Greek Island Adventures

 

A rumor:

 

"Dude, you have to go the Greek Islands. It's ******* beautiful, and the girls are all hot and down to ****. Dude, I'm telling you…"

 

Like any fool with a wiener, I believed this rumor. The guy who started the rumor showed me several dazzling pictures of an extravagant beach party. His proof was enough justification, so a month later, when it came time to decide on a vacation, I remembered his pregnant words of untold stories, and I booked a trip to the Greek Islands. Just me. There would be no roll-dog, nor a soul in the Mediterranean who knew of my mysterious past or sneaky intentions. The unknown is so ******* sexy.

 

 

Athens

 

 

After a 13-hour flight and over 20 hours of absolutely no sleep, I finally touched down in Athens. When I arrived at my hotel a little after noon, Athens time, the cab driver tried to pry an extra three Euro from me with the pitch, "It's the driver's fee." I refused and gave him the agreed 30 Euro we had pre-arranged.

 

The hotel offered little relief from the 100-degree heat. The hotel was supposedly four-star, but the lack of air-conditioning in the lobby and my room demoted it to one-star in my book. Marble floors, flat-screen televisions, and cool leather couches do not compensate for ****** ventilation. To make matters worse, the hotel was empty, and after talking to the deskman, I discovered that my tour didn't meet until evening the next day. I had idiotically miscalculated the dates when booking my flight, and I arrived a day too early.

 

The hotel was neighbor to a gas station and another hotel. The nearest commercial buildings were over two miles away. My screaming hunger dominated over my exhaustion, and I had to eat something substantial before I considered sleeping. And besides, I was in a short race with jet lag. I made the blistering 30-minute walk to a shopping street, only to accumulate a fiery case of itchy balls and ***. I settled on an overpriced Italian restaurant only because the air conditioning was extra cold. I sat down and allowed all of my body sweat to evaporate, eating and leaving 90 minutes later.

 

I arrived back at my hotel freshly soaked with a new coat of sweat. I took a shower and went to bed at 5pm. My sense of adventure would be put on hold for the night. When I woke, it was 4am.

 

I passed the next 14 hours reading a bland Surfing magazine and watching BBC—only because it was the only English-speaking channel. The meeting was at 6pm, but I planned on getting there at 6:10. While I was aware that "being late" was selfishly communicating to everyone that my time was more valuable than theirs, I was also aware that this wasn't a date and sure as hell wasn't a job interview. I wouldn't call it "fashionably late" because I'm not fashionable. If anything, I would call it "sleazily late," because I only decided I wanted to be late for sleazy reasons: Most chicks find "late guys" to be mysterious or "not giving a ****." That was the first impression I was going for. I have theories.

 

With the exception of a girl who was later revealed as a scatter-brained flower child, I was the last to arrive at the meeting. As I entered the meeting room of my 49 tour mates and made my way around the side to the back of the room, I secretly took note that the guys spared me nothing more than a quick glance, but roughly 75% of the girls gave a good three-second stare. The other 25% kept their eyes transfixed to the front of the room, acknowledging me not. It is in rooms like these that I become judgmental. After using my strategic scanning and peripheral vision skills, my mental notes were as follows: 1) Six girls were attractive; 2) Of the six attractive girls, only three of them gave me a stare; 3) The staring 75% were probably horny and looking to ****—perhaps not me, but definitely a male; 4) The non-staring 25% were closed-minded followers who always dumped their pessimistic views into adventurous conversations.

 

After going through rules and itinerary, our entire tour walked to a lounge 25 minutes down the road in an effort to break the ice. I bounced around from person to person, questioning and answering "Where are you from?" in my best interested voice. I wish I could say that I genuinely care about where strangers are "from," but I can't. No real knowledge or growth comes from knowing such information, but I ask that question voluntarily for the same reason I read the first chapter of a 600-page novel. Background information is essential, but it's the rest of the book that interests me.

 

I wasn't stupid enough to blow my load talking too long to any one girl, but some of the other guys did. There was this one dipshit who was so aggressive that he went from girl to girl, forcing the longest conversation possible. He didn't talk to a single guy. He had short, curly black hair, rosy cheeks, glasses, a tucked in dress shirt, slacks, and loafers. He looked like Egon from Ghostbusters. If there were one way to repel any girl on a two-week tour, it would be trying to hook up with them on the first night. Needless to say, Egon was a very lonely man for the rest of the tour.

 

I left shortly after, waking up early the next morning having successfully trumped the jet lag. All 49 of us did a bus tour through the city and hiked up to the Parthenon where we took pictures and stood before the Greek Gods. No one went out that night because the 4:45 early-morning bus departure to Athens port lingered ominously.

 

Mykonos awaited.

 

 

Mykonos

 

 

The six-hour boat ride to Mykonos ended in the congested loading area with a giant mansion-sized door opening vertically downward to a broad dock. Motorcycles zoomed down the ramp the moment the Star Wars door connected with the dock. As I set foot underneath the blue Aegean sky, I was greeted by the famous Mykonos wind, my swagger violently altered. I walked a quarter-mile to our awaiting island bus, and the 49 of us made the 25-minute drive to our resort.

 

Though blemished with overwhelming winds, our beachside resort was stunning. Lacquered in traditional Greek blue and white paint, the multi-acre resort was home to over 100 rooms on a hill slightly overlooking the sea. The lobby was modernized with internet, lounge couches, and a gift shop. Just outside the lobby was a pool already lined with American douchebags and girls in bikinis. The seven-Euro-per-beer resort bar stood adjacent to the pool. Already thinking ahead to the night, I strolled through the pool area, went to my room, and took a nap to recharge.

 

My roommate situation was a mess. The second night in Athens a feminine fellow named Wally was my roommate. But when Wally found out that another guy had an entire room to himself, he spoke with our tour manager and somehow swindled his way into the only single room on the tour. My guess was that he was homosexual and looking to have several one-night-stands while on the island—Mykonos is supposedly world-renowned for its gay population; however, with the exception of a place called "Club Ramrod," I never really noticed much gayness whatsoever. I'm sure Wally would disagree.

 

Meet my new roommate: Raymond. We'll call him Ray. Ray, 30, was a tall, sweet man from Honk Kong and venturing out of China for the first time in his life. While he was a master at fixing gadgets, Ray lacked interpersonal skills. He also moronically let Wally take his room. He had a loud, awkward voice, and he held back forced laughs after every humdrum question he asked—all of his questions were yes-or-no questions irrelevant to anything having to do with anything. One time while I was taking a dump, he yelled from his bed, "Dave, have you seen The Simpsons Movie?"

 

One thing Raymond definitely had was tact; perhaps not verbally, but he understood that when I told him I was taking a nap, it was quiet time. He went about his gadgets silently, often leaving the room, and he considerately turned off the lights and TV. This combined with the absence of snoring made Ray a good roommate.

 

I awoke fresh from a two-hour siesta to discover that everyone was already pre-partying at the pool. I took a quick shower, got ready, and headed down. There were two other tours staying at our resort, packing the pool area with nearly 150 people. Being out of the loop, I soon discovered that there were three buses heading to one of the best clubs on the island called "Cavo Paradiso." I cracked open my first beer and began my night.

 

The club was impressive, situated on a cliff overlooking the harbor. There was a pool in the middle of the club surrounded by three levels of walkways, patios, and bars. For the night I went 2 for 26 but just make-out sessions. The first girl, a hot 22-year-old punk rock chick, "had a boyfriend," but I called her bluff and continued to pursue her until she caved and started kissing me. Ten minutes into our make-out session, she was ******** away from me mid-make-out while my eyes were still closed. I opened my eyes to see three vicious cockblocking ******* drag her through a crowd. Story of my life.

 

Her "boyfriend" comment amused me. I've never understood why girls choose to repel guys even though they are attracted to them. These "tests" should only be reserved for the dating world. Why these girls choose to test guys at clubs thousands of miles away from home perplexes me.

 

The second girl was a 37-year-old Greek Australian. She had apparently come to Greece looking for love or something. While staying at our resort, she and a 24-year-old bartender had gone on a date one night after his shift for a candlelight dinner. She told me he was supposed to meet her at the club, but I convinced her that I was cooler than him. We made out but not without apprehension. Every 15 seconds or so, she would stop kissing me and look around the club to see if he had arrived. Then she would kiss me some more. We made out in intervals ranging from six seconds to 45 seconds. Things never got further because of the bartender-lovebird factor, and the fact that her hideously overweight roommate—who was also staying at our resort but stayed in the shade by the pool fully-clothed reading Harry Potter all day—was standing stationary, staring at us like one of those haunted house paintings where only the eyes move. I let Harry Potter win the battle, and I hopped on the next bus home. When I arrived back at the resort, the sun was about to rise.

 

The next morning I walked into the cafeteria for breakfast wearing the same green T-shirt from the night before. I sat down with 10 people from my tour, and within five minutes, I was bombarded with questions and comments. "So who was the cougar you were making out with?" "I saw you by the bathroom eating some chick's face." "Damn, Dave, you had quite the night."

 

Bastards.

 

At least three of the ten people at the table had witnessed me hook up—all three were girls; two of them were of the "attractive six." First of all, I could automatically assume that none of these girls would hook up with me now. Secondly, thanks to these blabbermouths, word of my sleaziness would inevitably find its way to every female on the tour, thus rendering my "sleazily late" thing useless. I wish I could say that I was devious and strategic in my way of womanizing, but unfortunately all it took was a few blabbermouths to make me look like a dirtbag.

 

I spent the day lounging at the beach where a hot Australian brunette with godly blue eyes was crossed off of my list of "the attractive six I had a chance with." It didn't help that she was a member of the 25%-non-staring group. Every time I spoke, she turned away. When I sat in one of the foldout chairs next to her, she crossed her legs the other way. She didn't even look at me once. She was far too smiley and friendly to be playing the hard-to-get thing, so I assumed the worst. Either I was on the wrong side of the spectrum of her "type," or she had also secretly seen me making out at one point last night, now judging me as outright scum.

 

The itinerary for the night was "party at the resort club." After waking from a nap a little past 10pm and then getting ready, I didn't arrive at the party until 11. The party was a major disappointment. The "club" was a joke; just because the music was blaring didn't make the place "happening." And the beers were just as pricey as at a real club. The once crowded resort of 150 people apparently only consisted of 45 on this night, Ray included. Maybe eight people circulated in and out of the dance floor, and all the cute girls from the other tours were already hooking up with dudes. I tried to round up some people to head to a club, but it was the same bullshit with everyone: "Nah, I think I'm just going to hang here for the night." The guys on my tour all said the same damn thing. **** that. I didn't travel all the way to Mykonos to have a "chill night."

 

After probing through everyone on my tour, I finally found an Australian guy on my tour named CJ who said he and "some of the girls" were heading to a club. I hung around this guy like a hungry rottweiler. He led me to the lobby where three other girls—two of whom, both ugly, were at that tragic breakfast table; the other was the girl with the godly eyes—were waiting on a cab. The ****** thing about Mykonos was that despite being consistently populated with over 30,000 people, there were only 50 cabs that circulated through the island. If anyone out there is battling a recession, I recommend buying a yellow car and moving to Mykonos. You will flourish.

 

After waiting in the lobby for well over an hour, the cab finally arrived. The driver refused to take five, so as suspected, the girls all made sure they got in first. It is in times like these that I wish I was a brutal *******; I would have thrown all three of the dumb ******* out, told CJ to hop in, and the two of us would have driven off triumphantly. But instead of acting like the rottweiller I claim to be, in that opportune moment of radicalism, I shrunk to a poodle. CJ and I stood beside the shotgun door momentarily, both realizing one of us would be assed out. CJ had priority over me since he hadn't been dubbed as scum yet, and it was he who the girls liked more. I ceded the seat to him, and stood by the road like a middle school loner and watched the cab drive away.

 

I was stranded. I had two options: call it a night or party at Ray's nightclub. I was wide-awake, so I went back to the club to fish for any scraps that remained. I was delighted to find a fresh batch of girls sitting around a table. I went inside to the bar, ordered two beers, pounded half of one, and then creeped my way back outside. The table consisted of six chicks—two of which were cute—and three dudes. The dudes were inexplicably situated around the ugly girls. I grabbed a chair and sat behind the two cute girls, slightly out of the circle. The two girls looked at me for a moment, and before I even had time to say anything, one of them asked in an Australian accent, "Are you down to go skinny dipping with us?" I was back.

 

"Yeah, let's go," I said without hesitation. As it turned out, the skinny-dipping was all talk, so in the meantime I focused on conversing with the cute chicks, eventually directing my attention to the cuter of the two, a busty brunette named Amy. Amy oozed sexiness, so I seized the opportunity and convinced her to go skinny-dipping with me immediately. "These guys look pretty flaky; let's just go right now," I said. She smiled and acted like she was having trouble getting up, beckoning me to offer her my hand. I lent her my hand; she grabbed it; and off we walked, a pair of hopeful *******.

 

I went naked; she went topless. I swam around in the 80-degree pool water, coming to rest at the edge of the pool where I pulled her in for a make-out. Moments later, a lanky security guard threw us out. "Spa only guys," he said. I got out, semi-hard wiener flopping, put my shorts back on, and walked to the spa—there were actually two spas, both circular, adjacent to each other like boobies. The spa was mysteriously colder than the pool. I took this as a good thing; there was probably less ***** floating around. We got naked again, and she started yanking on my ****. A minute later, an unattractive couple hopped in the other spa and began hooking up violently. Bathing suits were ripped; flesh was bitten; hair was pulled; and moans resonated. They were so ferocious that I was beginning to get uncomfortable. They reminded me of vampires. "Let's get out of here," I told Amy. We got dressed and discussed our options.

 

"My roommate is sleeping; we can't go to my room," she said.

"We can try my room. I think my roommate may still be out," I replied, my hopelessness concealed.

 

I knew my room was a dead end. Ray was obviously crashed out at that point. My master plan was to get her wet to build up the anticipation for wild sex. Also, the walk to my room gave me time to come up with an acceptable sex venue, which I failed to do in that time.

 

When we arrived at my room, not only was Ray inside, but he was snoring. Monstrously.

 

          "Uh, well I guess that's it then," she said, her body squaring away as if to leave.  


No!!!!

 

Then, out of pure wit, instinct, and experience, I came up with something brilliant.

 

I walked towards her, no intent of slowing down, and said, "Let's go to the beach." Had I just stood there and asked, she would have seen my fear of rejection and lack of poise and possibly turned me down. Walking briskly while talking confidently was my way of deciding what we both wanted. She grabbed my hand and declined the stairs with me as we made our way to the blackened sea.

 

Before we ******, I somehow got talked into going skinny-dipping in the ocean. It didn't last long when we realized the water was four times colder than the pool. In addition, shrinkage overtook my penis. My penis felt like a noodle as I wavered out of the water in obvious discomfort. I built it back up to normalcy with some foreplay, but still, the air was cold too. Then I realized sand was everywhere—in our hair, between our naked bodies, on our backs, in our ********. We eventually ****** on the foldout chair, but it was a major disappointment. It was so bad that a shadowy figure with a metal detector strolled by us mid-****. We both covered up underneath our sandy towel and waited for him to pass before we proceeded further. Ultimately, with frostbite lingering, my wiener maxed out at 70%. I couldn't even finish, so she sucked me off instead. "Sex on the beach" is better fit for fantasies. Once it becomes a reality, provocative dreams are shattered into a grainy pile of sand.   

 

The following day was being advertised as "The big day." Supposedly, there was a huge beach party at a place called "Paradise Beach" on the other side of the island that began in the late afternoon. Buses were scheduled to leave at 3pm. I rested up, then put on my flip-flops, no shirt, and wore the same board shorts from the previous night. I was ready.

 

We began drinking at a beach bar called "Tropicana." The beers were relatively cheap, giving me more incentive to consistently double fist. As the minutes passed, the people began to pour in. An hour and four beers later, the music was blasting, the place was packed, and hot woman were dancing on the bar. The party had begun.

 

There comes a time in every great buzz that is the summit in the parabola of our bliss. At this point, rules go out the window, self-consciousness evaporates, and we become lost in the cadence that is life. My summit approached midway through my fifth beer. I began doing something that I rarely do: I started dancing…with nobody. They played Bob Sinclair's "Love Generation," and I went absolutely berserk. I got up on a table in the middle of the party, shirt off, and started dancing. I was dancing as if possessed by Justin Timberlake just after he ****** Britney for the first time. Three of the blonde Australian girls on my tour—one of them was part of the attractive six, the only one I still had a chance with—got up on stage behind me and started dancing with me. I considerately ignored them and danced with nobody. Chicks were eyeing me; my tour mates were pointing in approval or high-fiving me; and the blonde Aussies were requesting me to pose in pictures with them. On that July afternoon, I was the party.

 

The three blonde Aussies left the table for a pee break and were quickly replaced by another hot blonde Aussie—not on our tour but staying at our resort. Ten seconds later, the new girl and me were making out on the table. I paid no regard that my entire tour was watching. I had already blown it anyway. As for hot Aussie who went pee, **** it. She left, I was horny, and her nameless substitute was doing a fine job in her stead. The new girl and I continued to indulge.

 

Then something happened. Something I will never forget. When the new make-out girl left for a pee break, the hot blonde Aussie grabbed my arm and asked, "Do you want to split a bottle of wine with me?" I agreed. She returned shortly with a wretched bottle of white wine. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. Lost in my seemingly never-ending buzz, I mindlessly swigged that bottle empty over the next half hour. I had no idea that my parabola of rapture was on a rapid descent. 

 

During one of my pee breaks, the make-out Aussie chased me down and convinced me to come back on the bus with her. I had been dancing for nearly two hours at that point, and my buzz had transgressed into "severely drunk." I followed her lead beneath the setting sun.

 

The bus was loosely packed with drunks like me. Then I noticed something. In the back row was a lone dark-haired, blue-eyed cutie staring at me. Our eyes remained transfixed as I gravitated to them like a junkie to a needle. The make-out blonde eluded my short-term memory as I mindlessly walked to the back of the bus, sat down next to the blue-eyed hottie, and began making out with her using body language and telepathy. I said nothing. She stopped me after ten seconds and said, "Wait a minute, you were hooking up with my roommate." I laid down on her lap, and moments later the make-out blonde walked up to us and gave the blue-eyed hottie a giant wet kiss. A ********* was certain; all I had to do was stay composed.

 

I tried. I really did. I tried to fight the excess spit. I tried to make the spinning stop. I tried to be energetic when we got inside the girls' room. I tried to stay standing. I tried to make an effort when the girls got on top of me and begged me to get up. I tried to keep my eyes open. I tried. But my end had come. The girls stopped begging and fled to the resort bar, leaving me alone in their room. I eventually awoke only because I had to take a massive leak. After *******, I exited the room and slowly inched my way over to a railing and vomited my fantasies into the plants. I went back inside the lobby and collapsed into a couch, a pathetic excuse for a single male.

 

Two resort employees awakened me sometime that night. They were laughing at me. They probably knew of my blown *********. Everyone probably knew. My day had come crashing down with the magnitude of the RMS Titanic. My once-legendary parabola of ecstasy on which I traveled now looked something like this:

 

I woke up around three in the morning. As I lay dazed in my bed, the disappointment of the previous day hit me in the face like a powerful *******. My **** and balls were about ready to pack their bags and leave. As for my *****? They were probably looking at me like the warden of Shawshank, a million Andy Dufresnes unjustly imprisoned. I jerked off a short while later, but my important body parts still held a grudge.

 

We left for the port around noon the next day. As we waited for our bus to arrive, I received several questions and comments about my antics at the beach party. While the girls silently eavesdropped on my conversations with an occasional glance back, the guys commended me. "Dude, you were a party animal yesterday." "Dave, I was in awe of your dancing. I didn't think you had that in you." "Whatever happened with that blonde?" I modestly thanked them, concealing the catastrophic reality that became of my day. A long boat ride loomed ahead.

 

 

Santorini

 

 

It was beautiful; I had fun; but the bars all sucked, the chicks on my tour wouldn't hook up with me, and everyone else on the island was on a honeymoon.

 

Next.  

 

 

Ios

 

I had heard good things about Ios. It would be hard to top Mykonos, but I was hopeful. I came ready to party the first night. Unfortunately, I was ready too early, and I blew it. Like most European countries, people didn't start partying until 1am; but I failed to take a nap during the day; I got drunk too early; and at the peak of the night I couldn't keep my eyes open. I went to bed at 3am.

 

The next morning, after an uninterrupted 11 hours of sleep, I ripped the sheets off my body in a flurry. My body had taken control of me the previous night, poisoning my energy, my game, and my attitude, eventually sending me home at the vertex of the night. And I had let it happen. I had to stick to my usual plan for the two remaining nights. 3am bedtimes in Europe were unacceptable.  

 

I am a man who likes to party at an optimal level. I take naps so I have 100% of my energy; I eat an ample dinner so I can consume more alcohol; I drink three glasses of water so I don't get hung over the next day; and I don't start drinking until 9pm—midnight for Europe—so I don't pass out when the party gets good. Following these simple guidelines has done wonders for my ability to hook up with chicks and party with the best. My bedroom may be a mess, but if you were to organize my thoughts on partying, the room would be spic and span with bookshelves and filing cabinets. I am not putting anyone down. Other people have fun when they party, but I think that if they just paid a little more attention to these details, they could double their fun, and they could party for longer. 

 

I awoke from my nap just before 10pm. I still had a couple hours to eat and freshen up. I completed both tasks within the hour. Ios is a small island, the two main parts on opposite sides of a small hill. You could walk from the main town to the beach side of the island in 40 minutes. My lavish resort was on the beach side, so I took the 1,25 Euro bus into town to save time and avoid swamp-***.

 

Our tour was pre-partying at a brightly lit bar called "The Fun Pub." We drank a few there and left a little after midnight to begin the bar crawl. Ios was all about the bar hopping. There was no bar that was considered superior. You just went from bar to bar and left if it sucked or got uncomfortably crowded, and stayed if the crowd was fun and the music was good. The alleys between the bars were narrow, and crowded in some zones where there were lines to neighboring bars. I was surprised at the overwhelming amount of European high school and college kids. They stood out like drugged mice, swaying and yelling and laughing for no reason except for the pure elation of being unsupervised. 

 

After a couple hours of bar hopping, already 0 for 15, a group of six of us, all guys, ended up at a bar called "Kandi." I began talking to two hot Brits who turned out to be sisters. I went for the taller of the two, a slender brunette with short hair. At nearly six feet tall, she looked straight out of a Vogue magazine. After she settled into my bizarre way of communicating, she abruptly lifted up my shirt. She gazed at my stomach, smiled, and we continued our conversation. "Do you approve?" I asked.

 

"Yes. I was just making sure," she said. 
            "Ah," I said, smiling.

She whispered in my ear, "My sister can't find a boy."

            "Well I have friends," I said. I pointed out every guy I knew. The sister disapproved of all of them. Dammit. I had to eliminate the sister, so I started pointing out good-looking strangers. She accepted one guy, so I went up to him. "Hey man, that chick over there likes you. What do you think?" The guy, an American probably from the Midwest, became starry-eyed and said, "Yeah, she's hot."

"Let's go," I led him over, only to watch him get nervous, her lose interest, and then him walk away self-consciously.

The sister got up to go pee, giving me alone time with Vogue. I capitalized.

"Okay, I have to kiss you," I said, staring unwaveringly into her eyes.

"You do?"

"Yeah." I pulled her in and allowed her time to retreat. She made no movement. We started making out.

The "Okay, I have to kiss you" thing is one of my favorite make-out lines. Its success rate is probably higher than any other kissing line I've used. As long I can sense that the attraction is high, I speak confidently, and I stare into her eyes (no smile), I have been able to pull off dozens of make-outs with this line.    

 

Things began to go south after her sister returned. Vogue began to lose her composure, and deep-rooted insecurities arose. Some of the questions she asked in succession:

 

"Why are you talking to me?"

"There are so many girls here. Why me?"

"Don't you think those girls are prettier than me?"

 

I fed her ego like Jerry Maguire fed Rod Tidwell's after he left him in the lobby for Kush. But it did no good. Without warning, Vogue stormed off. She began hitting on other guys, frequently turning around to see if I was watching. I watched her using peripheral vision, never looking straight at her; I'd have to be an idiot to actually bite on her immaturity. I posted up against a wall, observed the dance floor. Predictably, five minutes later she approached me and started kissing me again. I led her outside, only to watch her pull the same hit-on-another-guy-to-make-me-jealous thing. **** that. I will never put up with such bullshit just to get laid. I started walking up the hill, back to my hotel. It was nearly 5:30. Just 25 steps into my walk home, Vogue jostled by me and power-walked her way ahead, arms folded. There was a time in my life when I would have chased her down and tried to get her back to my room, but I have since evolved into someone who lets shitbags like that carry on within their own turbulent world.

 

When I got back to my room, Ray's bed was empty. He better have a story for me. I ******** down to my boxers and passed out instantly.

 

Ray didn't have a story. As we walked down to breakfast the next morning, he only had these disappointing words: "I just went with some people to a club. It was cool."

 

Just before noon, over half our tour took a boat to a secluded beach that could not be reached by car. It wasn't scenic; it was just isolated from tourist activity, which made it attractive. We spent the three hours playing beach games and picnicking. Halfway through, I had to take a heavy dump. There was nowhere to go; no Porta-potties; no hideaways up the hill. Nothing. So I swam out to a faraway place in the ocean, put myself in a V shape, and began defecating two giant logs into the unknown. The fright that overtook me was indescribable. Immediately after I finished, I swam away in fear. A casual observer from the shore would have thought I was in danger. Somewhere in the northern Mediterranean, a fateful sea creature came across my excrement, and became confused.

 

I was ready to go by 11pm that night, but I didn't start partying at the Fun Pub until midnight. If I were asleep before dawn, the night would be a failure. Only two hours into the bar hopping, I ran into Vogue again. Something was different about her. She was sober and normal. From the way she ignored her friends in favor of me, I could tell she wanted to hook up again. "Ok, so if you act like last night, I'm not hanging out with you," I said.

 

            "I know. I'm so sorry. I just got too drunk," she said. I looked away, but I could sense her staring at me, silently acknowledging her own idiocy.

           

We didn't **** around. In less than an hour, I convinced her to detach herself from her lame sister and even lamer friends, and come party with my group and me. An hour later, we ditched my group and walked to a club that was conveniently on the way to my resort. The club would have been cool if I hadn't come with her. But bringing a girl to a club is about as fun as bringing a Gameboy to an arcade. We only stayed for one drink before leaving. Ray had better not be home yet.

 

Although I didn't make it to dawn as promised, since I brought a girl back, I considered my night a success. It was 4am when I slipped the keycard into the door, and as luck would have it, Ray was inside. Of course. I told Vogue to wait outside for a minute. I went inside, and the begging began. "Ray, can you just give us 30 minutes?"

            "No, Sorreee," he said, turning on his side the other direction.

            "Come on man. What about 20 minutes?" I was having flashbacks to Mykonos, only this time the beach was too far to be an option. 

            "No, Sorreee. Sorreee, Dave. Sorreee."

 

**** it. I opened the door for Vogue, told her the roommate situation, and we considered our options. We couldn't go to her room because two of her friends had stayed in. Then she impressed me. "Whatever. Let's just stay here. Hopefully he'll get uncomfortable and leave," she said, placing her purse on the nightstand. Ray didn't get uncomfortable. In fact, Ray mysteriously turned on his side to face us the moment we started hooking up. It freaked me out, so we moved to the floor between my bed and the wall. After a lengthy foreplay, I took out my condom. As I put it on, I realized I wanted to **** her doggystyle. Ray's creepiness was too overbearing to remain in the room. I wasn't about to put on a show for Inspector Gadget. We went to the bathroom.

 

I do not recommend bathroom sex. It is bumpy, boney, and bruisy. It was our only option. We ****** doggystyle in the bathroom next to the toilet where I had taken several dumps not too long ago.

 

After finishing, she gave me her email address, her London phone number, and then I walked her out. I went back to my room and crashed, satisfied.

 

The next morning began with Ray smiling mischievously at me as we packed our bags. I cut the silence. "So did you see anything last night?"

            "Yes. I saw," he said smiling.

I fake laughed, shuddered inside, and finished packing.

 

Two days later, as I sat on my flight from Athens to LAX, I got to thinking. How much longer would trips like this be enjoyable? What would happen when I'm married? Does the unknown lose its charm? It's a scary thing to think about the future. I don't know where I'll be in five or ten years. I don't know with whom I'll be. But I take comfort in knowing that at one point in the continuum of time, I was the party on that July afternoon in Mykonos. At one point, I had sex on the shores of the Aegean Sea. At one point, guys like Ray and CJ and all the dumb ******* were a part of my life. I may die one day, but my life will last forever. 

 




 

daveglenn daveglenn
26-30
Mar 25, 2009