of exotic tail, and far be it from us to stand between you and your fulfilment of this lifelong dream.
If that’s not a show of solidarity and compassion within the hobo community, hell I don’t know what is.
But seriously Jack, FOUR HOURS?