March 2013, the largest of my life goals were coming to fruition, but the hell I walked through to achieve them was still freshly oxidized in my mind. Little did I know at the time, that my experience— this “hell”— was a walk in the park compared to what these very same accomplishments would bring. It was right about the time my memory started getting fuzzy from night shift, lack of sleep, sleep apnea, and depression with the years ticking away faster than my dark hair, but, the bigger the sacrifice, the bigger the reward. Anyway, at the time my puny perspective of life was still dominant, the honeymoon was the celebration for both of us: We had our careers, going to raise children, live happily ever after, and slip away into womb of eternity.
The hotel was your typical Mexican all-inclusive resort only in a more condensed area. The restaurants there had piss poor service and worse food. The buffet was money every time, though, and the manager just loved us for some reason but not in a creepy way, unfortunately. He was charming too, bringing my wife deserts and me Don Pedro brandy, which is difficult to find in Michigan; or, I was making these burgers down by the pool with guacamole and pico de gallo on it. The spoon was the perfect size to condimentize your burger with it: just slap, slap, slap, boom done. Quicker than Burger King, but they were tremendo delicioso. Also, there was this Taco joint that had octopus, shark, and just about any sea animal you could think of, which was on point, but the Mrs. doesn’t really like sea food, not to mention, it was like a 3 mile walk off the resort. It brings heartache to think about, and not cardiovascular disease for the hedonistic week. We had options is all I’m saying, just not many.
One of the reasons we chose this particular resort was for the billiards (of course it was not as advertised just like every time you go to a resort that has a “basketball court” it really means they pull the 9’ rim out of the woods and set it on the Tennis court, but it was functional) which was our favorite past time—as a matter of fact, we played pool on our first date. Anyway, these two girls showed up and wanted to play, and put their money on the table (even though the pool table was free, which we laughed about). We kept referring to them as our “Down Unda friends” because they were from Australia. They brought up the good food crisis almost immediately, wondering if we had the same experience. We validated their experience and relayed our solution. We also agreed to communicate updates on places to eat.
All the sudden, this douchebag shows up, and there was tension immediately as he came up and cornered one of the Down Undas. Next thing you know, he’s yelling and walking back and forth all aggressive like, I can’t remember if he put his hands on her or what caused the intervention, but something happened that prompted us to get involved. He stormed off, and we were like “Who was that A-hole? You know that guy?” Apparently, it was a guy she was dating before breaking up with him to embark on a trip traveling all through the Americas. She had no idea he followed her there. My wife volunteered me for punching him in the nose at her discretion, which I agreed to. We got pretty tipsy over there. Maybe a little beyond tipsy since my newly officialized old lady was all, “They totally want to threesome with us,” which is out of her character to joke like that but also poor math. Down Undas obtained recommendations for night clubs around the area from the bartender. I was reluctant (mostly because I hate dancing) but was the minority vote; so, we made like a fetus and head out.
The disco was cool, black light rooms, loud music, and we were on the roof the majority of the night. It was fun, but I was getting sick of paying for drinks, tired, half past hammered, and started thinking, “If this goes on much longer, our foursome is going to turn into a onesome,” which, as you may have guessed, is a euphemism for a “non-boner compliant intoxication”. I felt it imperative as a new husband on our honeymoon to prevent this ailment, but it was difficult to convince the bride. However, when they wanted to go to a different disco, I insisted on going back. I said, “Maybe you don’t remember that movie Hostel, because that’s where the Down Undas are going.”
Back at the hotel, we were getting busy and I felt a little foolish: I had a Godzilla erection that could’ve bukkaked all of Tokyo, forget the Down-Unda sums. At some point, the Mrs. asks if I brought lube; I go, “What? No. I’m surprised I remembered my toothbrush.” She goes, “Shoot… hand me that water.” I grab the water, she unscrews the top, and just splashes me with it— all across the body, all across our groins, genitals, and such. I yelled, “Ah!” She asked if I was okay, which I responded it just surprised me a little and glad it wasn’t (but at the same time wish it had been) lube. All the sudden, there was a knock at the door and she scrambled to get dressed to answer it. So, I’m standing there waiting with Blue Oyster Cult riffing through my head waiting to pounce on her. I hear her coming back and ask, “Who was that?” But it was not her who entered the room…
It was a Mexican man in a bow tie with room service; he sees me standing there, not one single item of clothing, King Kong dong staring him right in the face. I was kind of stunned and grabbed a throw pillow to cover myself, but I couldn’t push it against my body— it was like pushing on an oak tree. So, I had to swivel with his movement, so the pillow was out in front; otherwise, it wasn’t covering nothing. I said, “Los siento.” He was laughing and just waved his hand in the air as if to signal it was nothing. I couldn’t move because I was nervous about the canopy over the Washington monument, which he didn’t seem to care, other than it was funny to him. I don’t know why I was so uncomfortable: it was the surprise I suppose. After he set it all up and was walking out, I said, “Gracias, pedo no tengo dinero.” Which in English means: “Sorry about the tip, I ain’t got no pockets.” He replied, “Claro,” waved his hand and continued, “Hahve a ghood tine.” Which I’m English means, “Don’t worry about it, have fun.” He left, and so I go investigate what the heyell could have possibly happened, and Mrs. was throwing up in the toilet. Naturally, I do what all good husbands do since I just became one and ran to get the camera to take pictures of her puking.
It was becoming clear that she was not coming out anytime soon. I started eating the food neither of us remembered ordering butthole-naked with a camera hanging from my wrist. Naturally, I get the idea to put my dick on her burger and take a picture to show after she ate it. However, the beast had been relinquished at this point: I tried mano stimulation and stretching it out, but what was once Leonidas now looked like Xerxes with no jewelry, but I did what I could. Mrs. didn’t eat, and I went to bed after (assumedly, I was already knocked). The next morning we’re lying in bed, and she starts looking at pictures; suddenly, she says, “What is this?” I’m looking but cannot make it out; it was a picture of a burger. She goes, “Is this your penis?”
I re-examined and it came to me: “Oh yea! I took pictures of my dick in your burger to show you after you ate it! Jajajajajaja!”
She laughed and then asked, “Wait… where’s the burger?”
I looked about the room: “Heh. That is odd… hmm… You must have ate it…”
Long story short: I ate a dick a burger…