An Expat in Peru


With a long term relationship having just failed, a Mechanical Engineering Degree and an MBA in strategic management both from Northwestern University, but with significant student loan debt, at twenty seven years old I was looking for the highest paying job I could get and a way to distance myself from my former girlfriend (almost fiancé) and her family.

About the third interview I had after getting my MBA was with a large international company with a significant presence in Latin America. They offered me a job on the spot because their product line fit right in with my BSc, and because they needed someone with my MBA concentration (which requires a mastery of business theory about what factors influence a company’s success or failure).

Despite the fact that their offer was — considering the entire package — not only for more than any of my classmates had gotten, but it was for almost 50% more than I expected and would allow me to pay off my loans within three years or less. There was a drawback; the job was in Peru, and not only didn’t I speak Spanish, but I had absolutely no aptitude for language (I have a hard enough time with English). I was honest with the VP and HR director who were interviewing me.

“I really appreciate your offer. However, I have to warn you that I not only have no foreign language fluency, but I have absolutely no aptitude for it. There is no way — even if I worked at it eight hours a day — that I could ever become fluent enough in Spanish to conduct a business negotiation,” I said.

“Fortunately for you Blake,” the female VP said, “our office in Peru conducts all business in English and all employees — regardless where they are from, and they are from eighteen different countries — are fluent in English. That will not be an issue.”

Given that attitude, the fact that they wanted to fill the position quickly, and not only the excellent financial package but the realistic ability for quick advancement, I slept on the offer for only one night. Early the next morning I rang the cellphone of the VP — who insisted that I call her Pamela, and not Mrs. Morton.

“Hi Pamela; this is Blake Kittle,” I formally started out.

“I hope that your early morning call means that you’ll accept our offer,” she smiled over the phone.

“That’s exactly what it means — a good night’s sleep informed me that I would be a fool to pass up the opportunity you’ve offered me.”

“Great — come to our office on State Street in downtown Chicago about 1:00 p. m. to get all of the papers signed.”

And that’s what I did.

In turns out that I was perhaps a little too impetuous. Only the day after I had signed the contracts, and got my signing bonus check, did I check out expat living situations in Peru. Imagine my distress when I found out that Peru was ranked 62nd out of 68 countries (places like Somalia and Iraq don’t have rankings — merely a statement next to their name that says “Seek the services of a mental health professional”). The 62 out of 68 was a ranking for all expats, not just Americans, but I saw no reason that it would be different for Americans.

Therefore that it was with some trepidation that ten days after signing my employment contract papers that I was on a plane to Lima.


If you’re reading stories on this website you’re not interested in the availability or cost of home Internet service, health care, or many other aspects of expat life in Peru. You’re interested in the opportunities for sex, therefore I won’t bore you with all of the practical problems of living in a country where you don’t speak the language and stick out like a sore thumb (I’m 6 ft. 5 inches tall and have blond hair and blue eyes whereas the average adult Peruvian male is 5 ft. 4 inches tall, and the average adult female is 4 ft. 11 inches, both with black hair and dark brown eyes — my blond almost fiancé is 5 ft. 10 inches tall). Rather I’ll just bore you with my lack of sexual opportunities.

Not only did I stick out like a sore thumb physically, because I am an ambivert and not an extrovert, I didn’t take advantage of some opportunities that may — by really putting myself out there — have been available. The only females in my sphere that I even found mildly attractive were married.

My prime directive in relationships is don’t mess with married women. Both my parents’ and brother’s marriages were ruined when my father and a friend of my brother’s didn’t follow that rule.

Because of my poor language skills almost every day I went for lunch to the same local establishment (called “Inca”) that had decent food and where the employees all spoke English. Sometimes I went alone, sometimes with co-workers, and once in a while with customers or consultants when we had a lot to discuss and just wanted something quick.

On a Wednesday when I was alone at Inca it was particularly busy. I was reviewing some notes for an upcoming afternoon meeting when I felt the presence of someone Bayan Eskort at my table and heard “This place is really crowded — do you mind if I share your table — if it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

The voice was female and sexy.

The face from which the voice originated was gorgeous.

The hair above the face was blond.

The body supporting the face was goddess-like, and with heels on at least six feet tall.

I surprised myself when I didn’t knock the table askew when I stood up, and didn’t tie my tongue when speaking.

“No imposition at all,” I smiled as I made a gesture toward the chair opposite me. “Actually I’d enjoy the company.”

It took all of twenty five minutes of conversation with this Aphrodite clone to fall in lust with her; and I got the feeling that falling in love may not have been far behind. She was intelligent, personable, funny, and flirtatious. Only one feature of hers ruined it for me; she had engagement and wedding rings on her left hand fourth finger.

She told me that her name was Alissa Johnson, she was from Barrington — a suburb of Chicago and not far from Northwestern where I went to school — and worked as some sort of analyst for an international securities company. She had an MBA in finance from the University of Chicago. There is no way that I could have guessed her age — she could have been anywhere between twenty one and forty — but assuming that she graduated college with people at a normal age by relating to me her undergraduate class I pegged her as thirty one years old.

I ended up being a couple of minutes late for my meeting and not quite as prepared as I would have been if I had concentrated on my notes at lunch and not on her sparkling blue eyes, stunning face, and ample chest — but my happy demeanor more than made up for both of those facts and the meeting went perfectly.

After the meeting when I had time to reflect I thought “Shit — why does she have to be married.” While I would definitely fantasize about her I wouldn’t be pursing her, although since she was fun to talk to and look at even if there was to be no relationship I hoped to run into her again.

I had the most intense masturbation session of my life that night!


Over the ensuing six weeks I saw Alissa frequently, always at the Inca restaurant. Even when one of us was not alone I invited her to sit at my table — I always arrived before she did — and introduced her to who I was with and/or she introduced me to who she was with. Frequently lunching with Alissa was good and bad; it was good because she is so hot and fun; it was bad because she is so hot and fun and I couldn’t have her. My masturbation sessions every night after seeing her were epic — but were still a far cry from burying my hog in her vagina.

On another Wednesday after I had known Alissa about six weeks I was alone when she sat at my table. I immediately noticed that she didn’t have her rings on. She noticed my stare. “What are you gawking at Blake?”

“Uh — you don’t have, uh have, your wedding and, and, your, uh, engagement rings on,” I stuttered.

She laughed. “Is that why you haven’t asked me out? Did you think that I was married? I never talked about my husband — didn’t that seem odd to you?”

“Aren’t you…uh…you know…uh…married?” I spluttered.

“No. I wear fake rings because I have to interact with male pigs all of the time and that — plus telling them that my husband is six five, two hundred thirty pounds, just like you are — mostly keeps them at bay. I worked out just before I came here and put them in my purse. See…” she said as she pulled two engagement and two wedding rings out of her purse.

“You have…uh…four…uh…rings,” I stammered — it seems that I was having real trouble talking, not just because of the rings but because she said her fictitious husband was exactly my size.

Alissa broke out into a big smile. “Since they’re all fake — each only cost me about $50 — I always keep two sets with me since I’m not real careful with them and tend to lose them on occasion. Here, see…” she continued, handing me one set.

I looked them over. While they were good fakes, when you looked carefully you could see that they were not real platinum or diamond, as they appeared to be form a distance.

Then the strangest feeling came over me. I partially stood up, put my right hand behind her head, and drew her face toward me and planted as intense a kiss as I had ever experienced on her lips. I not only got no resistance, my kiss was returned. When we broke she chuckled “What was that for caveman?”

“That is my way of asking you out this weekend,” I replied with a smile.

“I’m only available Friday night this weekend,” she smiled back.

“How about I pick you up at 7 p. m., restaurant of your choice,” I shot back.

“How about we meet at Astrid y Gastón at 8 p. m.,” she replied.

“I’ll see you then,” I grinned.

We engaged in a lively conversation about our likes and dislikes of Lima cuisine, and then parted with a chaste kiss on the lips. My caveman act had not gone unnoticed by the other patrons and staff at Inca, and they — and Alissa — seemed highly amused by it.

If I thought that my previous masturbation sessions thinking of Alissa were epic, I was mistaken; my session that night, knowing that I might have a chance to make love to — or at least pork — that goddess almost caused my cock to explode.


Unlike most university engineering students I transferred into engineering after my first year, but had enough advance placement credits to catch up to my class and graduate on time. The most interesting elective I took my freshman year was a psychology course (it was a 300 level course and to this day I don’t know how I got into it — likely because it had a few openings so they didn’t carefully monitor the background of the signees) called simply “Body Language.”

The “Body Language” professor himself was primarily an expert on body language for business negotiations and criminal activity but he had two guest lecturers come in on different days who were experts on sexual cues. Those two class sessions had the students twice as attentive as during the average class — both male and female students for both the male and female experts.

The female expert, Brooke C. Rivers (yes that really was her name and when she gave it she said “My middle initial is “C,” just like “s-e-a”) was the hottest woman that I had ever seen in my life — before Alissa that is — despite the fact that she may have been fifty years old. She was almost an older brunette version of Alissa. I absorbed more of what she said than any other lecturer my entire college career. Even though it was now almost nine years earlier I could still perfectly remember her “sexual cues” discussions. One reason I remember it so well was because she demonstrated the sexual cues — and then embarrassed female students by having them mimic her.

The most effective body language for demonstrating sexual attraction — at least as far as I was concerned, especially as demonstrated by Brooke — were, when seated, the hair twirl, multiple leg crossings, back arch, repeated flirting triangle (she looked at my right eye, left eye, and then mouth), and lips manipulation of an object (like a spoon); and when standing or walking a wide stance, a sashaying of the hips, and a distance stare.

As I waited in front of Astrid y Gastón at 7:56 p. m. (not that I was watching the clock) Alissa approached sashaying her hips, stared at me from many meters away with a sly grin, and then adopted a wide stance before we exchanged quick kisses on the lips. Once seated she must have curled her long shimmering blond hair at least a dozen times, crossed and uncrossed her legs more than a dozen times, manipulated every utensil she touched with her lips, and arched her back during each of three flirting triangle procedures.

I didn’t even need to think back on my Body Language 301 college course to exhibit the male equivalent of sexual cues which I had used whenever interested in a female. These included leaning toward her when we talked, pointing my toes toward her, playing with my necktie, raising my eyebrows at pithy comments, and “inadvertently” occasionally grazing her bare arm during conversation.

By the time that dinner was over at least I was ready to fuck on the street corner, and if I read the cues properly she was of a similar mind. While we were not direct or obvious, we mutually concluded that it would be great if we walked off our dinner by meandering to my condo for a nightcap.

When we entered the living room of my condo our previous lack of directness of what we were interested in happening instantly disappeared. As she pushed the oversized mammaries on her chest into mine and bit my neck I mumbled into her ear “I want to fuck you more than anything else I’ve ever wanted to do in my life.”

“What are you waiting for then, an engraved invitation?” she snarled as she simultaneously pushed her lips into mine and started unbuckling my belt.

I’m not exactly sure how we ended up naked on the floor of my living room with her on her back and her legs splayed as I feverishly tongued, sucked, and fingered her pussy and clit, nor how she somehow shoved my cock into her leaking pussy moments after her orgasm in response to my oral and finger action, or how her calves ended up on my shoulders as I pounded her pussy while sucking the nipples on her mammoth tits. Regardless, it was the most rewarding sexual experience of my life up until that time. When I came like a freight train into her expectant cunt she screamed like a banshee, and we both were rendered momentarily delirious.

Once we regained awareness, we chuckled at the desperation of our first mating — she called me a caveman I called her oversexed — naked we actually drank a glass of wine each, showered together, and then fucked again this time doggy, fell asleep, fucked in the spoon position in the middle of the night, and despite how sore our male and female parts were fucked again in the shower the next morning before breakfast.

It was probably the saddest that I had ever been in my life when I put her in a cab about 11 a. m. for her to return to her apartment. I probably would have dissolved into a pity puddle except for her parting comment just before we lip-locked good-bye. “We have to do this again — often!”


In short, Alissa and I did “do it again — often” over the next twenty months or so. I did inquire about birth control (she assured me that she got regular shots), and we both assured each other of no STDs — or even other partners — and we both even took a test once which came back completely negative. While we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company at lunch usually thrice weekly, on outings anywhere from hiking in the countryside to visiting Machu Picchu, and going to dinners and English language plays or movies, our most enjoyment was fucking each other’s brains out. Actually, for me at least, it was making love as often as it was animal fucking, but both were highly enjoyable physically and emotionally.

What was strange, however, was Alissa’s reluctance to commit to a live-in or secure long term relationship, or to ever invite me to her apartment (or even tell me where it was). Her excuse was typically her job and business travel, both of which intensely competed with me for her time, and a grumpy roommate. There was absolutely no doubt that I had fallen deeply in love with her, and from her actions and words I was certain that she loved me too; but there was a barrier that I couldn’t completely penetrate. However having sexual encounters with her on an average of three times a week, including one overnight (always at my condo), made me one sexually and romantically content fella.

That is I was content until the Friday night that Alissa was unavailable and I went with three of my Peruvian co-workers (two women, one guy, although it was not a double date since I had no romantic or sexual interest in anyone except Alissa) to a club, something I would never have done without friends who were fluent in Spanish since even after almost two years in Lima my Spanish was at best rudimentary.

After a couple of dances at the club as we were sitting at a table Sophia — one of my co-workers who had met Alissa at lunch a couple of times — tapped my elbow. “Isn’t that your friend Alissa?” she asked, pointing toward a couple that had just entered the establishment.

In fact it was, on the arm of a distinguished looking guy her height and probably in his late forties, his black hair graying at the temples. They looked like a couple. For some reason that I can’t explain instead of blowing up (like I had when I caught my almost-fiancé in a compromising position) I remained calm. I had to find out what was going on. That night, by having my co-workers Sophia, Adolfo, and Catherina spread around about $300 worth of my Sols, I found out that the couple were married, names Alissa and Brendon Winston (“at least she didn’t lie about her first name even though she did when she told me that her surname was Johnson,” I grimaced to myself).

Once I found out that information my evening was ruined. I gave my friends another $300 worth of Sols to have a good time and get cabs home, and left before I was spotted by Alissa.


The next week I brooded, trying my best to be efficient at work and almost succeeding. I never went to Inca for lunch and never answered my phone when Alissa’s number popped up. We had never exchanged office locations — except generally — so I was quite sure that she wouldn’t just happen to show up unannounced one day, but in any event had reception and security on alert in case that she did.

At the end of the first week of my new reality two things happened that spurred me into action. The first was that I was told that a promotion — back to the U. S. — was available if I wanted it. Although it was not presently any more money — when factoring in the lower cost of living in Lima versus Chicago — it was a definite promotion, and without Alissa I had no reason to stay in Peru. The second factor was that I became angry at Alissa’s duplicity where I was concerned and cheating on her husband — the break-ups of my parents’ and brother’s marriages again popping into my head — and was looking not just for revenge, but justice.

Since I had Alissa and Brendon’s last name and had pieced together other information about Alissa it took the Peruvian equivalent of a private investigator only a few days to find out everything about them that I needed to know.

The Saturday morning after receiving the P. I.’s report I showed up at Alissa and Brendon’s condo. The look on Alissa’s face when she answered the door was priceless. When she finally could talk, pushing herself out of her front door into me, she gulped “What are you doing here Blake?”