We had just begun 

              foreplay over

           and now down to the real real act 

when the door of

the quiet cottage 

at the back of the large house 

        on the outskirts of Washington DC 

began to slam back and forth against its lock. 

Me and the French girl were about to be caught in bed by the hostel’s arrogant manager and two new guests. 

Thirty minutes before I was lounging around the upstairs level of the cottage catching my breath from a long inauguration day and building up the energy to finish it memorably, as the French girl washed her hair and prepared herself for the same memorable ending to January 21st 2013. 

I grabbed some pillows from one of the empty bunk beds and dropped them on the rug in the centre of the room. I threw myself to the floor, laid my head back and evaluated my present circumstance. 

She wasn’t my exact type, but then again I didn’t really have one. 

She was about five foot, four inches, with mid length reddish brown hair and a makeup free face. She displayed the slight air of the aristocrat with some femme fatale charms and a sense of lost at sea befuddlement and I had accidentally seduced her. 

French reappeared from the bathroom and joined me on the rug. We flipped through channels on the TV, both of us trying to find some porn or at least a sex scene to escalate into the inevitable. 

Eventually we found some weird 90’s sex movie and I introduced my lips to her neck. 

“No need to rush, we have all night,” she said, she said but within seconds she was effortlessly removing her top and breaking my eyes, “I guess they don’t have ones like these in England.” she bragged, as her gigantic breasts freed themselves. 

My mouth and her gigantic breasts rolled around happily on the floor for a few minutes, then suddenly an idea shot through my mind, a genius idea that needed to become a genius reality. 

“Let’s go downstairs to the bed.” I said, releasing my genius! 

Sex on the rug or in one of the bunk beds would have still been sex, there was also the bathroom with a jacuzzi sized tub that would have served as a perfect stage, but no, I wanted the bed downstairs. 

We kissed and groped our way down the spiral staircase and crashed onto the covers of the large bed. 

“Oh, I have the Obama condom.” French said, reaching for the package featuring the smiling face of the 44th President. 

She had been given the protection by a random condom fairy as we left the National Mall earlier in the day. 

I held back from commenting on it, too much talk of the creepy presidential condom and the mood could have turned. 

She ripped open the wrapper revealing the black latex condom inside. 

I put it on and tried not to be too distracted by the novelty. 

“Can I give you a blowjob first, I like that.” she whispered shyly into my ear as I entered her. 

We repositioned, I removed the condom and put my head back on the pillow as she disappeared under the sheets. I relaxed my mind, anticipating her mouth when the sound of a loud thud hit the wooden door across the room. 

“Did they lock the door?!” I heard an angered voice shout, “What the fuck? HEY!” 

I stopped for a moment paralyzed by confusion, ‘NO. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why was someone banging on the cottage door so late at night? What about my blowjob? What about the Obama condom?’ 

It took a few seconds for us to go from jungle mode to human mode. Accepting that now we had to deal with the bullshit of things like society, hostel rules and door locks. 

French jumped out of bed and ran upstairs to the bathroom. I hid the Obama condom, did a quick clean up of the bed and manically threw my clothes on. 

There’s so much you can do in only a few moments when the reality of being caught by strangers with your underwear around your ankles faces you on the other side of a cottage door. 

I took a moment to prepare myself and then unlocked the door. 

The ogre of a hostel manager and two innocent looking backpackers were waiting on the other side. 

Ogre stood around six foot, three inches, with a body resembling a brick wall and a face to match, the two guests next to him looked zoned out as if they were in the process of digesting a heap of pills. 

Standing there, looking at their faces, I made one of my instant judgments, I didn’t like any of them. 

Just as well, if I was going to be interrupted during sex, it might as well have been an interruption by people I disliked. There’s nothing worse than likeable enemies. 

I turned my head back inside to the mess of a room as I welcomed them in. It was clear despite my hasty effort to hide the evidence what had been happening inside before they strolled up the garden and ruined it. 

The two new guests got it straight away, but Ogre was still piecing it all together. Looking around in confusion, Ogre showed the new guests the downstairs kitchen and the messed up king sized bed. 

Through their mumbling conversation with Ogre I deduced the nationalities of the new unwelcome guests, one was English and the other German. 

Ogre headed upstairs with the English and German towards the naked French girl, my naked French girl. He continued the same dull check-in speech he had delivered to me two days earlier. 

‘I wonder how this will play out.’ I thought, as I went up the staircase. 

Upstairs French had locked herself in the bathroom and Ogre was trying to get in, “Is someone in there, HELLO?” he screamed, banging on the door. 

It was obvious someone was in there. My annoyance turned to anger as Ogre tried his hardest to get inside. 

Giving up, he headed back downstairs in a frustrated confusion, leaving me and the new guests alone. 

An awkward silence fell over the room. 

I imagined Ogre’s balloon of a face finally coming to the realisation as he took a detailed look at the bed and the dim bulb inside him finally flicked on. 

“I want you guys packed up and out of here now, you gotta go!” he yelled back up the stairs. 

’Ah, there it is.’ I thought. 

Two day earlier me and Ogre had entered into a state of mutual dislike. 

From the moment I had checked in, I got the sense he hated the job and had no intention of doing it with any competence. He was cold and dead in his welcome, seemingly wanting to be anywhere but running a hostel on the outskirts of Washington DC. 

As he climbed back up the staircase, I readied myself for the fight. I kept my anger hidden, I knew he would only have enjoyed the anger and used it against me. 

The more calm and rational I was, the more it would infuriate him. 

“I’m not going to let you kick us out on inauguration night with every place in the city booked.” I said, in a slightly mocking tone, he took a step back, his face turning red. 

He moved his head in circles in the air trying to find a response, “Well,” he started before stuttering to a stop, he looked around the room searching for words, “you guys locked the door and she won’t come out of the bathroom.” he finally replied. 

“Yeah, she won’t come out of the bathroom because she’s naked and embarrassed you’re all here,” none of the sense was getting through to him, “we locked the door because we were concerned about people breaking in at night,” I added, lying completely, “think about it, is having sex in hostels illegal? Is locking a door illegal?” 

I was having fun now, my night had shifted from love to war but at least now I was enjoying myself again. 

We went back and forth with threat and counter-threat and counter-counter-threat, me sitting on the couch with my arm around French who had emerged from the bathroom in a towel midway through the battle and him standing by the stairs moving his head in circles, waving his arms around and shouting in his Texan accent. 

“Well, if you don’t leave I’ll call the cops!” he delivered the line and ran down the stairs with the conviction of a kid threatening to run away from home. 

I was confident it was a bluff. 

“Were you guys at the inauguration?” I asked, moving my attention to the two new guests. 

“Yeah, we don’t know each other, just met.” said the English guy who was loving the entertainment. 

“Are you sure you want to keep fighting him?” English asked me. 

“I can deal with it.” I replied with confidence, dismissing the notion that things were going against me. 

The German unpacked his bag and hid himself in the corner, not wanting anything to do with the situation he had unwillingly walked into. 

I heard the footsteps of Ogre slowly creaking back up the stairs, he appeared head lowered and looking a lot meeker than he had left. 

“Look I’m not calling the cops,” he conceded. 

I heard the trumpets of victory, saw the masses with their fists in the air, screams of triumph over stupidity, over jealousy, over pettiness. 

“I don’t want to deal with all that tonight, just keep things quiet and don’t lock the door from now on, we’ll get a new lock for it soon.” and with that he exited the stage defeated. 

‘I’ll take that for tonight.’ I thought. It was a victory. I wasn’t going to get laid that night but I did defeat an ogre. 

I kissed French goodnight and the surreal historic day faded into a deep satisfying sleep. 

A week earlier I had left a hostel in North London, took the train to Heathrow and boarded a big pink Delta Airlines plane raising awareness for breast cancer to New York. 

I carried with me a detailed line by line list of what needed to be done to get to my next bed. 

From JFK I boarded another plane, a small regional jet that looked more like a corporate jet than a commercial airplane. The speed and maneuvering of the little dagger cutting through the night sky impressed me as it made a series of sharp banks towards Baltimore. 

Landing in Maryland meant I was now towards the end of my list. 

The list saved on my phone and sticky notes detailed every connection and all the directions from North London to the outskirts of the American capital. As I crossed the street to the Amtrak hub and bought a ticket to Union Station I proudly crossed another line off my list. 

An old red house sitting atop a hill, far out in the suburbs of the city was my final line to cross off. I checked in, headed upstairs to my dorm room and collapsed on the bed. 

Except I didn’t. 

Because Jonathan Crohn squeakily appeared. 

A few years before I had come across this conservative darling, a teenager authoring political books and a regular on Fox News. He was the perfect fit for that role, with a high pitched squeaky voice and a face you couldn’t help but want to punch. 

Now he was my dormmate, buzzing around me in his pyjamas, looking high on some amphetamine. 

He was a few years older and a converted liberal but still retained the same punchable face. 

Crohn continued to zip around the dorm room, he wasn’t talking to himself out loud but he was definitely having a conversation in his head. 

In need of a cigarette, I pulled one out of its box and headed for the balcony, Crohn followed along and we started talking politics and the situation in Syria. 

I began my rant and then continued my rant, interspersed it with drags on the stick and plenty of chances for Crohn to give his opinion but he didn’t have much of one, just a generalized view. 

I got bored of the weak responses and suddenly remembered how tired I was. 

It was too long a day to be locked in dull discussion about impossible geopolitics. I ended the Syria talk and went inside to get some sleep. 

In the morning I went by train to the Capitol and took a tour of the building. 

As the tour came to an end, the kind old guide pulled me aside from the rest of the group, “If you want, you can visit inside the House and Senate Chambers.” he whispered to me, as the rest of the group began to disperse. 

He took a liking to me for some reason and only wanted to impart this open secret to me and not the rest of the tour group. 

I got my House and Senate passes, and chose to view the House of Representatives first. I passed through the security check and into the gallery. I scanned my eyes across the chamber and was surprised by how small it was. 

Tradition is a strange thing, you’d think the sole superpower would have built out its public offices to match its military and economic might, but no, just a stuffy library reading room like meeting place. The Senate Chamber left the same impression. 

I spent the rest of the day walking around the area outside the Capitol Building, clocked the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial and White House then went back to the old red house to sleep. 

My accommodation for my time in the city was split up between three hostels. I would return to the old red house on the hill in a few days after staying at The Ogre Hostel for the inauguration and then I would move on to a small apartment like hostel above a dollar pizza joint 

The streets unnerved me as I searched for that second temporary home in DC. There was a quiet foreboding around and hardly a person in the streets outside the small wooden homes. 

My mind flashed to guns and bullets and blood as I quickened my pace through the rough looking area. 

Washington still had a bit of swamp to it. I could imagine what the land looked like before it was rushed upon and raped by concrete and Corinthian columns. 

Little Swampland. This particular area was still very much Little Swampland. 

I made it to the hostel – another large old house – without being shot and checked in. 

The night before the inauguration my gang arrived, a group of friendly Asian guys all from different countries and later in the night the French girl. I was glad I wouldn’t have to endure the cold morning I was expecting alone. 

We all woke up at the same ridiculous time, long before sunrise and caught the bus to the National Mall. 

We got off, lost amongst a large crowd all streaming in one direction. French tasked herself with finding the way. 

She approached a team of armed Secret Service agents blocking off a street in front of a fleet of black tanks, “Excuse me, do you know which way we go for the inauguration?” she asked casually. 

His face hardened by years of training and clearly already irritated by his current mission of guarding an empty sidestreet grew in irritation a few degrees, being asked directions by a French tourist. I could tell what he was thinking, ‘You’re really fucking asking us this question?’ 

She had just decided to walk up to an army and ask the simple question that everyone knew the answer to, there was a crowd of thousands streaming towards the Mall, it wasn’t hard to decipher which direction to head in. 

“Do you have tickets?” he questioned her back, bluntly. 

“No, we just want to watch on the Mall.” she replied as casually as asking a waiter for more bread.

“Then follow all these people, all these people are going to the Mall.” pointing at the crowd behind us. 

It was still dark when we arrived on the white plastic covering set out to protect the grass from a million people. 

The imposing dome of the Capitol Building stood in silence, the screens showed the usual feel good presidential propaganda while the people around us danced to keep the blood from freezing. 

We came prepared with hand warmers, snacks and all the winter clothing we could find. We shared the hand warmers between us, picked out snipers on nearby buildings and swapped stories of travel and our different homelands. 

Officially the swearing-in had taken place the previous day on the 20th of January thanks to the 20th falling on a Sunday, but this was the public show and it was one I had been keen on seeing for years. 

As the pre-game began I started naming off the obscure politicians on the screen and telling my new friends about them, dropping wholly unnecessary knowledge. 

“Who’s that?” they would ask. 

“Secretary of Transportation Ray LaHood, President pro tempore of the Senate Leahy, House Majority Leader Eric Cantor.” 

They started looking at me like some political fanboy freak. Admirable looks though, wow this guy knows his shit kinda looks. 

By the time the main show started my toes were frozen in place, sausages of ice that no small heat packet could help. 

When French started moving her body more and more into me I couldn’t decode if it was for the body heat or something more. As former president after former president paraded out I got the answer, her body being locked in front of mine had nothing to do with warming up a bit. 

‘Maybe all that knowledge impressed her.’ I thought. 

She wasn’t bad looking, a classical French beauty and although wrapped up and concealed from an untrained eye, I could tell she was definitely carrying a set of gigantic tits. 

My mind leapt forward to a night of hot cottage sex as Barack Obama began his performance. 

‘Yes! We will have hot cottage sex!’ I proclaimed to myself. 

With a bedmate for the evening now in place, I tried my best to keep the blood circulating. Far too much of it was being sent to my penis. It wasn’t like the extra blood was doing me any good. I wasn’t going to bang French there on the Mall. And my erect cock was was still freezing. 

’How can my dick be so FULL of blood and still so damn COLD?’ 

I shivered and danced and pulled French closer and tried and tried and then tried to focus in on Obama’s inaugural address.

He may have been governing like a scared child, passing piss-weak legislation and celebrating like he had just achieved a new new deal, but he could speak and this speech was far more powerful than the one he gave for his first inauguration. 

His re-election was an important historical statement if only an identity based historical statement. 

If he had lost the 2012 election, not only would he have been deemed a failure as a one term president but also considered a quirk of history, an experiment that failed. 

Winning a second term solidified the legacy of the first African-American president. It was a special moment. 

It was sad he was just another watered down neo-liberal. An establishment tool. 

It was still a special moment though. 

A special moment in American history and a special moment for me. This was the beginning of what would become a three year and three month journey of living and travelling around the world. 

But at this point – as the 44th president finished off his historic speech and French pressed her arse against my frozen erection – I didn’t know it. 

I had a return ticket and thought that after travelling America for a while I would head back to England refreshed and start getting on with life. 

It was a return ticket I would never use.