RihannaThe bus kept getting hotter and hotter, the girls kept sweating and shaking, and I desperately wanted to get off (Hey, look! A double-entendre!), but I couldn’t stand due to the vibrating hunk of engorged manhood jumping around between my legs. I felt as though I could’ve made strong with the entire female population of Southeast Asia. In sequence. For days.

Unfortunately, at that point in my life I possessed little confidence in my dealings with the fairer sex, and was unable to muster even a simple hello, which in retrospect seems pretty damn pathetic.

Eventually the girls exited the bus, as it had reached an ambient temperature equal to the daytime high on Mercury. Which, for the record, is 798 degrees Fahrenheit / 426 Celsius. Fun fact: one day on Mercury is 176 Earth days! Regardless, I was relieved to be spared their gyrations.

Through meditation, and something closely resembling heat stroke, I was able to calm the mustang of my loins. Finally, I could escape the heat and not be caught tent-poling next to a water buffalo. But, of course, as I prepared to leave the bus, I glanced quickly out the window and saw one of those blonde minxes squatting just off the road, dropping her panties beneath her skirt while preparing to take a leak in a ditch.

Panties!!!

My nethers grew again to an irreducible column of jutting stone.

Still, I needed off the bus before I broiled in my own juices. Using a move I learned in middle school, I reached into my pocket and used my hand to push the monster down, trying to trap it behind my right leg. Then I made my way off the bus with what I hoped was casual nonchalance. But, with the attendant limp, I probably looked more “registered sex offender in the playground.”

I walked with some difficulty out into the rice paddies along one of the little land-bridges that form their boundaries, and stood behind a lone palm, breathing deeply and trying to calm down. I remember watching myriad tiny frogs hop and swim about the murky water between the stalks of rice. I tried to focus on them, if only because there is nothing sexy about frogs in muddy waters. Nothing at all.

Eventually I got a hold of myself. I made my way back to the bus, where I had a brief conversation with a one-armed boy who arrived by bicycle. He was explaining to me how he had lost his arm — a heart-wrenching story about his brother stepping on a mine left over from the Khmer Rouge days. Then I glanced to my right and saw Skirtsy Blonderson twirling around in place for no fucking reason. The skirt billowed, and I briefly glimpsed the gentle curve of one supple buttock. My anatomy responded immediately. In front of a one-armed boy.

I felt demented and vile. I had to get away from the boy on the bicycle and his tale of unfathomable loss. But how to do so gracefully?

“Sorry, kid. I gotta take a piss,” I stammered, and took off around the side of the bus. I stood out of sight, berating my lack of self-control and mopping sweat from my forehead. Through willpower, self-abasement and again focusing on the frogs, I managed to regain my composure. I then went back to finish the conversation, but the boy was gone.

I felt sick. How does one get a fucking hard-on while listening to something like that? He was such a nice kid, too — all smiles, very gracious and friendly. And I couldn’t even keep my wood in check while listening to a story about his brother getting blown to kingdom come. Shame overwhelmed me, but the spider-boner was still fully in effect, and when one of the girls poked her head around the corner of the bus to let me know a new vehicle was approaching, my artillery once more readied itself for battle.

That’s all it took. One short sentence and a smile. What kind of witchcraft is this? I thought, silently cursing the man who’d given me the arachnid, who was now laughing with the other Cambodian men. Probably about my cock. I returned my hand to my pocket and made my way onto the newly arrived (and much smaller) van, where I sat very close to one of the Scandinavians. She ignored me, thankfully. I stared out the window, trying not to think about the small patch of exposed skin where her knee touched mine. I kept my backpack in my lap the whole time.

When we finally arrived in Phnom Penh, I checked into the first available guest house with a private room. I threw down my pack, turned off the light, reclined on the bed with my eyes closed, and made strong with myself. Very strong. Again and again.

I’ve since looked into it, and found no evidence of anyone else ever having such an intense reaction to these spiders.

So, maybe I’m just a pervert. Crap.

To read more Kevin Petrie’s disturbing stories, please visit us here or click through to his own website here.

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About the Author

Kevin Petrie is a natural writer with an unnatural talent for confessional creative non-fiction. He hails from the Pacific Northwest, a land to which he has returned after years of knocking about South and Southeast Asia, as well as Central America. Much of his writing in La Cuadra has been about those experiences, and as he is also born to wander, we're constantly looking forward to what he's gotten himself into lately.
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