Pussy Power, Sex blog, Travel Tales

Holes and Hippopotamuses

Paid-hitchhiking was dramatically improved with the presence of the new member, Red Breast – A Melbournian based Photographer, solo African travelling sick bitch. She boarded the overlander armed with seven months worth of travel tales, which she happily divulged, we were in heaven.

Ecstatic from learning that we girls were all attending the sister of Burning Man, AfrikaBurn, a large music/community/arts gathering held in South Africa, the costume hunt was on. We stumbled across a side of the road dress shop, and jumped at the opportunity of buying matching $3 ballgowns. And what do four new friends, hitching a lift on a snazzy looking overlander, with ballgowns and a Photographer do? Re-enact the scene from Priscilla Queen of the Desert, what else!

Parting with Red Breast came all too soon, and with our new bond solidified, it felt like losing a tribe member. She was off to join the Israelis and we were continuing south-east to Villancoulos, Mozambique. The journey would be 931 kms, so you would assume one full day of driving would do the job. Well my friend, you would be wrong.

There’s a saying in Mozambique ‘you approach a pothole and see a rabbit’s ears poking out, then you get to the pothole and realise it’s a donkey’. This saying is no fucking exaggeration.

The road is so riddled with crater sized potholes that if a bloat of hippopotamuses had been hiding in the holes, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. We were rendered incapable of driving over 50 kms per hour, and when we did reach 50 kms we were FLYING. The road held carcasses of countless defeated trucks, with engines that had succumbed to the peril of the road and been left abandoned. If I’m not painting a clear enough picture of the severity of this road, then Mumma Africa breaking two friggin ribs when we went into a pothole might convince you.

Other than deceased vehicles, the only other things to be seen on the road were the occasional child selling live swinging chickens, bags of charcoal, and plastic bottles of what we assumed to be honey. We pulled over to buy some honey, but my not speaking a word of Portuguese paired with the sales-boy staring at me, slack-mouthed – like I was from outer space – meant no honey could be purchased. It quickly became apparent that we wouldn’t be making it to Villancoulos in one day.

In our first 11 hours of driving we progressed 100 kms. Let me reiterate, that’s 9kms AN HOUR.

It took us three days. Three days with nowhere to sleep except in the overlander, Zimbabweia slept on the ground, Mumma Africa made herself into a U shape and slept on the tiny couch, and I, I took one for the team and top and tailed with our dear 65 year old buddy, Bob.

Bob himself was something else, he transformed into a frustrated driving wreck, he refused to ever stop, not wanting to lose ground. He drove from 5am till sundown, not eating unless we forced him to take something we’d made in the back. He didn’t go to the toilet, didn’t let us play music, simply gripped the wheel and attempted to save our overlander from becoming another graveyard victim. We took it in shifts to sit with him, trying to placate him and keep his mind off the fact that he’d been driving every waking moment of the day for three days.

Needless to say, when we arrived to Villancoulos, we were all well and truly sick to death of the sight of one another, and I wanted to murder Bob.

Just when we’d began to unwind after the journey from hell, a familiar, yet somehow wildly dishevelled face walked in, it was none other than Red Breast! Turned out she had decided to leave the Israelis and travel in our direction, only the public transport version. This meant she travelled faster than our 10-50 kms p/h, however, she slept under a bus shelter cradling her luggage, and was slapped in the leg by somebody’s soon to be dinner, a wet fish, for 48 hours.

Hysterically laughing at the state of us all, and delighted to be reunited, we unanimously decided that we no longer wanted to be apart.

And so, Red Breast would become the fourth member of our tribe.

From Villancoulos we, rather happily, bid farewell to Bob and once again became independent women travelling to a stunning little beach town, Tofo. On the way to Tofo we met a cute local guy on the bus, Tofo Boy. While squished up the front with the driver, Zimbabawia rather enjoyed his banter and his babein’ness started to show, so obviously numbers were exchanged.

After one magnificent sunrise in Tofo, Mumma Africa and I decided to explore the capital of Mozambique, Maputo, while the two other girls remained in Tofo to go diving.

Once we’d reunited, Zimbabawia filled our eager ears with the following juicy tales:

Whilst searching the Tofo waters for whale sharks, Zimbabawia was severely stung by jellyfish, to ease her pain Red Breast admirably volunteered as tribute and pissed all over her back and legs. They made sure to catch a slow-mo video of the event. Yep Red Breast, you are one of us.

I’m not sure if any of you have been pissed on in a non-sexual way, but maybe if you have you can understand Zimbabawia’s post-pissing urge to get some more sexual juices on her body.

Tofo boy messaged the day after the jellyfish/piss incident inviting me to the beach, so myself, Red Breast, and our two new Israeli buddies went along. While one of the Israelis serenaded us with his guitar, Tofo Boy started to give me non-subtle little eyebrow raises.

The sun was setting and Red Breast and I decided we’d make a delicious dinner back at the hostel, without having time to decide whether I wanted my eyebrow raising friend to join, the Israeli, Serenader, invited him.

During onion chopping,Tofo Boy began doing cute things like grabbing my waist and touching my arms, I was fuckin in to it! After dinner, and all the PDA, we asigned ourselves to the dishes, but instead washed each other’s mouth with our soapy saliva.

Feeling hot and heavy from the make out session we were already discussing options of where to go. Hostel sex life requires creativity: the bathrooms, a walk on the beach…or it’s an option, obviously their house.

Mid ‘where to fuck’ discussion, the others came outside and suggested we all go to a bar. We agreed, but in reality the sexual tension was hitting a peak, I was dripping wet.

While the others got their drinks I was like, Oh shoot! Tofo Boy left his wallet at home, we’ll go and get it, it’s not far….

Meanwhile Red Breast and Serenader were flirting up a storm so I didn’t mind leaving them to it.

Tofo Boy and I walked hastily, hand in hand, back to his place, the promised five minute walk was in fact 25 minutes (Africa time). When we finally reached his apartment he was all over me, kissing me with those sexy black pillows, touching my body, fingering me until I was gagging for it.

His dick – it was so hard I looked to check if it was made of cement.

He finally put his cement brick inside me whilst kissing my neck and tits, driving me wild, I started playing with myself until I could no longer contain it, and I came.
I guess my orgasm face is sexy as the next second he was also moaning in orgasm ecstasy.

Excitingly, he was pretty much ready to go again, and then again. As though someone had awoken my orgasm goddess, I came again both times! Cumming three times in one session NEVER happens to me.

Maybe it was because he was a woman pleaser, or because I didn’t feel any attachment to him, therefore, my mind could chill the fuck out.

Note to self, find way for mind to always chill the fuck out if it means having three oragsms.

Although we would all like to, it’s almost unicorn spottingly hard to get great once off sex without a little bit of weirdness. After we’d banged three times, I started drifting off when I realised that he was tugging the chain full pelt, trying to get himself hard AGAIN. Only if you have a backup uterus for me mate, this bitch needs a break.

A few hours later, well and truly rooted, he walked me back to the hostel, we made out some more, and then I sent him on the long walk back home. He had mentioned coming to the bus stop in the morning to wish me goodbye, and in true African style, he actually did. I smooched the black pillows one last time and then I never replied to any of his messages. Oops.

With the Mozambique flag now acquired alongside the Tanzanian and Malawian, we realised that Zimbabawia had started herself a little African country streak! If I have anything to do with it, this will most definitely be a streak that continues.

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