What happened in Las Vegas

"What the saying goes? 'What happens in Vegas...'" my friend said, smiling, halfway across the backseat of a car where four strangers were waiting. The one in the middle grabbed her waist before she could rest her butt in the empty space and sat her directly on his lap. She smiled; I didn't, but I climbed into the remaining seat, and we drove off.

We were traveling in Córdoba, and I disliked the people of Córdoba more and more. The loud quartet, the swollen choirs, the unbearable repetition of the word "fucking," the peals of laughter punctuating every comment. I stared out the window, trying to let the scenery transport me mentally to another place.

Every now and then, I felt a hand on my knee, patting it in time with laughter. Since I didn't resist, the hand moved back and forth with increasing confidence. My friend started making out with the passenger; to do so, she leaned between him and the driver, leaving her butt in the foreground for the people in the back, who were already getting excited.

The hand that had been hitting my knee, in one of those laughs, stayed there. I looked at him; he smiled back. I rolled my eyes and turned my face toward the window, but I didn't look away. He started to climb.

By then, my friend and her shorts were already putting on a show for the increasingly horny audience in the back, while up front she alternated kisses with the driver and co-pilot, who asked her to give them different places: neck, ear, breast. One said "belly button," and she gave a firm "no," leaning back to sit back on the lap of the guy who, by then, had a hard-on and was forcefully groping me between my legs.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, feeling the touch, and, as if she'd been pricked, jumped to the other side of the car, where the shyest one greeted her with a nervous hug. The other three laughed. The one in the middle pushed his hand harder between my legs and reached. We looked at each other; he laughed, I didn't.

A Los Charros song came on, and the copilot turned up the volume. Dawn was breaking, and the sky was taking on an indefinite color. At the speed we were going, between curves, I could barely make out shapes among the trees: houses or places lost in the nothingness.

When my friend started making out with the guy on her side and spread her legs, the guy in the middle touched us both.

"I'm here with both hands," he said, bursting out laughing.

That phrase was enough to make those in front feel excluded from the party and pull over to the side of the road. The squeal of brakes echoed in the night desert.

Fear. First, fear. Four guys, two girls. Basic math. But my friend grabbed my hand and repeated:

—What happens in Las Vegas, man…

She didn't finish her sentence. The one in the middle lifted her shirt, dragging her bra. I saw her tits, with their bikini line, for just a second. Two heads lunged at her nipples, and in the struggle, they made her hit the ceiling. She moaned, but not from the blow—I understood when I saw her mouth half open, panting.

I heard footsteps on the gravel, the door opening, a hand yanking me out of the seat, shoving, ragged breathing in my ears, a thousand hands crawling. One of them turned me around and shoved me against the hood. I remembered, for a second, a movie where two white cops groped a Black woman at a checkpoint. I remembered how much I'd gotten off watching that scene. I opened my eyes: I was on all fours, looking inside the car, and as they pulled my panties down, I saw my friend, looking crazy, like she was drugged, panting, her hair pulled tight because one of them was holding it that way while the other, the one in the middle, was fucking her. I couldn't see him; she was on top, bobbing up and down, legs spread.

The image mesmerized me. My friend. My friend since elementary school, fucking, fucked, gorgeous, horny. I'd never seen her like that. Yes, drunk, or flirting, or fooling around. But so slutty and lost, never. I'd never seen her naked before either—not for her, she wasn't shy, but for me, who was. And there she was, naked, gorgeous, slutty, free, elevated… and then she looked at me.

He looked at me, bit his lip with a fleeting smile, and then looked down with an almost pained expression, still moving.

I freed the hand one of the guys had pressed against the hood and slipped it under my panties. There, I found the fingers of one of them—I couldn't tell if it was the driver or the passenger. He was touching me too hard. I noticed how wet I was, how hot. I went from submissive to dominant mode just by turning around.

I looked at them.

The copilot was jerking off. His cock was sticking out of his open jeans, his nostrils throbbing.

The other guy, the one touching me, got scared when he saw me turn and stepped back a few inches, as if waiting for my approval. With a quick jump, I sat on the hood, legs spread. He dropped to his knees on the gravel and started sucking me off. The co-pilot came over and ripped off my shirt. It was dawn. It hit me: if anyone walked by, they'd see me fucking, naked, with my friend and four guys in broad daylight.

Because of that thought—or because of the urge to cum—I pulled back. I ended up looking at the last stars.

Traveling is always an experience, says my father.