The Life of an Attention Whore

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Punta Cana - Martes

The second day of spring break always seems to start the same way for me. Last year I woke up in a bed with several other people. This year it was just me and JockJam, but I was being spooned - and she was in her underwear. For those of you who have yet to experience it, there's nothing quite like a sorority girl on sorority girl spooning, let your "Girls Gone Wild" imaginations run wild. And don't forget, every night before sleepy time in the sorority house, we have our daily naked pillow fight.

With JockJam's arms sensually encompassing me, I woke up to Shuff, Quazi and Stwin running around the room around 9 am chanting "Bang my bongo! Bang my bongo!" At this ungodly hour of the morning, I wasn't sure what a "bongo" was, but I highly doubted, even in my slightly hungover, groggy state that they were talking about beating a drum. After all we aren't described as "[former] nice girls [who got] letters which seem to act as cordial invitation to have other people with letters fuck them" for nothing.

"What's a bongo?"
"A vag."

Well, I guess that explains that. Shortly after that arousing awakening, we filled out the star chart and some of us headed to breakfast and then to the beach. Quazi, JockJam, Greenpeace and I walked t0gether only to be greeted by the sexiest sight we would see all vacation. An elderly man with a hairy back was walking in front of us. Naturally, we lowered our eyes to check out his ass.

"Can we just pause for a second?" JockJam asked stopping and staring.
The man was wearing a black speedo man thong, complete with his gray hairy ass exposed for all to see. I've never suffered from an eating disorder, but at that moment, throwing up breakfast didn't seem like such a bad idea.

And speaking of binging and purging, as soon as we hit the beach heavy drinking commenced once again for everyone - except me. Still slightly hungover, I sat on the sideline sipping a lemonade, jealous of everyone with more resilient stomachs than myself. However, two hours and a meal later I was back in business and ready to join my friends in our drinking crusade. Like the Knights of Templar set to destroy all that is unholy, we set out on our holy war to destroy all that is our liver and dignity.

By the time I arrived at the pool, war was already underway. JockJam who had been drinking particularly heavily all day had once again declared a war of inebriation on the boys. Not content with destroying them in chugging contests, she had declared a battle of the sexes in flip cup. Though this seems like a simple endeavor, the contest actually required a great deal of preparation. Unlike a frat house that is equipped for endless amounts of beer pong, flip cup, quarters and gang bangs, a family resort is not prepared to house the aforementioned activities - except maybe the gang bang.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw JustinBenjamin strolling up to us, with a large bookbag. Great choice JockJam, make out with the dorky kid prepared with the entire set of Encyclopedia Brittanica. He plopped the bag down on a nearby chair, and instead of pulling out War and Peace, he presented us with the Holy Grail of spring break. A light shined down from heaven as JustinBenjamin pulled out two sleeves of red beer pong cups and counted out cups for us, his disciples.

Quickly, the rest of us pushed two tables together and got on opposite sides. One of the boys ran back to his room and got an ice bucket to serve as a makeshift pitcher. When he came back with beer, we filled our cups and prepared for battle.

Lunchlady and Tattoo were the first to start. Their eyes met and the standoff began. Simultaneously they both tapped their beers on the table, touched glasses, tapped the table again and then brought the cups to their lips. The battle had begun. Yells broke out on both sides of the table while the next person to drink waited with their hand hovering over their cup in anticipation. Like Tanya Harding beat Nancy Kerrigan, the girls won round one of Flip Cup why the boys whined "Why me? Why me?". To show our good sportsmanship we extended our hands in consolation and then raised them into a fist pump.

"Losers get beer! Losers get beer! Losers get beer!"
Resignedly one of the boys headed to the bar to refill the ice bucket.

Several rounds, and 4 wins later, it was my turn to start. I challenged Speedo, the boy across from me to an individual competition via my usual trash talking and he accepted giving me the typical angry glare that comes with a rivalry. Down, cheers, down, drink. I pounded my beer, placed the cup on the table and flipped it over in two tries. Meanwhile Speedo was struggling with his flipping skills, and as we moved on to our third person, he just took the cup and placed it upside down on the table. Don't mess with the little Asian in flip cup - I will Chun-Li your ass.

"Oh, I thought you were going to beat me? What happened? It must be because you're from Jersey and Jersey sucks."
"I don't believe in stereotypes."
"I do, especially racial ones. And the fact that an Asian beat you in a drinking game...not a good sign"

Shortly after that victory, we got bored of the game and decided to initiate group chugging via toasts to the important people of Punta Cana.

"Here's to the men that are big. Here's to the men that are small. Here's to the men that think they're big, but really aren't at all. And the ones we raise our glasses to in the middle of the night. Are the ones that go from small to big and stick it in just right."

"All hail Punta Cana! All hail Punta Cana! All hail Punta Cana who's with us tonight. She's horny, she's sleezy, she's so god damn easy! All hail Punta Cana who's with us tonight. So drink mother fucker, drink mother fucker, drink mother fucker, drink! Why are we waiting we could be masturbating! Whooooo!"

These are our sorority cheers verbatim. And although shouting about penis sizes and masturbation in public might be inappropriate, assaulting the ears of a bunch of middle aged Europeans who subjected us to images of their naked saggy tits and hairy asses all week is simply payback, and a poor one at that. They can forget the chants but I can't burn out those horrifying images out of my head. In fact just writing about it makes me want to gouge my eyes out with chopsticks.

Mid-chanting Greenpeace came up to me and said she had talked to Hector and he wanted to meet us on the deserted section of the beach later on to smoke. When five o'clock came around Greenpeace and I took off down the beach. She informed me that it would be us, Hector and Samuel (Hector's cousin and one of the managers of the hotel). She also told me that they couldn't be seen walking with us because people would think that they're taking us to do something bad. At that point my Nathalie Holloway radar should've gone off, but the promise of "la mota" always clouds my vision. Greenpeace and I headed off down the beach to an area with almost no people around. Shortly after, Hector and Samuel arrived and said that we needed to go even farther away since there were too many people around. I looked up and down the beach and saw one solitary jogger about half a mile away...are you kidding me?

After already committing a mile's worth of energy to this endeavor, we agreed to walk a little further into a completely deserted alcove to smoke. Samuel opened his briefcase, as I watched praying it didn't contain the rope and knife of the American urban legend - or in the Domincan story I guess it would be a machete and some vine. Fortunately, he only removed a straw wrapper, which upon closer inspection I realized was actually a joint.

Despite the utopia like setting of smoking on the beach just before sunset, this paradise was quickly interrupted by the pushy Jamaican man on my left. My I'm-about-to-get-molested sense was correct, and as soon as the joint was finished Hector put his arm around my waist and tried to put his hand up my shirt.

"Umm, I have a boyfriend," I said removing his hand and inching away.
"He won't know. I betchu' neva been like dis wit' a black guy before," he replied moving closer
"And I don't want to," I mumbled. "Actually, my boyfriend is black and he's a national karate champion and one of the best in the world at sparring," I responded hoping that my African Bruce Lee boyfriend would scare him off.

And for those of you judging me because I smoked this guys stuff, and then wouldn't hook up with him...FUCK YOU! I offered to give him money for it.

Shortly after that exchange, I yelled "shenanigans" to Greenpeace (our keyword for "time to get the fuck out of here") and told the guys we had to be back for a dinner reservation. As punishment for my not putting out, Hector decided to walk along side me and tell me about his career as a musical artist and skills as a self-proclaimed combination of Bob Marley and Shaggy. Although I wouldn't want to hear those two in combination in the first place, Hector then began to sing me an impromptu freestyle love song. I wish I could've recorded it because he sounded like a combination of a Jamaican William Hung and a pubescent boy whose balls are midway through dropping.

Forty five minutes and a suicide attempt later, Greenpeace and I finally got back to the hotel (alone), and decided to hit up the dinner buffet before we went to our dinner reservation at 8:30. Two dinners in two hours is just how I roll.

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, six of us got ready to go out and headed up to the piano bar to meet up with JockJam and the "Richter*" boys of the Marist track team.

Shuff: Lunchlady, your boobs look great in that shirt!
Lunchlady: Thanks!
Me: Boobs. Oh my god! Boobs.
Everyone in unison: Let's get some boobs! Lets get some boobs!
Quazi, Lunchlady, and Greenpeace: These boobs rule!
Itty Bitty Titty Committee: These boobs suck!
Q, L & G: These boobs rule!
IBTC: These boobs suck!
All: These boobs cost $3000. These boobs cost $3000. Let's grab them!

After that typical Clio moment, we rejoined the real world and started playing drinking games with with the boys. Shuff and I sat down at a small table with Speedo, Borat, EmoBoy, PinkShades and a few others whom we decided to play a game of "Thumper" with.

Shuff: (banging on her legs) What's the name of the game!
All: (also banging on legs) THUMPER!
Shuff: Why do we play it!

Unfortunately, instead of getting me fucked up, the game only succeeded in giving me sore legs. However, the yelling did help succeed in emptying the bar a little bit more, making our drink retrieval process somewhat quicker. Mission accomplished.

If that first game didn't clear out the middle aged patrons in the bar the second game definately did. They started a loud game of "What the fuck" whose rules I'm not sure of but the chanting sounded something like an X-rated personal ad, with people yelling "Crazy fuck looking for a hot fuck. SWF need only apply."

By the time that game started, the entire bar except us had left. However, there's only so long you can slap your legs and yell about fucking (that's what she said), so we decided to check out la discoteca. But first a falling over, incoherently drunk EmoBoy decided to raise his glass in a toast to new found friends.

"Here's to the men that are big.....but really are not."

Was he trying to tell us something?

When we got to la discoteca, it was nearly empty except for a few random European guys (the sweaty, hairy, Eurotrash kind, not the hot and sexy kind). Some of the Marist boys were there too - dancing with each other. Due to the overwhelming exhibit of homosexuality (read: no one to hook up with, I'm not homophobic) we decided to head back to the bar, for some shots. A few shots and a drink or two later I was drunk enough to dance, but by the time we were back at the discoteca almost everyone had left.
Opting not to dance alone or with the creepy older men, Shuff, Greenpeace and I headed to the snack shack where we found some of the boys. The group of us sat down with them snacking on fries and telling dead baby jokes (What's the difference between a pile of bowling balls and a pile of dead babies? I don't move the bowling balls with a pitchfork). At some point someone mentioned that Borat had been in the bathroom for quite a while. Dropping the fry from my mouth I asked if he had gotten food poisoning, but they said not to worry, that he was probably just battling the purple-headed yogurt slinger in the bathroom. When Borat finally returned we asked him how his trip to el bano was, which resulted in a bizzare question.

Borat: What's the most amount of times you think I've jerked off in a day?

I made a guess, and was actually correct because strangely enough I've had this conversation several times before. The thing I didn't understand was why he was working on maintaining his record while on spring break? Aside from my group of friends there were sluts aplently around the resort, who with enough alcoholic persuasion would probably be willing to help him out. I guess seeing the saggy titted European women (or maybe the hairy assed men?) all day was just too much for him and he couldn't control his urges.

Dead baby jokes (How do you fit 100 dead babies into a bucket? Blender. How do you get them back out? Doritos) food, masturbation got boring quickly so the group of us decided to head back to the boys room for some more fun. Along the way we passed the pool I decided it was about time I took some clothes off, since as those of you who know me are aware I am "Naked all the time". Unfortunately PinkShades beat me to it by taking off his shirt and jumping into the pool. I followed suit, took off my shirt and jumped in with him. Being drunk I started swimming around and took off my skirt since it was hard to maneuver with the weight of the mini-skirt weighing me down. When I looked back towards Shuff to pass her the skirt to put on the side of the pool, I saw a face that I didn't recognize. As I was about to call out my typical, "Hey I'm drunk and I don't think I met you before" I realized from his scowl that he was actually part of the hotel staff. I unsuccessfully tried to put my clothes back on in the pool before getting out, apologized, and left with the Shuff and Greenpeace towards the boys'room for that gangbang that the hotel was equipped for and would be more approving of.

In the boys room, EmoBoy was predictably passed out. The boys started the typical shaming (penis on the arm, writing on the back, etc) and us girls, went to the bathroom together to assess what we wanted to do for the rest of the night. When we came back out the boys were giggling and running in and out of the room. I stepped out of the room and saw a bundle of blankets sitting in the hallway. As I stood there confused as to what the commotion could be about when one of the boys unrolled the blanked and Ta-Da! There lay EmoBoy completely naked in the middle of the hall. The boys were running around him taking pictures and Greenpeace joined in on the action. As for his earlier toast to "the men that are big..." - ask someone else because I'm not telling.
Because of all the laughing some of our enemies, the old European/Canadian tourists, in the adjacent rooms opened their doors and looked like they were about to yell at us. Momentarily stopped like a pack of deer in the proverbial headlights, we froze, and then all ran back into the room leaving EmoBoy where he lay. When we heard the doors close, we quickly snuck out and headed back to the sports bar where drinks were served all night. Afterall, they're European so a naked man in the hallway shouldn't be an issue for them. In fact, EmoBoy should be questioning what happened in those hours before he woke up and returned to bed since I hear in Europe they're fans of NAMBLA (North American Man-Boy Love Association).

At that point our night came to an anti-climactic end. Shuff went to bed, and Greenpeace and I had a few more drinks with the boys before they pussied out and went to bed at a pathetic 3 am. Like I said before, runner's can't drink (although I intend to get back into shape and disprove that), although apparently they're quite adept at being big babies.

*Note: "Richter" is a phrase coined by some homosexual on one of those faux-reality shows on MTV that focuses on nauseatingly wealthy teenagers with nothing better to do than hook up with each others boy/girlfriends and complain that their fathers only got them 1 new car for their birthday . This is apparently one of the favorite shows of these boys who all tattooed "RICHTER" onto their bodies, and said it at every chance possible. Sadly, I've heard my friends using the phrase post-spring break. Kill me please.



At 3:06 PM, Anonymous PinkShades said...

oh god. too funny.

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