Archive | April, 2011

The Darker The Berry, The Sweeter The Juice

13 Apr
blackberry

flickr image by Steve Iodefink

I never had any intention of posting this story onto my blog. Initially, I didn’t think it was Dawn-worthy. However, today I sat down to write another Walk of Shame story, and realised that this tale really begs telling first, as it serves as the prequel…

Holiday sex.

Come on, don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I’m referring to. We’ve all heard the saying, ‘What happens on holiday stays on holiday’. Before you even set foot inside the departure terminal, you know you’re going to be bumping uglies with someone on this trip.

That cheeky packet of condoms nestled safely inside your suitcase knows it too.

If you’re single (or in some cases, even if you’re not), picking up is often rated pretty highly on a holiday to-do-list. Whilst on holiday, you tend to spend your days relaxing by the seaside, enjoying long leisurely lunches, and taking happy snaps of overrated tourist attractions. By night, you’re unperturbed and content due to your stress-free holiday existence, and no doubt fairly intoxicated thanks to the generous sampling of local alcoholic beverages.

Let’s be honest – it’s piss easy to pick up whilst on holiday. There are a number of reasons for this, and I have kindly outlined some of these below.

* Everyone is in a state of relaxation whilst on holiday, and every night is like a Saturday. Weeknights don’t exist. There’s no going home early because you have to work the next day and, therefore, there’s no end to the cocktail guzzling. Things get messy. Every night.

* Generally, you’re not as picky about a holiday-shag. This person isn’t going to meet your friends and family back home and they’re not a potential boyfriend/girlfriend. Hell, they’re not even likely to spend the entire night in your room, as hotel policy would see you charged for having an extra guest stay. Realistically, when it comes to long-term prosperity, the furthest this ‘vacationship’ is likely to go is the acquisition of a new facebook friend.

* Other holiday-makers begin to look more appealing when you’ve got a few cocktails under your belt. This means there’s far more ‘attractive’ potential conquests to choose from.  And considering everyone else in the bar is also pissed, you’re going to look more tempting to them as well. Sunburn and all.

* Everyone else has a packet of condoms burning a hole in their suitcase, too.

My friend Lucy and I were holidaying at an undisclosed beachside destination. One evening, after a few too many cocktails, we decided to make our way to the local sailing club. Here patrons delight in dancing drunkenly on the sand while their ears are molested with an abundance of pop hits, and their tastebuds drowned with hearty measures of fruity cocktail buckets.

Within moments of arriving, an Italian Stallion had accosted Lucy and was wowing her with photographs on his camera, which largely consisted of him posing pompously in front of a waterfall. Leaving the flirting pair for a few moments in order to empty my bladder, I returned a short while later to find the two of them crashing around the dance floor; their tongues sloppily entwined.

I released a deflated sigh. It seemed I was now the third wheel.

Lucy detached her face from the Italian Stallion long enough to give me a friendly little wave and begin stumbling in my direction. However, I raised my hand to indicate for her to stay put.

I had never been in the business of cock-blocking my friends, and I wasn’t about to start now.

I wandered off into the throng of party-goers, protectively clutching my ridiculously over-sized cocktail bucket. I soon found a pleasing vantage point near the edge of the dance floor, from which I could easily scan the crowd and calculate my next move.

My already tipsy retinas scrutinised the male clientele, looking for one suitable enough to waste some of my dazzling pick-up lines on. However, no-one seemed worthy. As a result, I began drinking my cocktail with more gusto; figuring the more I drank, the more attractive the male patrons would soon become.

It was about this time that Lucy and her Italian Stallion staggered their way over to me. Only now they had a wingman in toe. I can’t remember his name, nor recall any prominent features, bar two. Firstly, he was at least a head shorter than me. A girl of my height (which for the record, is merely average) wouldn’t know whether to blow him or breast feed him. And secondly, he was sweating profusely. Not unlike a paedophile in a playground.

To sum it up; I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. There just weren’t enough cocktail buckets in the world.

I’ll admit that I was rude. When the Italian Stallion introduced me to his sweaty little friend I was barely civil. I think I muttered a curt, “Hi,” before hastily turning in the other direction. But you’ve got to be cruel to be kind sometimes, and I certainly didn’t want to give this tiny sweat-fiend the misguided idea that I was even somewhat interested.

This is when Simon appeared. Like an angel from the heavens, an oasis in the desert, a parking spot in a Saturday morning Westfield car park.

His timing was impeccable. As soon as I had turned my back on the perspiring midget, Simon the dark-skinned saviour was by my side. I don’t know where he had appeared from, but I instantly knew with my whole being that I was mercifully glad he was there.

For a moment, neither of us spoke a word. We simply eyed each other up like hungry youths in a confectionery store. I was the white milky bar to his black liquorice stick.

His beautifully smooth skin was dark like rich mahogany, his perfectly straight teeth pearly white, his well sculpted physique deliciously encased in tight-fitting t-shirt.

I don’t know who spoke the first word. Though, let’s be honest here, it was probably me. But within moments he’d refreshed our drinks and we were comfortably ensconced on a sun lounge down on the sand.

It wasn’t long before our greedy hands and hungry mouths found each other, and a mere half an hour (at best) before I’d hustled the hotel key from Lucy.

I’ll spare you the graphic details. But let’s just say the sex was good. He was young, fit, eager and well-endowed. But he was also a talker. And not a dirty talker.

Rather, a sweet talker. The worst kind.

He told me he loved me. Over and over and over again. I tried to ignore it, hoping that it was just something weird he said when he orgasmed. But then he told me how I was the third girl he’d ever slept with. He suggested (a number of times) the possibility of coming to visit me in Sydney. He insisted on turning on the light so he could “stare at my beautiful face”. He expressed his desire to one day sire a child with a white woman, as he felt the combination of skin tones would create an attractive offspring.

Uh-huh. Alarm bells. And a pretty severe case of de ja vu.

I had to get this guy out of my room. I told him that Lucy would be back at any second. He informed me that was unlikely as she was undoubtedly spending the night with the Italian Stallion. I told him I wasn’t feeling well. He informed me that he’d stay and look after me.

I told him to fuck off. Well, not quite, but I made up a pathetic excuse about not being able to sleep with someone else in the bed. Finally, I got him to reluctantly leave. But not before he’d tried to make plans for the next day, and the day after, and the day after that.

I informed him that I’d be busy with Lucy the next day. He wasn’t happy about this and made it known. Scared he was about to stab me in the kidney or throw a cup of acid in my face, I informed him that I’d probably be at the sailing club again the next night. When he inquired as to the time I’d be arriving, I gave him a vague answer about it being around the same time we’d met that night.

After he blessedly left, I hastily locked the door behind him.

Lucy reappeared at some point and crawled into her bed, still clothed in her attire from the night before.

Sometime after noon, insatiable hunger and the need to swap stories drove the pair of us from our beds. To reach our wing of the hotel, guests had to walk through the restaurant. As Lucy and I trundled through the restaurant, looking rather worse for wear, I felt the disapproving eyes of the restaurant staff upon us, and overheard a couple of hushed whispers in our honour.

It seemed it wasn’t common practise for two girls sharing a room to have only one girl turn up to sleep in the room at an ungodly hour, accompanied by an unknown male. Closely followed by having her male conquest then leave in the early hours of the morning, exiting through the restaurant as other hotel guests dined on scrambled eggs and tropical fruits. Topped off with having the missing girl then appear not long afterwards, still clad in her clothes from the night before.

However, their low opinion of my nocturnal activities was only going to get worse.

As previously mentioned, this tale is merely the entree. Stay tuned for the main course…

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