Mountain Climbing with Tourists

The woman touring Manchu Pinchu with us looked over my shoulder.

"I really wanted to climb that thing but my husband said no," she pouted.

I turned ... so ignorant of my surroundings that I hadn't realized one of the more famous mountains in the world towered behind me.

"Oh, we are!" said my travel companion, a gay man I have loved for years and who had recently become my travel partner.

"We're what?" I queried.

"We're climbing the mountain. As soon as the tour is over," he replied.

"Might have been nice if you'd mentioned mountain climbing in all the preparation for this trip!" I tried sounding incredulous but it was useless. He knew I was up for anything he thought we could pull off.

"I'm climbing a mountain," I muttered to myself and any angel of mercy that might have been tuning in at the time.

We finished the step-by-step exploration of one of the true wonders of the world. I loved the way the stories of class were evident in architecture. I loved the mystical element that laid around each corner, especially the section of the structure that allowed you to be heard yards away even if you were simply whispering. The idea of such a majestic structure hidden beneath jungle for years inspired me. Hidden mysteries often fascinate me.

We lunched on the boxed sandwich and fruit provided in out ticketed experience. I laughed at the idea that I was hanging my feet over the wall of an ancient structure that in the U.S. would have gates and cables prohibiting any such casual display of place. My friend stretched out on the grass and outlined the rest of the afternoon.

Supposedly, the trek up the mountain would only take around 90 minutes.

"Sure, if you're in shape and aware of the fact that you'd be climbing a mountain," I thought but did not speak aloud.

We checked with the Peruvian at the ticket counter to ensure that indeed we had time to make it to the top before closing. He took a moment to assess us and I guess the fact that we were both carrying a few too many pounds and definitely on the downhill side of 40 didn't bother him.

"You'll make it," he said with all the expertise a 20-something year old could muster.

The "trail" was rather narrow. Sometimes it was both narrow and damp.

When trekkers were coming down the mountain we took the opportunity to pull to the side and let them pass. (I mentioned the path was narrow, right?)

"So how much further have we got?" one of us would usually inquire.

"A ways," they would emphasize. "And you know it gets pretty wet and treacherous at the top."

The first time I heard it, I thought how sweet they were.

The second time, the 20-something athlete bounding down the mountainside added, "You may have to use the cables."

The third time, I began to reflect on what exactly it was about the two of us that was producing such caution.

Admittedly, my friend and I were red faced. We'd toured the countryside the day before on horseback, sans sunscreen.

And yes, we were post-40, with a few extra pounds and maybe not the usual climbing attire. But, my god, what was the deal?

Even the funny ones got all maternal on our asses.

"Wow, six of you, that's quite a crew," my friend offered as we stood to the side, enjoying the chance to inhale without pain.

"Yeah, there were seven of us. . . . How do you like my new watch?" the comic replied, then added, "You guys know it gets steeper near the top, right?"

I smiled.

When they'd made their way past us, i murmured to my friend in my best Scarlett impersonation, "As God as my witness, I will make it to the top of this mountain. I'll be damn if any one of these young 'uns gets to 'I told you so' me!"

He agreed and we trekked on.

The altitude was already a concern. We had been greeted with cocoa plants to drink as tea as soon as we'd arrived at the hotel. I kinda like the idea of legal drug use in drink form as an afternoon delight.

The trails was easily marked but nevertheless a tad bit treacherous at points. I especially liked having to hold on to cables to hoist myself up the next zigzag of the trail.

But finally, omigod, finally we made it to the top. The view was magnificent. I did mention that we were at Manchu Pinchu, right? But more important -- we were there in all our post-40 glory. We high fived and anything else we could come up with that in-your-faced-it to the youth that surrounded us.

The top was actually little more than a boulder and we had to squeeze our way through a crevice to make it. But we did.

At the top, we met an Australian, an Israeli and another American. I didn't realize until much later that I was one of the few women on the mountain that day.

The Aussie was, as we had noted in our previous travels, an extrovert and totally adorable! He wanted to know why we were there (because the mountain was, of course), where we'd come from (south Peru and the are-they-produced-by-Peruvians-or-aliens?-line art that you can only see by small plane tours overhead), and what we thought of the ruins (omigod, are you kidding?).

He'd been backpacking his way across the country and we laughed at the fact that he was our fifth Aussie we'd met in our South American travels doing exactly the same thing.

"Are there any of you left on your continent?" i asked with a smile. "Cause frankly, we encounter you guys everywhere we go!"

"No, pretty much we're all off traveling. No one's left to take care of things. You should go there, you could rack up in thefts!" he countered.

I liked this guy. He had hair that touched his shoulders and curled softly around his face. He took the nominal approach to backpacking with ... well ... no pack. He carried a water bottle and ... well ... that's all he carried. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I was able to discern that his 5 ft. 9 in frame was athletic but not muscle-bound. He obviously enjoyed his fair share of wine or good food. But he wasn't fat. He was ... simply. . . nice to behold. I especially liked the brown hair specked with blonde and the matching goatee. The blue eyes didn't hurt as well.

"Oh, baby, if you'd only come to momma," I thought.

He decided he'd take the trip back down with us. I thoroughly enjoyed the way he engaged with my buddy. While he's not a flamer, a few topics into the conversation when he's out and about from his suit and tie profession and most folks are pretty sure that we're not anything more than travel buddies.

He laughed at our jokes, our observations about Peruvian politics and the loose use of the term "strikes" (we'd suffered a few in the one week we'd been in the country and somehow managed to still find all the things we needed when we needed them) and our delightful introduction to cuy, a fried guinea pig delicacy that was nothing more than a rat with its feet in the air when it was deep fried.

We, in turn, were amused to hear of his adventures trying to make ends meet as he served as a sous chef in a resort in Chile, haggled with passport control in Venezuela, and smoked his way across Peru with a fellow herbist.

Did I mention that I liked this guy?

When we reached the bottom fo the trail, we celebrated with a group hug and invited our Aussie back to our hotel for a drink. He was rather enthusiastic in his acceptance. We discussed later that perhaps the idea of a hotel was the biggest drawing card, since he'd been camping for the last week.

One the way back to the tour bus, seating separately from our new friend, I asked my companion if he had any problems with our extending our hospitality.

"Are you kidding me?" he responded. "He's cute, into both of us, and he's got enough energy to keep us both amused."

When we arrived at Agua Caliente, the resort village making its fortune off of tourists like us, we caught up with him.

"Ok, we may be a bit off base here, but we thought maybe you hadn't had a chance to do the whole hot-shower-and-clean-sheets-thing in a while. If that's so, you need to know we have an extra bed and we'd be glad to let you bunk with us for the night."

"You're kidding, right?" he countered.

I thought perhaps he thought us totally perverted and was about to bolt.

"I'd love it! ... but I really don't have the funds to kick in," he said.

Immediately we liked him even more because he wanted to.

"No problem! The room's already paid for and your company will be plenty of payback. We're tired of our tired old stories and would love to hear yours."

We made our way from the bus stop up the hill to the hotel. We mangled our Spanish and the hotel clerk smiled as though she understood as we secured an extra key. Then we opened the door and the windows to let the sounds of the rushing river and the breeze into the room.

"I'm calling female privilege and taking the first shower," I offered. I knew they wouldn't argue and they didn't.

When I exited the steam-filled bath, I noted that my friend and the Aussie were on the same bed, engaged in a laughter-riddled conversation, and totally comfortable with the fact that they had both shed their shirts and were sans most of their clothing save their shorts.

My buddy, ever the Southern gentleman, suggested our guest take use of the bathroom next. He didn't argue.

As soon as the door closed and the fan was on, I demanded, "So???? What did you find out?"

"He's bisexual, totally into you and ... I'm just guessing by his caddy remarks ... not unfond of me!"

"You got all that from the six minutes I was in there!" I exclaimed.

"I would have gotten more if you would ever embrace the idea that you're a girl and you're supposed to take MUCH longer showers," he dissed.

"Hmmm ... " I pondered the possibilities as I put on the sundress I'd been holding out for the right moment and spritzed on the perfume I hadn't wasted on my lovable but not my lover friend.

When he took his turn, I felt slightly ill at ease and excused myself to go downstairs to the bar and wait for whatever grooming they felt was necessary.

I'd finished a Peruvian Sour -- a brandy, white of an egg, and lemon juice -- when they arrived clean-shaven and most appetizing in their squeaky-cleanness.

"Are you going native or do you just want to go plebian with your drink of choice this evening?" I offered as I indicated they should sit at the two chairs I'd reserved for them in the rapidly crowding bar.

"Oh, we must drink to the gods before we imbibe in the cervezas," my friend observed and another round of Piscos was ordered.

"I haven't felt this human in weeks," our new friend offered after he'd had his first taste of the sweet but nevertheless addictive national drink.

"Well, we're in the business of humanity," I giggled as i noted once again that this young man wore his skin well.

"I think we should celebrate a newfound friendship with a decent meal filled with lots of decent wine," my friend offered.

We were all in agreement and soon were traversing the narrow streets for the proper acknowledgement of our growing appreciation for one another.

"This is it!" i pointed to the Italian restaurant across the street blasting ABBA from its outdoor speakers. "Can anything reek of more multi-culturalism than pizza in Peru with ABBA as a soundtrack?"

They could not argue and we entered to the all-emcompassing smell of garlic and onions. The wood oven we could see in the back assured us that we had not judged wrongly.

The waiter took a liking to my friend immediately. I'm not one to snap judgements but I suspect he was definitely "family."

We ordered a bottle of the house white (I can't handle the headache the reds produce and neither of my knights were willing to abdicate their hero status by arguing). The bread with oil and spices was scrumptious. The pizza even better and the second bottle of wine was glorious.

We laughed. We argued playfully regarding "best locales" around the world. We quietly sang along with ABBA. And at that point our sense of balance won out and we noted that we still had the walk home to consider.

"Consider" we did. Go -- we did not. The perfect plan we noted as soon as we were on the streets was to check out the origin of the town's name.

Agua Caliente referenced the hot springs that the city exploited to their tourist income benefit. We made our way to the nearest public offering and soon learned that for enough cash there was a more private opportunity.

Somedays it pays to be over 40 and middle income.

We made our way to the private "club" by simply trusting in our newfound guide who seemed to know where he was going. When we entered the plush foyer complete with dark covered woods, slatted wooden chaise lounges, and the sounds of Peruvian instrumentals over the sound system, we smiled.

Soon -- after paying a nominal fee which my friend and I split between us -- we made our way to the changing rooms and covered ourselves in plush terry cloth robes. We then met at the tubs where steam was rising. We noted that few folks were sharing our surroundings and those that were we're into their own conversations/worlds.

We smiled.

Bi-lingual notices in the dressing rooms assured us that swimsuits were not required and each of us had gone with the idea.

As soon as we removed the robes we chuckled and entered the deliciously heated water and a collective "ahhh" was voiced.

Within minutes a non-English-speaking waiter had a tray of glasses tubside. We decided to go for it -- knowing that if there were a cost, we weren't heading to the poor house with the prices we'd encountered thus far.

The liquid was cool, fresh and definitely alcoholic but what it was we never deciphered.

Between the heat of the pool and the drinks we were loose all too soon.

"So . . . " I tried to connect cognitive thoughts to express myself. "You've been on the road for a while, huh?" I asked.

The Aussie smiled the almost drunken smile of youth and nodded, "Yep! I'm no longer the virgin traveler. I have embraced my road-hard-and-put-up-wet status!"

"You've been around a Texan or two!" my friend beamed.

"I read alot," the Aussie practically glowed with his culturally appropriate reference.

"And now ... " I moved closer to him in the tub . . ."you're around a delicious two, aren't you?"

"Indeed I am."

"Enough said," I thought. "Let's get this show on the road."

I looked to my friend whom I had not yet "shared" in any way save my love for his sense of adventure and loyalty to me. He smiled and nodded.

I moved closer toward our Aussie. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I began to massage deeply.

"Ooo la la, a professional!" he noted.

"Not quite, but i love the pleasure it brings, don't you?"

"Mmmm . . . give me a few minutes to reflect and I'll let you know. But ... uh ... don't stop until I make my final pronouncement, ok?"

"You call it," I smiled.

Now both hands were kneading not only his shoulders and upper arms as the heated water continued to swirl around us, but soon enough I was making my way down his lower back and clasping both ass cheeks in each hand with squeezes that were intended to both release tension and produce pleasure.

My friend moved in closer. "So our no-longer-a-virgin-traveler, how far are you willing to release any sign of virginity?"

"Oh you over estimate me, my friends. Three ways were an introduction long ago and far away. I was ready to say yes to that when I saw you make it to the top of the mountain!"

We laughed.

Then my friend took care of his front side, while concentrated on the back side. I heard murmurs and witnessed the licking of lips and expressions of satisfaction but i was focused on anal pleasure and discovered new ways to finger his hole while simultaneously diving beneath the water to take a lick or two.

Our "guest" took on the passive role for about 20 minutes before coming into his own. At one point, he savagely kissed my buddy for what seemed like minutes and then abuptly turned to face me. He held my friend's cock in his hand and continued the massage with his left hand while grabbing my breast with his right.

Squeezing tightly he kissed me. The kiss was flavored with the liqueurs of the evening and hard, yet soft. His tongue explored my mouth as an anthropologist digs into his chosen culture. I thought about breathing but nixed the idea.

I grabbed his cock and my friend's ass and squeezed us all together into a tight unit. We bobbed in the water as we continued to apply pressure, release and squeeze.

Kisses were becoming undefinable. The drink and the heat had released me of any care of what my friend might wonder in the morning and we were tied together by tongues and hugs and fingers placed in all the right places.

I can't remember who suggested we either had to finish this here or move back to the hotel. No vote was taken but soon enough we were out of the tub and back into our clothes, locked in each other's arms and walking back to the hotel.

Language wasn't necessary as our clerk watched us climb the stairs. I half suspected by his look of longing that we might receive a knock at the door with a request to join us.

We pulled back the covers on the larger bed and simultaneously fell on the fresh sheets with the fan vibrating overhead.

I propped myself on my elbow and examined my possibilities. The Aussie's dick looked the most inviting from my vantage point.

I tasted. I sucked. I licked. I swallowed. I massaged. I tasted some more.

He was impressed.

Meanwhile, my friend was exploring backstage. He rubbed his cock between the Aussie's cheeks and when he faced no resistance, he lubricated and entered.

The Aussie even moaned with an accent.

I had control of the cock and picked up the rhythm that my friend had established. Up and down, in and out, teasing and pleasing.

Soon the moans became louder. And the Aussie was reciprocating as best he could. His fingers had found my crotch and began exploring. I signaled my pleasure by offering deep throats.

Coming simultaneously might have been more to ask for than we were allowed by tourist standards, but we did.

My friend shouted a few "omigods". The Aussie affirmed with a series of "yes, yes, yes!" And I encouraged, waiting for the waves of pleasure that would overtake me as sson as the Aussie's juices were released inside me.

"Thank God for the mountain," i exclaimed as my body shudder with the release. "Thank God."