What What in the Butt (Part 3/3)
Ladies, if you want to date a loyal man who will put up with any nonsense that you throw their way, and stick with you through thick, thin, and so thin it’s impossible to see with the human eye, then find a Cleveland Browns fan.
They’re like the real life version of the dudes who volunteer their wives to be banged on camera as they sit in the corner, watch and wank.
However, as awful as that team has been over the decades, tens of thousands still come out each Sunday morning to pack parking lots and begin drinking so that they can mentally handle the beat down that they’re about to witness. With such little success, tickets are cheap and readily available so at least once a year me and a few friends venture out to Cleveland for a weekend to catch a game.
What you just read has absolutely nothing to do with the main story. I just needed a catchy intro and some type of way to transition into how I ended up in Punta Cana.
While out in Cleveland, my poker buddy asks if I’d like to join him on his trip to the Dominican Republic. I can lodge with him all week for free on an all inclusive resort. All I have to pay for is my plane ticket.
In the words of Bubbles – “Does the Tin Man have a sheet metal cock???!!”
Punta Cana November 21st – 26th, 2017.
[My buddy, as well as lots of other local players, won a poker package that our home casino was giving away. Basically, if you won a satellite tournament you got a free entry into the Main Event, a room for two on the resort, and a thousand dollars towards traveling expenses. I’m not sure how many people from Pittsburgh I knew there, but it was probably around a dozen or so. Although there was another side plot that occurred during this week that may end up being a Tale of its own, for this specific story, I’m going to solely focus on what exactly lead to, and occurred during the night now known as What What in the Butt (part 3/3).]
Day 1 (Tuesday) November 21st – Setting The Tone.
Until this trip, I had never stayed at an all inclusive resort. Growing up, traveling wasn’t exactly my family’s forte and until I visited Vegas for the first time in What What part 1, I was on about a nine-year draught without any trips that I would consider a ‘vacation’. Needless to say, being surrounded by endless buffets and open bars had me feeling like a dog in heat let loose in an off the leash dog park.
The Melia Caribe Tropical resort was more or less separated into two different areas. On one side of the resort, laid most of the lodging, swimming pools, spa, fitness center, and a few buffets that overlooked the beach. To get to the other side that was vastly comprised of the upscale restaurants, casino, scattered bars, and main desk, we’d take a golf cart ride to skip the lengthy walk.
Even though each of my friends were here for a poker tournament, the last thing I wanted to do was spend a week in Punta Cana sitting around gambling. It was the same when I was on the cruise. Yes, I played some but nowhere near enough where it began to chip into the other interests I had. Of course, there are times when playing poker is the primary focus during trips, but never when I visit somewhere that I may never come back to again.
For this getaway, first order of business was day drinking at the pool. Posting up in the water with my buddy, Steve, I hop on Tinder and begin getting my daily swipes in. I’m expecting each match to either be a bot, a transgender, or a hooker. I still curiously blast away.
Sparking up an enjoyable conversation, ‘Emily’ and I quickly exchange numbers and carry our chat over to WhatsApp.
STORY BREAK:
Below is the exact message that I sent my buddies two days later. It vaguely covers the rest of Day 1, and hints at the events of Day 2. I’ll go back through and fill in details where needed.
“Dan’s 2nd Night in Punta Cana as told by…well, Dan.
Quick preface of the previous night:
Holy fuck I just realized how proud of myself I am..
Rewind to late last night and I had been steady drinking. I’m gone – GONE!!! (Tony G voice). All day and night while drinking I’m spitting super game via Tinder – super game. I coulda talked a cat off a fish wagon last night. I had numerous conversations going and two of them were hookers.
Not giving a damn, I was like you know what, imma buy one of these bitches – I arrange for her to meet me at the resort.
She shows up, but for reasons I can’t remember – security wouldn’t let her in. I give her money to get a cab back home, and let her on her way.
I remember being surprised by a few things about her:
- The way she looked – she was super gorgeous and didn’t look like a cock eating whore doing coke.
- The way she was dressed – super conservative. Jeans and a non revealing top.
- She was a nice lady! Like super nice.
This morning I go back and reread all of my conversations including the one I had carried on with this girl during the entire day.
Boys, as soon as the others told me that they were hookers, I stopped talking to them – the one that came to meet me wasn’t a hooker!!! My god is this bitch fine.
Now to the next night: Night 2…
The aforementioned female (Emily) shows up to the resort at 6:45. I was told earlier in the day that to have a guest, I have to sign them in upon arrival and get them (in this case) an afternoon pass that allows her to be in the resort from 6pm-2am for $100. I let my roommate know not to be in the headquarters at any time from those hours just in case my first half Hail Mary goes through…well, not only did it not go through but I threw an interception on first down because the damn resort wouldn’t let her in at all. Some really dumb rules I couldn’t really understand. But not to worry, I know how to work a situation…”
Let’s pick back up during the night of Day 2.
As I mentioned, I wasn’t able to get Emily inside of the resort, again. I was now faced with a crucial decision. Do I send this goddess on her way just like the night before, or do I hop in the taxi with a stranger, leave the resort without anyone knowing, and just go with the flow?
I like flows.
Taxi services in the Dominican Republic, at least in Punta Cana, are completely different than in The States. First off, I wasn’t even in an actual taxi, but instead just some dude’s car, similar to Uber. There’s no money meter calculating the cost of your trip, and there’s also no set fee beforehand either, but you instead just basically square up at the end of the night with cash.
Another difference is, you aren’t just dropped off somewhere, left, and then forced to order a new ride later on to get home. Your driver stays with you the entire time and doubles as your security.
I hop in the caravan (yes, another van story coming up) and put my life and trust in the hands of my Tinder date and a driver who can’t understand me when I speak.
I gotta say, out of all of the decisions I’ve made in my life, this has got to be one of the dumbest and most dangerous ones. I don’t watch, or follow the news. I’m also horrifically educated when it comes to ethics and culture, and I’m sure that some basic research into tourist kidnappings/murders would bring up an extensive history. Especially when a gorgeous girl is involved, luring tourists becomes exponentially easier and I’m obviously guilty as charged.
As our driver heads to some restaurant along the beach, Emily and I sit in the middle seat and I’m nervously on full alert for any sort of odd behavior. Once we arrive, our driver walks us in and has a quick chat with the host. As I already said, drivers down there truly have your safety and best interests in mind. At least, over the next few days, ours certainly made me feel that way. I’m assuming he knew the host (as time would go on, he seemed to have a lot of connections all over the area) and that he told him of our situation and to make sure that we feel comfortable. Which one way or another worked because hospitality was at an all time high.
The entire restaurant, food and all, was laid along the beach under a pavilion type structure. There were at least another three or four parties there that made me feel at ease about her choice. The seafood was kept frozen in open, gigantic like coolers sitting waist high and more less served as their menus.
Talking with Emily was amazingly easy. Conversation naturally flowed into lots of different, random, and meaningful topics, but damn was it hard to keep eye contact. Not that her attire as a whole was revealing, because it wasn’t, but her top had a circular cut out perfectly positioned showing a sneak peak of her back breakers. After a delightful dinner, we walk back to the van parked in a near by parking lot where our driver was waiting to take us to our next place.
Again, I have no idea where we ended up. At some bar on some street in some town that some dude drove us to. Wherever it was, and whatever it’s called, it’s clear by looking around that it was inhabited by mostly locals. More often than not when a new person would walk in, they’d have a couple of ‘hello’s’ and handshakes to attend to, and it seemed as though each time anyone would order at the bar, they’d do so by friendly addressing the bartender by name.
There was a very tiny dance floor illuminated by a disco ball that would see spontaneous bursts of enthusiasm from a few different girls, but mostly collected dust throughout the night. Emily and I sat on an elevated table for two along the wall. For the first hour or so, our driver posted up at the table next to us. Whenever he’d see our drinks nearing their bottom, I’d give him some money and he’d go and get us another round. Including the three of us, there was probably anywhere from fifteen to twenty customers at a time, and it was clear as day who the tourist was.
Stick out like a sore thumb?! It was more like the broken collarbone of a bulimic who tragically tripped on their way to their flushing waste basket. On a page full of Waldo’s, I was a steroid injected Leatherface hoisting my chainsaw above my head. I had a drawstring bag strapped around my back (my shorts didn’t have any pockets and I made sure to bring my worthless life essentials with me incase I needed to break loose and survive for a few days), black and white Air Jordan sandals, a white Air Jordan tank top, and tight fitting, green and blue, hybrid Oakley shorts. My color scheme looked like an angry child’s finger painting, just without the subconscious red blood splatter. The second I went to walk into the establishment, the bouncer looked at me in disbelief. My man (our driver) thankfully had my back.
After we settled in, our driver went to nap in his car that was parked extremely close to the entrance. By this point in time, I’ve been around Emily for a few hours now, and it’s becoming clear that as much as I’m loving her company, the vibe is mutual. Kissing becomes more frequent, and being the light sleeper that I am, the wet ‘muahs’ are more than enough to wake my little man up.
Here’s the thing though, not only am I in tight fitting, swimming trunk like material, but I’m also free balling (as usual). Understand something. No matter the size of the photo, projectors make sure that even the students in the back can clearly see the visual.
Getting awfully timed boners in high school gym class brought shame to even the the thickest of skins. Just ‘turn away’ and tuck it up under your waist band if you can get it to stay, and then be sure not to make any sudden movements no matter how badly you need an A because you’re flunking the rest of your classes.
Which ever way you went about it, I’m sure we’ve all handled our random boner incidents differently. Personally, I usually just address the elephant, or in this case muskrat, in the room. I actually think girls appreciate this for a couple of reasons. Most importantly, it’s physical proof that you’re into them. Secondly, if done correctly, you can confidently turn what otherwise may have been an awkward moment, into a funny one.
I can’t recall the exact play call, but I’m sure the design was something along the lines of – “Hey so I just gotta be honest with you about something. You’re incredibly sexy, and you turn me on a LOT. I can’t help it, so I’m just letting you know that I have a boner right now because as soon as I stop covering it up, it’s gonna be wildly obvious in my tight shorts.”
Of course it’ll occasionally backfire and you’ll know for certain that the cat is no longer in the box, but I tend to put my feelings, and my boner, out in the open.
Obviously with this story being written, my honesty was welcomed with an adventuring hand being placed over top of my groin.
(Quick little side note. It’s said that when it comes to boobs, that anything more than a handful is a waste. Well, when it comes to scavenging hands in my pelvic area, anything more than a handful is a miracle. Furthermore, and against my initial intent, I’m going to add a little comment that she made. Similar to in Spinach and Artichoke Dick, if any subscribers accuse me of having an enlarged member, your subscription will be immediately, and not to foreshadow or anything, terminated. You just have to envision how tight my shorts were and understand that you can’t let a baby gardener snake loose in the tunnels of an ant hill. Pointing to my sprinkler (that by now was ready to water the lawn but was clogged up as if the little menace neighbor kid kinked the hose), she struggles to find the word that she’s impatiently searching for. Pulling up Google Translate, she shows me her quick, on the spot, nickname. It reads one word – ‘Terminator’. I laugh and tell her to settle down or else the only thing that’s gonna be terminated is her sex drive once she’s let down.)
We stick around a little longer and get a few more drinks before our chauffeur comes back in to check on us. We collectively decide to finish our drinks before leaving.
On our way to the next stop, the van unexpectedly begins to sputter and breaks down. He pulls along the side of the road, puts on his flashers, pops the hood, and begins to access the situation.
With the hood raised blocking his view inside, and no interior lights on, we each seize this opportunity to unleash our built up sexual tension from inside of the bar. Not long into our tongue tied tangle, my little man’s struggling to break out of his enclosed cell. I grant him early parole, untie my strings, and slide my shorts down just enough where he can escape a free man and I have my bare ass on the seat.
Occasionally as he’s escaping through the courtyard, guards would flicker their search lights onto him and he’d have to take quick refuge. On more than one occurrence, our driver would open his front door or would suddenly come in through the back as he was on the phone calling for help and trying to get the van running.
For about the next forty minutes, I bobbed my bobber in and out of the water. Sadly, no matter how many nibbles I got, none of them were strong enough to take the bait off the hook, and soon enough the Game Commission showed up to close the park.
Debating on where to go next (it was getting rather late by this point), he tells us that he could probably get us in at a club. That he knows a bouncer/worker/or whoever his connect was.
By the time we get there, it’s probably nearing 1am and he’s unable to get ahold of his buddy. On the way back to drop me off at the resort, Emily and I schedule date two.
Day 3 (Thursday – Thanksgiving) November 23rd – Neck On the Beach.
I’m just gonna pick up in round three immediately after the bell has rung and ring girls are already outside the cage.
Emily wanted to spend the night on the beach – bring some alcohol, some speakers, and have a care free time amongst the waves.
She also wanted to bring her roommate (cousin), and so I had my buddy tag along. After eating dinner and doing a few rounds of Mama Juana, we stop at the gift shop to grab some snacks and liquor.
Now we go.
Emily, her cousin, and the same driver as the night before (fuck it, I’m just gonna call the dude Chip), pull up at the resort. We hop in, I greet Emily with a quick hug and kiss, and off we go to Bibijagua Beach.
This is where Chip came through in the clutch. Each of these beaches belong to private resorts. Unless you’re staying at the corresponding hotel, you’re not supposed to be on their sand late at night. Well damn it, my grandpa was a war vet, and his wife always told me that I was very special, so I’ll juggle tits on any turf I want.
We ‘arrive’ at the beach where Chip makes his own parking spot on a vacant street that was more of an alley, and he takes the lead.
We follow him through fences, sneak between narrow cracks, and proceed down deserted back pathways. At one point, we came across a perceived gate keeper. Not sure if he was security or what, but talking in Spanish, Chip has a word with him and we’re granted further advancement.
Once we’re on the beach, we lay out towels, alcohol, and set up shop. As we get settled in, we send Chip to go get orange juice and cups.
(The attached photo for this story was a random picture from this night that she later sent me.)
Collectively, we hang out for a little while until Steve and her cousin become more comfortable around each other, do some shots and drink some Screwdrivers, and then Emily and I take off for a walk along the beach. Holding Emily’s hand in my left, I got my camcorder wrapped around my right (yes, everywhere I go I take my camcorder with me), and record random spurts of conversation that leads to needing to turn the camera off.
Being the spontaneous girl that she is, she asks when the last time I’ve gone skinny dipping was. Answer was a lame never.
Now, I grew up a river rat and spent each summer boating as a young buck. Swimming in, and drinking dirty river water, as well as wading in the middle of the ocean never really scared me, but it’s a little different being bare ass naked. For both good and for bad.
You definitely feel ‘free’, but you’re also a little paranoid about losing that freedom. As my half staff boner oscillated with the flow of the waves, I felt as though I was luring Jaws into the shallows. Not to mention, it’s as if I was being held over top of a broken bidet that was stuck on its most powerful spray setting. Each time I had to jump with the tide and wade my feet below me, it was like being caught in a What What in the Butt spin off series.
Afterwards, we lay out a towel but regularly scheduled programming gets delayed as we notice a security guard off in the distance and another couple on a walk of their own. As they fade further into the night, I shine up Terminator and do my best to wipe myself down of all the sand. Before I’m able to get the entire house cleaned though, company shows up. I thrust my hips up in the air, and balance myself on the heels of my feet and one hand while the other wipes clean the rest of the interior. Not that quick dust up shit either. I turned into a professional detailer making sure to lift every couch cushion and dig in deep between the cracks. There wasn’t even lint left behind.
Unfortunately, after I offered a tour of the entire house, she declines my invite to my private room and so we stay on the first floor.
Visitation hours over, we head back to see her cousin and Steve for another hour or two before calling it a night.
Day 4 (Friday) November 24th – No grass in the Field, Then Play in the Mud.
No idea what the ‘normal’ consensus is in other countries, but here in The States date number three is commonly known as the ‘sex’ date. Whether it’s a sexual spin off of the phrase ‘third time’s a charm’, a rule of thumb spoken into existence, or by chance an actual subconscious standard, Friday November 24th 2017 marked the third date between Emily and me and I was hoping for the buffet after two days of devouring endless appetizers.
I ask her what she has in mind for the night and she tells me ‘disco n maybe some intimacy’. If the intimacy lies on the success of my disco, then I might as well just stay home and play Rambo with my ammo. Either way I’m gonna go out emptying my entire clip – no matter whose chest it’s into. Dressing up, I throw on some blue cargo shorts (I didn’t wanna have another boner mishap), an off shade blue t-shirt, and some Nike’s. No more draw string bag, tank tops, and sandals for this seasoned tourist.
Slightly behind schedule, Chip and Emily swing by the resort close to 11pm. All this did was give me an extra hour or so to pound Mama Juana shots. We decide to begin our night at the same bar from last time. After a few rounds, Chip takes us down the street to what must have been the ‘hot spot’. No idea what it was called, but it was vastly comprised of younger partiers, a DJ, dance floor, plenty of inside tables, and a large outside area. I lock our table up as Emily heads to the restroom. While she’s gone, a waiter comes over to assist me and I tell him I’d like to order two beers. I forget the exact amount that he said, but I quickly do a rough conversion rate in my head that equates to almost forty dollars.
Maybe I’m overly paranoid. Maybe I’m correctively cautious. Or, maybe I’m in fact a total fucking idiot for even being in this scenario. Here’s the thing though, I was caught in a similar situation when me and my buddy visited Playa Del Carmen. While I’ll save the detailed write up for the Tale of that entire trip, here’s the teaser – while out at a bar, I’m sitting at one table using my Google Translate to hit on a Mexican MILF, as my friend is at a different one conversing amongst a bunch of locals. One reason or another they ask him how much we’ve been paying for our buckets of Dos Equis. Whatever that amount was, it must have been too high and the locals had an issue with it so they take it up with the bartender/manager. As I’m typing mid sentence to send over my next fire line, my buddy rushes over and in a concerned, serious, this isn’t a time to fuck around tone, tells me “Bro, we gotta get outta here. Now.”
For years, I had gone with what Hopsin had told me – “If you wack and nobody’s confronted you on your bullshit then I will.” Oh how Baby Dick has matured. There will almost always come a correct time to confront somebody, but what’s most important is packing what they’ve done in the back of your mind. The newest joy I’ve come across in life is listening to Joey Diaz fill up his weekly podcast with one of a kind story telling and knowledge. He has a plethora of examples of karma coming back around years, if not decades later. As I said before, I waited eighteen years to get laid. I can easily wait a handful of years or more to inflict revenge.
My point is, there is no reason to tip my suspicion to this waiter that he’s clearly trying to rip me off because he’s assuming that I’m here all alone and my English speaking drunk self is just going to pay whatever he tells me it is for a few beers. I instead play stupid. In a sincerely confused tone I tell him that “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish and I’m not sure what you’re saying. My friend is in the bathroom and I’ll just have her order for us when she comes back.”
Might not seem like a big deal, but when you’re treading water in foreign countries it’s a game of inches and I don’t have any extras I can afford to lose.
Emily comes back, orders our drinks, and within time urges me to dance with her. Not that greasy, hip grasping, ass grinding, hip thrusting shit either. She wanted me to join in on some legit, well known, salsa like stuff. I figure if anybody is going to be embarrassed, it’s going to be her for bringing such a rhythm lacking white boy out with her.
In conclusion, I’ve never seen an actual train wreck, but I can now say that I’ve survived one first hand.
Over the next hour or so, we continue drinking while discussing where our next stop is going to be. We each agree that we wanna spend the night together, but it’d be best if we don’t go to her place since her cousin is home, and I was already 0-2 trying to get her inside of the resort. We head out and meet Chip who’s been waiting in the parking lot. She has a short Spanish conversation with him and let’s me know that he has a place that we can go to. We take off and I again cringe to her thigh for dear life.
I have absolute no fucking clue where we ended up, but I’ll do my best to describe what it felt like to me. Whether or not we actually did, it seemed as though it was about a forty-minute drive, with about fifteen of it being on deserted back roads. Making our way down an isolated dirt street, we came to a large building. I don’t know if it was a ‘hotel’ or an ‘apartment complex’, I just remember an empty front dirt parking lot and not a single light turned on in any window. If I recall correctly, there were a total of two stories and three separate buildings almost making a ‘C’. Chip escorts us into a second floor room where he shows us around the ‘apartment’. There was a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. If there was a living room, I was too drunk to notice it. I give him money for the room and we set up a time for him to come and pick us up in the morning.
Settling into the bedroom, Emily takes a few moments to get a quick shower. Inside of the room is the bed, two night stands, a few lamps, a large box TV sitting atop a dresser, and an oscillating standing fan. I nervously take a few minutes to make sure every window and door is securely locked and do a quick tour of my own to confirm that nobody else is inside.
Let’s get to the point though. Enough is enough and this is What What in the Butt for a reason.
Let me start off by saying that I ALWAYS carry a condom on me. We’re not allowed to drive without insurance for a reason and dammit homies, we should never leave the house without a baby guillotine in our pockets. The reward simply outweighs the risk. I’m sure I could interview twenty different dudes and the majority would have at least one story where they inadvertently cock blocked themselves four hours earlier. We’re beyond the essentials being only spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch.
If you’re like me, I have a designated pocket condom. You know, you have the one you keep in your gym bag, the one you keep in your center console, the ones stored away in your night stand, the ones in your coffee table so you don’t have to go to your night stand in the heat of the moment, and then of course, the one for your pocket on nights out. Yeah, it can only be thrown into battle a few times before it’s best to just throw him out because you have no idea if the wear and tear you put him through the past four times you did calisthenics inside of the club may have reduced the expiration date from three years from now to ‘use tonight for safest use’. I’ll be the first to admit, majority of my condoms don’t get used or expire – they instead reach their short shelf life wasting away inside of my pockets and wallet.
Nonetheless, I was once told that ‘in order to be productive, you have to be prepared’ and I’ll be damned if I’m the clown walking around in public without any holstered latex.
If this hasn’t happened to you, let me tell you about one of the most puzzling, head scratching, jaw dropping stories I’ve ever been told. A female friend of mine had been dating a dude for a few years, and even though they were sophomores in college, she was still a virgin. Their four-year anniversary (or whatever year it was) was set to fall on Valentine’s Day and she was ready to give him a shot at her uncontested title. She tells him to book a hotel room with a Jacuzzi, and she’ll cover dinner. Which, this alone blew my mind. I don’t care how broke you are in college. You come up with the money to take care of this special night in its entirety. Especially when the dinner is going to cost more then the half star hotel that he went onto book. I’m honestly embarrassed to even write about this dude and I’ve never spoke a word to him in my life.
Anyways, later in the night as they’re uncomfortably relaxing in their Hampton Inn master piece of a room (you read that correctly – The Hampton Inn) and sipping on the wine he was able to bribe his way into, she gets into the mood.
For clarity and copyright purposes, I promise you that what I’m about to say is one hundred percent true and accurate. Reader discretion is advised.
THE DUDE DIDN’T BRING A CONDOM.
I could easily splurge off six or nine analogies on how baffling this is. Honestly, a few moments ago when I explained the entire point of this night, even without the preface of the importance of condom carrying, that still would (or at least should) have been the very first order of work to come to mind.
GRAB SOME FUCKING WRAPPING PAPER!!!!!
I’m losing my temper just thinking about this. It’s a miracle she didn’t just use the wine bottle over top of his head to end their night, and his stupidity there. Actually, what I’m realizing, is that it’s a miracle on its own that he even brought a wine opener. Honestly, good lord. I’m not saying you have to bring sand to the beach, but this dude shows up in a parka and Timbs.
To cut a longer story shorter, he walked down to a near by gas station with his tail between his legs but by the time he got back she was already asleep off of the wine and remained a virgin (and eventually became a loyal Baby Dick Tales subscriber might I add) until her late twenties.
Back to butts.
Truth be told, I was nervous all night. It was as if I was playing in my first ever Super Bowl and I just couldn’t block out the flashing lights to concentrate. To be clear, I wasn’t a tad bit nervous about the girl I was with, but instead where I was with her at. I was honestly extremely paranoid and constantly thinking of the worse. This lack of concentration lead to a lack of blood flow which did not lead to a snuggly fit condom.
I took it off and it laid next to me like the shed skin from a snake. Once I collected myself, I tried to put it back on, but apparently the inverse property doesn’t apply to reusing dick covers.
Well, as I said, no grass in the field then play in the mud. Which for me was really no big deal since I had already stuck my fingers in the puddle. It really didn’t take much persuasion either. It very well may have been the easiest negotiation of my life. I came in with a low ball offer and it was accepted with hardly any resistance. It’s not even like I had to agree to meet in the middle and relive What What Part 1.
At this point, I’m going to assume that I don’t have to, nor do you want me to, go into detail about my snub nose penetrating in and out of her turd cutter. In response to my earlier comments, all I’ll say is that it wasn’t my chest that took the shots.
In the end, this was how at the ripe age of twenty-six, I embarked on my first anal experience down in Punta Cana with a girl I met on Tinder because the only condom I brought shed off of me because nervousness over powered my horniness in the back roads of I don’t fucking know where, since I decided to leave Cleveland for an inclusive resort, and then leave that resort for three crazy nights that involved mini-van blowjobs, skinny dipping on the beach, and ultimately, What What in the Butt Part 3.
(If I’m ever caught with two condoms in my pocket, you now know why.)