An American Whorewolf in Panama

What’s up reader, my name is Seven and this is my blog. On Fridays I try to frowback to a time before Thailand (TBT) when some experience influenced my path and led me inevitably to a life of whoremongering wonder in Bangkok. Today’s offering is the last segment in my “Whorewolf” series that for the most part recounts a list of trysts at the hands of various working girls in the UK and Europe. For this entry, the setting is decidedly more tropical.

A few months before relocating to Thailand, I ventured to Central America for some Caribbean surfing and beach trekking. Full disclosure: I’d gone there out of desperation. I couldn’t bear being in Los Angeles because everything there was a grim reminder of my recently-defunct relationship and the slim prospects of a new one. I thought a tropical view would lift my spirits, so I boarded a plane to San Juan Costa Rica with no plan other than to get my feet into some sand.

After a few days of wandering and eating through the city center, I hopped a bus east, and eventually touched ground in the sleepy beach town of Puerto Viejo on the Caribbean side near the border with Panama. I got a room at a hotel owned by a retired professional surfer—an American living his dream through escaping the US, surfing daily, and banging Latinas. The latter leisure activity turned out to be a double-edged sword, because as I’d mentioned the town is small, and there’s only so many whores and they all know each other. It made for an interesting show while I was there. Here’s how it went down:

The day I checked in I caught a quick nap while a tropical storm blanketed the town in warm rain. I got up just after sundown, awakened by the sound of cats shtupping in the shelter of the overhanging roof outside my window—a sound I took to be a good omen—and went into the hotel restaurant for some fish and plantain. Same said American owner was sitting at the bar with a smoking-hot Costa Rican girl whose sensuality was so palpable it nearly knocked me off my chair. They were canoodling happily and from what I could tell were in love. I mumbled as much to the handful of hippie backpackers at the next table who then patiently explained that no, they weren’t in love, she was a local hooker who often shared the owner’s bed but was only one of a rotating series of partners he enjoyed on a regular basis. “So, like…a harem,” I thought to myself. What a lucky S.O.B.

A few days later I was in the same hotel restaurant having a lunch of fish and plantain when there was a loud commotion outside. Then suddenly another smoking-hot Costa Rican girl stormed in and right up to the bar where the first smoking-hot Costa Rican was nursing a beer. Hottie number two grabbed hottie number one by the hair and pulled her to the floor, screaming in Spanish. The American owner came running from the kitchen and tried to step between them, shouting in English to break it up. The girls ignored him. “Americano son mio! Pinche puta!” More hair pulling. Eventually he was able to separate them and he pushed hottie number two out onto the street, where he pulled her close and made soothing comments in her ear. Hottie number one cried softly for a moment, then straightened her dress and stomped upstairs. A few minutes later, she emerged with a rucksack and headed for the exit. She was met at the door by the owner who quietly pleaded with her not to leave, but she brushed him aside with one hand and disappeared into the night. The next morning, the owner and hottie number two were canoodling at the bar like nothing happened.

After all that excitement, it was hard to go back to the routine of naps, plantain, and canoodle envy so I decided to take off down to Panama to see what there was to see. A bus ride, followed by a border crossing that was a rickety wooden bridge over a greenish-brown river, followed by a taxi to the coast, and finally a boat taxi and I was in Bocas del Toro—a cluster of islands known as the Venice of Latin America. The taxi dropped me on an island called Bastimentos. Today it’s covered end-to-end with condos and resorts, but at the time, it was nearly unexplored with a single backpacker hostel at the top of a hill in the center of the island. The nearest surfable beach was Red Frog Beach, named for the tiny red poisonous frogs that inhabited the jungle all around it, along with sloths and howler monkeys. (Incidentally, this was the very beach where I was perched when a travelling companion first mentioned Thailand as a next destination.) The only way to get there was to have the hostel staff drive us in a 4×4 through the jungle. From my first day on the island, I caught the truck to Red Frog Beach every morning and stayed until sundown. There was a small bar set up under a straw hut at the tree line that served cold beers and hard cocktails out of coconuts and hollowed-out pineapples. On the third day, after a hard morning surf session I was dozing on the beach under a palm tree when I heard the soft crunching of footsteps and the unmistakable sound of an ass settling into the sand a few feet away. I turned and opened one eye, and who should I see but hottie whore number one from the hotel in Mission Viejo. She wore a tiny red bikini and a blue and white sarong, which she unwound and spread out beneath her without getting up. She cast her gaze out toward the ocean, sighed deeply, and ever so slowly, turned to look at me.

I wanted to say something clever, but since that had never worked out for me in the past, I opted to keep my trap shut and instead, handed her a bottle of beer from the ice bucket at my feet. She smiled, thanked me in Spanish, and struggled to get the cap off. I held out a bottle opener. She got up, moved her sarong over next to me, sat back down, and handed her beer back to me. I opened it. “Salud,” she said, and we clinked bottles. She took a long sip, and we both looked back at the water. As I racked my brain for something charming, she broke the silence. “I remember you,” she said with a smile. “I remember you, too” I replied. Several buckets later, as the sun was going down, I’d told her virtually every event in my life from the last 10 years. She’d said almost nothing about herself. A member of the hostel staff came over to tell us the truck would be taking people back for dinner. We exchanged a look and said to go on without us. If worse came to worst, we’d walk back or just wait for the night surf group to come down later in the evening.

The sun went down. The stars came out. She was even more beautiful by starlight. We decided to get our feet wet in the surf. She nonchalantly took my hand as we walked, and at one point playfully tried to pull me into the water. I put her over my shoulder and went to chuck her in, to the tune of her laughing protestations. Instead of baptizing her, I set her gently on her feet and she stood on her toes to plant a deep, soft, lingering kiss on my unprepared lips.

Now if you’ve ever tried to have sex on a beach—and I have—you’ll know that the reality is much less romantic than the ideal. It’s gritty, salty, and gross. She was clearly experienced because instead of hitting the sand, she led me over to the deserted grass hut bar. And it was there that we copulated, to the sound of the Caribbean surf, wild macaws, and howler monkeys. She was nothing short of spectacular, and my stamina gave out much earlier than I would’ve liked, but she didn’t seem put out, and kept persistently planting kisses on me in the afterglow. Just as I thought I might work up the gumption to go again, the truck came bursting through the jungle, its rude headlights blinding us. I scrambled around for my board shorts but for the life of me could not locate them, and so ended up wearing her sarong back to the hostel.

That night in the big dorm where 20 or so backpackers slumbered, she slipped silently into my bed and we shared another muffled coupling that seemed to go on for hours, though it was probably because I was trying so hard to be quiet. When I awoke, she was gone. I saw her later that day on the beach. She ignored me completely, and in the late afternoon I saw her chatting up a fit but middle-aged solo dude. The following day I packed up and went back to the hotel in Mission Viejo.

Today my apartment in Bangkok is adorned with enlarged photos of Costa Rica and Panama. They are a reminder of my first tropical steps. Sandy footprints leading from there to here, and a nostalgic marker of the road of whores before Thailand that prepared me for this bliss. To all the whores I’ve nailed before, from London town to Latin shore, I’m glad you had my dong. It made my pimping strong, and acclimate to Thailand more. Cheers to you gals. Peace out.