Wherever you are in the world, hostels are a great way to meet people, by which I mean find partners as willing and horny — and a little body odor-y — as you are. Sure, it can be a journey to find a suitable place to fuck yourselves into a frenzy, but that’s just part of the charm.
I’ve been in Northern Australia for a week now and I’ve already managed to strike out in a decently embarrassing way. (Don’t drunkenly text “I want to fuck you right now” to your tour guide, guys, even if your article about taking it up the ass gave him a boner.) I could blame it on being socially awkward to the point of scaring off a sure thing, but I’ll just pretend it’s because I was hidden away in a proper hotel room.
After losing out on that much-desired Aussie cock, I remembered there’s an easy remedy for finding someone willing to go down under: Stay in a hostel. Everyone knows they’re hotbeds of carnal connections, with wayward wanderers looking for any kind of intimacy and horny travelers trying to fill out their sexual bucket list on a budget. I booked a private room in a hostel in Melbourne, and with any luck I’ll have some stories to tell — or at least a little bit of a harder time walking.
All this got me thinking about the sluttiest experience I’ve ever had — which was, perhaps unsurprisingly, in a hostel. I was visiting Cartagena, Colombia, in pursuit of the magical realism that Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s beguiling narratives promised. In a way, I found it — if you consider pleasuring everyone in your hostel dorm room to be a form of wistful magic.
In a room of six, I was the only woman and the only American. The others hailed from Argentina, the land of empanadas, questionable European ancestry, and an alluring form of Latin lust. The first night I essentially ignored them, choosing instead to meet up with a friend I didn’t often get to see. As I got ready to go out, I could hear their lascivious remarks about me, clearly unaware that I speak their language. These dirty murmurs got me feeling naughty, so I made a note to explore them further.
The next night, when I was hanging around the room, the better English speakers grew bold and offered for me to share in their pre-gaming. I responded in Spanish, at which they relaxed, realizing I must have heard everything the night before. But they became focused instead of embarrassed. Without anyone calling dibs, I could see that they were committed to at least one of them going to pound-town, but what they didn’t know was that I had the same exact idea on my mind.
How do you decide which beautiful South American man to have a squeaky bunkbed bang with? The first step was liquid courage: For all my rabid lust, I’m actually extremely shy, and I didn’t think I could proceed without ditching some unnecessary inhibitions. Once the booze set in, I asked a question, just to make sure I wasn’t going to waste my time.
“Which one of you is the best kisser?”
A dude who is bad at making out is the best way quell my fire, and I was much more invested in quenching my thirst. Being straight men, they couldn’t answer this question, so I had to find out for myself. There were no objections.
Step 1: Put a blindfold on me. It wouldn’t be fair to judge the quality of a kiss based on my initial attractions, they explained to me, so into the dark I went.
Step 2: Bind my hands. I’m a handsy kisser. I like to run my fingers through hair, hold the neck, and I might be able to tell who I’m frenching if I can feel them more intimately.
Step 3: Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. Each man took a turn coming up to me, doing his best to impress me with his mouth.
Tipsy and turned on, I gave them the bad news: Making out and simply kissing are not the same thing, and due to a lack of communication, the data I gathered was inconsistent. We would have to try again, this time with the agreement that I would make out with each of them, no pecks allowed.
Round two: hands bound, eyes covered, hands on my waist, dripping wet with tongues down my throat. I was in slut heaven. I could make out with strangers while wearing a blindfold all night. When it was over, I proudly declared that No. 1, whoever he was, was the most gifted in the kissing department, but no one felt like a loser after that much making out.
The experiment was over, although it only got me started. As they headed out, I pulled No. 1 into a hug, whispering, “When you get back, you better come fuck me silly in this bunkbed.” And lo and behold, at 4 a.m., a man whose name I can’t remember but whose kiss I can, crawled under my blankets and gave me the most hostel encounter of my life.