julian wilson panama

Stab had an entirely different experience to Julian Wilson in this divine, history-filled country… Memories by Charlie Smith Photos by DJ Str untz Panama is an unshaved Hispanic pussy. Gently rolling folds covered with lush vegetation spill into endless pleasure of ocean. Or sea. Giant metal phalluses, captained by white men, enter her from the front and from the rear. It is almost always wet season. I’ve, in fact, had the pleasure. It was not three years ago when, dressed in pink Etro seersucker pants and a pair of tortoise shell Tom Ford aviators, I touched down in Panama City. An absolute fortress of carnal delight. I remember my cab driver, a mulatto of 50, telling me the girls like to badonkadonk, especialmente during carnaval. He was wearing a white Panama hat. I chuckled as I fingered the gold etching on my Louis Vuitton Greenwich GM train bag. But he was right. Later that evening I strolled from my suite at the Intercontinental through perfumed air the temperature of influenza toward Via Simone Bolivar. The city was amazingly modern. Tres moderne, in fact. Gleaming steel and neon glass skyscrapers lit up the sky. And large Amazonian breasts the color of moelleux au Chocolat lit up my imagination. I felt as if I were Vasco Nunez de Balboa himself, ready to inject the fiery natives with my own westernized cocktail of Valtrex suppressed herpes and debilitating depression. This decadent celebration had brought everyone to the streets. Throngs of dark peoples blowing bubbles, dancing to their pulsing Afro rhythms, sexually molesting each other’s children, eating exotic blends of fried meats, drinking body temperature beer, raping the stray German tourist, forming drum circles, genuflecting, practicing strange forms of voodoo and making pentagrams out of glow sticks directly contributed to the bulge inside my taupe Dolce and Gabbana suit pants Carnaval is celebrated 40 days before holy week and the country is, primarily, Catholic. I ended the evening with three underage girls, if memory serves, in a hot tub at the Courtyard Real Hotel. I was wearing a Tahitian Themed Jean Paul Gaultier swimsuit with a print of Tahitian boys. I was drinking a frosty sangria and the girls were nude. Panama was discovered by the Spanish in 1501. By 1513 they realized her isthmus-like nature gave strategic value and soon massive amounts of gold and silver were being shipped across to both Pacific and Caribbean. This gold, mined from lands far south, would be the lifeblood of Spain for the next 300 years. I ended the evening with three underage girls, if memory serves, in a hot tub at the Courtyard Real Hotel. I was wearing a Tahitian Themed Jean Paul Gaultier swimsuit with a print of Tahitian boys. I rented a villa on the Pacific side but soon tired of the muddy water and dull company. A Canadian diplomat from Peru was wintering on the island of Taboga and would regale me with hockey anecdotes over iced Pina Coladas. He was a pasty man middle-aged man wearing Teva sandals but his female company was well worth a cuckold. She wore St. John and was a creamy mix of Spanish and Indian blood leaning heavily in favor of Spanish. Along with architecture, delicious skin is the greatest gift from the colonial era. As Spain receded from global importance, other nations seized upon “The Golden Road.” In the mid 1800s French engineers realized the possibility of making a canal through the isthmus that would cut shipping costs by as much as fifty percent. Their sea-level attempt failed quite miserably, however, the vastly superior United States succeeded in 1914. Through a series of locks and lakes, the sea-level differential between Carib and Pacific find balance. Truly one of the great engineering marvels of all time. I found the Caribbean side much more to my liking. Pink and white bougainvillea swayed in a scented breeze. Parrots nesting high in palm canopies called out to spider monkeys. The water was a clear turquoise. Much more the picture of pure paradise. I had acquired a small 25 foot 1962 Beetle Cat sailboat. The deck had recently been refinished in teak and she had forty square feet of sail. I would idle in various inlets wearing an unbuttoned Gucci blazer, sipping on chilled Sancerre, and gazing at old Spanish fortresses that dot the high ground above most seaside hamlets. Earlier in the week I had used my wit and charm to romance a Colombian beauty of 60 who loved Paco Rabanne and Balenciaga. Panama, butting up against Colombia, is a major center of cocaine traffic. On moonlit nights one can dive the sunken wrecks of Cessnas and Learjets. Skeletons lying on pristine reef that once carried the purest blow. I love the Caribbean side and often think of moving semi-permanently In the mid-1980s a military junta led by Manuel Noriega took over the country, which eventually led to a brief invasion by the United States. Still, in 1999, the canal was turned back over to the Panamanian government and today accounts for millions of dollars a day in shipping fees. Money from the canal and a top-notch banking institution keep the country from sinking into gross, unhip affairs, like Bolivia and Peru. Or as Jane Austen said, “A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.” Someone once told me there was surf in Panama, but I’m not sure as to where and I’m also not sure if I believe it.