So my girlfriend and I went to Mexico last summer – late June – same time all the protests and shit were going on in Iran. In fact we watched most of that story unfold over the weekend on the news. Neither one of us had a vacation since we’d met and with me on midnights and her on days, saying hello in the morning as we passed each other was about as much contact as we had with one another till Friday night each week.
She’s a travel agent and whenever she sells a certain amount of nights to a particular resort or hotel they give her complimentary nights and she brought this brochure home – showed me all about Isla Mujeres, Mexico. The pictures were beautiful, of course – great rooms, excellent view and all inclusive. There were just random bungalows and beds – with linens – laying on the beach. It was a toss up between this or Jamaica, but she’d gone to Jamaica the previous year on a resort site inspection so she wasn’t too keen on going back again that soon. She left it up to me and in the end we went to Mexico.
All in all it was a fun trip and was more than worth it – had a great time and took lots of pictures, but found in the end that coming home is always the best part of any trip.
Just fucking with you – we did go, that part’s true. But come on, who would bother to tell that story – it sucks. The real story is much, much better – and I might add, humiliating as shit, for me.
So, we got down to Mexico – flew into Cancun – and after wading through a sea of topless college girls made our way to the tour van that gave us a ride to the resort. Fast forward thru the stupid, chit chatty shit and we’re at the resort, stepping thru these huge oak doors that took two guys to open. And they did, opened them for each arriving customer before a young women would come over with a glass of champagne for each of you.
She was kind enough to shoo the white guy trimming the hedges when he tried to make eye contact.
We go thru the whole check in process and get our bags up stairs, blah blah blah, check the place out and finally get settled in. And I mean this place was amazing – although they had metal safes in each room they recommended you place your valuable in, which gives off the wrong impression I think, but nonetheless. So we take the first day to just hang out, enjoy the room and roam the grounds – which I might add were huge, and secluded. We were at the very tip of the Yucatan Penninsula and from what I was told later, could spit on Cuba. The water was great, the pool was warm and the bar was in the pool. Yes, a swim up bar, fully stocked and free – remember all inclusive. But we kept it safe and kinda boring the first night, and retired early, trying to shake off the late flight and the fact I’d worked a midnight before we boarded the plane.
The next day, however …..
We woke up early and immediately went into Cancun to the flea markets. We were specifically warned to take no other taxi than the one the resort called for us – never said why, but I assume because they didn’t want some Man on Fire shit to go down. Either way, we were called a taxi and headed out into the wilds of Mexico. I will say this, it is a beautiful country, one I would visit often given the chance – culture is beautiful. But I did notice one thing. There was a very thin line dividing rich and poor, or at least it seemed. The entire drive into Cancun, which took about twenty minutes, was rife with large, upscale looking villas with shacks and shanties in their front yards. Seriously, it was like poor people built ramshackle nests in Beverley Hills, and it struck me as odd.
Then we reach Cancun and the cab driver parked and waited for us – just put the car in park, lit up a cigarette and hung his arm out the window.
So we went to check out the flea market which was more or less two perpendicular loops of shops – some outdoor only, others indoor and outdoor. And they had everything, so while my girlfriend was off buying Mexican Vanilla (which is supposed to be excellent) I wandered over to a small strip selling everything that was cock. No shit, this guy had a whole strip of wall devoted to dicks. Dicks of all sorts too – some were big, others small, each with just two balls. In all seriousness however, I had managed to stand next to the Willie Wonka of, well willies. I almost asked if he had any wickedly inappropriate children’s boat rides handy, but stopped when I wasn’t all that sure whether he’d whisk me away and mutilate me in some vague metaphoric way.
And he was a strong salesmen too – really stuck with me and pushed his newest stuff, and as uncomfortable as it started out, I will say he knew his product – the statues, not dicks themselves. He didn’t dive into cock philosophy or anything, he just knew what was up there, ya know, knew his stock. He showed me a statue of an Aztec jaguar warrior, with an erection bigger than him – hugging the damn thing and leaning in so the statue would stay up (no pun intended). Just to be clear on that last part the boner was bigger than the statue – not the guy selling it.
They had dick paperweights, penis salt and pepper shakers, phallic ashtrays, and even a cock clock – which is everything you’re imagining right now, including a swaying set of balls to tick tock the seconds away. At first it was surreal – especially so when I realized this stuff appeared to be all hand made again no pun intended – seriously). They had a pipe – made of wood and carved by hand – had to be, cause you could see the shave strokes. I mean, it could have been bullshit and if it was he must’ve kept the others in the back cause most all the items on his cock wall were singles – no mass-produced penises here.
But this trip – and story – isn’t all about Senior Peepee. That’s just what I did while my girl was buying vanilla and she eventually made her way back to me, noticing herself that we were in the midst of Dr. Cockenstein. The novelty wore off for her quicker than I would have guessed and we were making our way round the loop again. Basically that part of the story was just so I had a platform to discuss the Doctor up there, so that’s really it for that. No real ending either – except us looking at some ponchos with football teams on them and heading back to the resort.
Transition material is something I’ve made a note for myself to work on.
We’re back at the resort and ready to hit the one of seven different pools. I made a comment of that being excessive, which of course started a fight because she didn’t think I appreciated the trip, which made for an argument heading to the pool, and that started a series of back and forth stink-face looks, which then saw some quips back and forth before we had a drink or so each in us and decided to get along again.
I was drinking Greygoose and cranberry juice and she was drinking Long Island Ice Tea.
However, I will say this now – I am not a drinker. I will drink, socially or with friends to relax, but the instances where I have found myself drunk are few and far between. And the instances I have found myself in the condition I will describe shortly have been as rare as good amputee porn – which is to say not at all. I will also go on record as saying that when you don’t have to reach for your wallet while attempting to get drunk its very easy to do so – like hiding from a blind man. There’s very little effort that needs to be expended to achieve your goal – no monetary issues keeping you from it, and once I put my drink down it was almost immediately topped off.
Either way my girlfriend and I stood in waste deep water, warmed to a perfect temperature by the sun, drinking and talking to the many different people that swam by. A bulk of the first few conversations were with a newly married couple who had been drinking prior to meeting us. She was in the Navy and gorgeous – trailer trash gorgeous though, so take it for that. He was a classic looking Marine without the spaced out, fuck wad hair cut and was very articulate and well spoken. Good looking enough for me to regret the shift worker gut I was trying to hide under the surface since the sun had been overhead.
We – all four of us – pretty much kept one another company for three rounds and a bathroom break on my part – and as I broke the seal and pissed for what seemed like awhile my girlfriend got to see Mrs. Seabound topless, as – in a drunken state – she decided it was all well and good to just pop her top off. Her husband laughed, from what I was told, and helped her back into the bathing suit, informing my girlfriend she had been drinking and in the sun most of the day. I got an awkward smile and excuse when I got back and they left without taking their drinks.
Then it was on to a serious buzz and the company of a Canadian couple and a California couple. California guy said Hey and dude a lot and I mainly stuck with his skinned skeleton wife and talked about container shipments and ports of entry – which was tolerable because I hadn’t gone over the line yet, was still pretty well in control of sober. But by the time I got to the Canadian husband I thought it wise to bring up socialized medicine, while drunk – completely at this point. Lets call it shitfaced – but, I will say this – I feel I was fairly articulate. I say fairly because there are parts of the conversation where I was lucid and remember him giving me thoughtful answers that lead to more questions – I grew up with a drunk and this guy didn’t lead me to a soft landing with ahuh, ahuh, ahuh’s – he fucking thought before he answered.
So drunk or not, at least I was personable.
Now it was sometime within or after the socialized medicine discussion that I decided I needed to piss again – so, and this is all I remember, I got to the bathroom somehow and pissed. Next conscious memory that comes out of the blackness is me being heaved out of the pool by my girlfriend, after – I’m told – I had somehow wandered back to her from the bathroom. Then she had to basically pull my blacked out ass from the pool. I was later told I was vaguely conscious and at least attempting to help, although she said it hadn’t made a difference. Then, back into the blackness with a few flashes of going into the elevator. I remember seeing a maid but that might have just been the booze. Next thing I am aware of was being stripped down and put into bed.
Luckily Shaina had seen me slurring my way through the finer points of socialism and stopped drinking, probably looking at me passed out and shacking her head in retrospect.
Again, this was all fading in and out but what I do remember I remember vividly – besides it being corroborated later with the only other person in the room at the time. And I do remember her helping me pee – although I feel bad saying help, cause all I did was relax, the rest was all her and when that ended up spraying around like a firehose I remember her laughing and walking away. After that it’s a sea of blackness, and I went for a nice long swim. There were bits and pieces of what was going on when I turned over or repositioned, but, and thank god for her here, she put me back in bed before going down to the restaurant and getting dinner.
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
She eventually made her way back upstairs from dinner and I remember her coming in and getting undressed. I was rousing, trying to shake off the spinning long enough to get on my feet.
There was a nice jacuzzi bath in the corner that had a large sliding window leading to the deck so she ran a nice hot bubble bath – lighting some incense and relaxing, finally.
Now, when I found out we were going to take this trip and we discussed the features and all that shit she asked me what I would like to do most. The first thing that came to mind was shit on the bed. I know, that may come as off putting but hear me out on this. If its a five star luxury resort that, and this was in the booklet, advertises itself as paradise, you would think shitting on the bed would be a viable option. Personally I’d know if I was in paradise if I shit on my own bed and someone other than myself came in and cleaned it – new sheets, pillow cases, even the fucking ruffle at the bottom – didn’t even have shit on it, but it got changed. That – at least in my eyes – should be on the list of paradise amenities. Anyway, I wanted to shit on the bed. She got a laugh and so did I, but in the back of my mind I was still thinking about it up until about five minutes after she got into the jacuzzi. Just enough time to get settled and really begin to relax – just enough time to lean her head back and close her eyes – and apparently enough time for me to get up and out of bed, see her doing those things, and think it would be a good idea to go bounding over and hop into the jacuzzi – a ball of naked – with her. She had filled it high to begin with and I basically cannonballed a full tub, spilling the better part of its bowl out and onto the floor, soaking the nice white shag rug, the side of the love seat close to the jacuzzi, as well as filling most of the room with about an eighth inch of water.
Thank god for marble floors – otherwise they’d wish I had shit on the bed.
There was the usual girlfriend ‘you’re a dumb ass’ speech and huffing and puffing as we laid down some towels, but we almost immediately – both of us – had a good laugh.
Now, the bookend for this interesting evening was to be a sexual mishap I – THANK GOD – can blame on being, still, shit ass drunk. You see the television has a porn channel – and not what you’re thinking. This is Mexico buddy, and American does their porn with commercials and phone number ad sales for what basically amounts to you jerking off while someone talks you thru it. No way – not a chance – this porn channel was non-stop, looping, no commercial, no bullshit introduction, just fuck scene after fuck scene after fuck scene after fuck scene. Anal then blow job – orgy then three way – they were mixing it up with complete chaos on this fucking channel. So it was about a second knuckle deep into one of these movies that she managed to get that spot – and again, I decide I’m motivated enough to ruin the evening, so I proceed to saunter over and position my face against her crotch – and I shit you not on this one – gnaw on her clit. Ok, it was really her pubic bone but still, I was aiming for the clit. It didn’t take long either – I knew better, and even skunked out I still knew this wasn’t going to get anyone off. So I waited for her to wave me away and call in the relief pitcher – she rubbed one out and I ordered room service. Had beef consommé for the first time – it was nice.
The next day was recovery and relaxing. We took our flight out the following morning and as my girlfriend made her way thru the duty free liquor store I flipped through the pictures we had taken. It didn’t take long for me to – and this was a few pictures past us at the flea market – to stumble upon two pictures of me, curled around the marble toilet, quiet possibly in my own piss, completely naked and out like a broken light bulb. I say possibly in my own piss because I can’t remember which side of the toilet I fire-hosed, and it doesn’t really matter I suppose, least not at that point anyway.
I got a good laugh, and asked her to marry me a month later. See, I figure if she’s good enough to help me thru that while smiling AND fucked up enough to stop and take two, TWO, pictures of me laying in my own piss – then I need to be around this girl as long as I can be. She actually stopped and took a second picture to get a better angle – that’s either love or psychosis – so let’s cross those fingers for love, people.
We got back on the plane and came home, and she showed everyone who would look the pictures. She has more complimentary nights coming so we’re planning on going back next summer – and I can tell you this – this time I’m just shitting on the fucking bed.
She said yes – by the way. Assholes.