Sex, Drugs & No Idea

9: Three is a Magic Number?

It was two days after the visit to the floating village, and the whole group were sitting in a circle, tensing and relaxing spasmodically. The street noise droned on around them.

"Hey, Charlie-boy, you'll never guess what."

"What?"

"You'll never guess what?"

"What, Frenchy, you annoying Yank?"

"You'll never guess who's here?"

"Where?"

"In town. Staying at our hostel."

"Christ, man, just spit it out already."

Frenchy looked at Charlie slyly. "Rory," he said "and Natalie."

Charlie flinched again, let an involuntary squeak pass his lips and pulled his feet out of the large aquarium they were all dangling their feet into. The little fish that had been grazing cheerfully on his heels moved off to munch between Hugo's toes. Charlie waited for one to float, lifeless, to the surface of the tank.

"Natalie? Little Natalie? From Phnom Penh?" Charlie asked.

"That's the one, buddy," Frenchy drawled.

"So?"

"So don't be gettin' a fuckin' holiday girlfriend, Charlie."

It was a harmless enough dig, but it recalled the last holiday Charlie had taken with Sophia to New Zealand to his mind. He remembered driving topless through the Tongariro Gorge with the hot sun beating down on his right arm as it hung out of the window, the gleaming ribbon of river winding down below, and then looking over to Sophia to find that she'd taken off her top too. She'd laughed and looked so beautiful that he'd almost driven the car into the river.

"Shut the fuck up, Frenchy," he sighed.

#

Much later, and Charlie made his way back to the guesthouse and his room alone. He was quite disappointed by that.

After a couple of wrong turns he finally found the correct corridor, and after only a single fumbling at the wrong door, found the room that he was sharing with Hugo. He dropped the key and, as he bent down to retrieve it, saw a piece of paper wedged under the door.

Charlie picked it up and squinted at it. Then he turned it around and closed one eye and peered at it. It was hopeless. The letters––if they were in fact written in the English vernacular and not in Sanskrit––moved in and out of focus as if he was looking at them through the bottom of a beer glass. Grunting unconcernedly, he scrunched up the sheet of miniscule and unintelligible drivel, tossed it on the ground, opened the door and walked in.

Hugo was lying in his single bed. He had that unmistakable, post-coital glow––comprised of equal parts satisfaction, exhaustion and slight disappointment––and next to him sat a girl, looking very petite next to the lounging slab of Australian, with a lovely and guileful face.

Charlie knew that brotherly courtesy dictated he cede the room to Hugo, who'd not just pulled whilst he hadn't but had also got his conquest home before he arrived.

But he wasn't happy about it.

"Hi," the girl said, "I'm Kamilla."

She had an all too familiar lilting accent. Charlie thought he could hazard a guess as to where she was from. She had tawny-coloured hair from what he could see in the dim light coming through the threadbare curtains. She pushed a stray strand out of her face and, as she did so, the bed sheet fell down to reveal a pair of just fantastic breasts. The sight of them had the same effect as about half a pint of good, strong coffee might've. Kamilla seemed totally unabashed.

"Hey guys," Charlie said, managing to glance only fleetingly at the surprise boobies. There was a pause. "Sorry about this. I'll leave you to it."

"Wait," Kamilla said, "can I have hug?"

"Right," Charlie said, "where're my manners, aye?" He coughed and said, "I'm Charlie by the way." He walked forward and they hugged quickly. Charlie looked at Hugo, but his face gave nothing away.

"Why don't you join us?" Kamilla asked.

"Uh, what?" Charlie said.

"Join us."

Charlie looked at Hugo. He was still reclining, a man totally at his ease. The personification of repletion. He raised one eyebrow and gave a shrug.

"Uh, let me just take a minute. In here," Charlie said and slipped into the tiny en-suite bathroom and closed the door.

He took a whizz and then looked hard at himself in the mirror. He splashed some water on his face.

Hugo is a dude, man, he thought to himself.

Yeah, but he's your mate, and it's not like you two have to do anything disgusting with each other. It's more about her. A bonding experience...

Ri-ight, but the chances are that I'm going to see his penis.

All guys have 'em.

What if his blows yours out of the water?

That shit is sacred, isn't it? Look, at the end of the day it'll make a hell of an anecdote.

True. And you don't want to be one of those guys that passed up the opportunities that life presented.

Besides, she's gorgeous.

Yes, she is.

Right then.

Charlie took another breath, took another look at himself, and walked back out to apply himself to the situation.

It was funny and it was fun, was how he remembered it. It was great, in the way that sex usually was, and at the same time there was a distinct element of it being a performance of sorts. At one point, Charlie was knelt at the head of the bed whilst Kamilla was gave him a blowjob––Hugo was working his Australian magic and giving her head at the same time––and Charlie went to slip Kamilla a finger. The next thing he knew, there was a sharp pain in his forefinger. Charlie looked down, momentarily distracted from what was going on, and saw that Hugo had his digit clamped in his teeth.

"It's mine!" he growled.