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the van too, since they'd hitchhiked to Pamplona anyway, and Billy was still banging Rianne,
though she'd cut him back to once daily, or maybe twice if it was a long day. I went along with
the plan, grateful for friends who seemed to know the road and California, our spiritual base
and the original Mecca of Revolution and Freedom.
Everyone was done with Pamplona after a week of watching the campground become a
disaster area—like Earth in time-lapse. We would leave the following morning and gladly
forego six more days of bull running because, frankly, we'd been there, done that. And by leav-
ing early, we could beat the rush.
But another disaster occurred that changed everything. Near the summit of a sundown
sexual interlude—a favorite time for John and Jane; the light was so soft, the campground so
peaceful at that hour with everyone prepping dinner on their fires, and a nice fuck relaxed
them so well—Jane found out or John let slip, that he was nineteen.
Jane was twenty-two.
It was over. She'd bargained on a man, not a kid on summer break. Not a . . . a . . . a fucking
teenager! Fuck! Man! Packed and gone in mere minutes flat between dusk and dark, she gave
him what for with a drop dead, motherfucker on the way out. She hit another wall besides the
bingeing and the shit-smell walls and the crowded, dirty, nasty walls. Jane got clogged like the
clogged up
baño
and had no choice but to overflow. Now where the fuck is that? At.
Beans and wine for dinner? Again? Just like that, Jane and Rianne were gone. So were
Chas and Billy, and in spite of the difficulty before us, the outflow relieved many things that
felt clogged. It would have been nice riding along with a van, but convenience seemed similar
to baggage. For starters, Chas and Billy wouldn't shut up. Billy rambled over the incredible,
amazing, unbelievably best fuck in his whole, entire life. “I'm dead motherfucking serious,
man. Her pussy smells like gumdrops, or lightning oughta strike me fucking dead! Lemme tell
you what she likes . . .” This, with Rianne paces away, as if brothers and sisters were meant to
share natural truths naturally. It wasn't natural. In those first awkward phases of realizing that
we were not in fact brothers and sisters, it was harsh.
Rianne and I blushed through those interludes. I wanted to comfort her but could not.
hen she was gone.
John and I had a bowl of kief like men coming to terms with a milestone in life, looking
ahead to what men must do. We would cross the Pyrenees into Andorra, a good ride for the
morning, then head down to the coast and follow the coast road toward Monaco. We wanted
to see the Riviera and the topless women there. I felt experienced and wanted to engage one
in conversation. Then we'd head into Italy for what could well be a whole new phase of fun.
As our planning reverie finished, the nurse from Canada walked over to ask for a minute,
please. I sensed a scolding for feeling her tit last night—or was it night before last? But she got
me aside to say she'd been thinking, you know, and wanted to come along, you know, on back
