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There’s a difference between vacationing and traveling. While I’m a fan of both, each one has its own distinct personality. Vacationing is a lounge-by-the-pool, cocktail-downing laze under the sun. While traveling is a sleep-deprived, up-at-dawn, drive-for-hours, site-seeing frenzy.

I’d gotten the vacationing out of my system in Croatia. It was time for some down-and-dirty traveling–five countries in fourteen days.

Helsinki, Finland (two nights)

I arrived in Helsinki Saturday night, stoked to be back in Scandinavia. Unfortunately, the central party area was an absolute cesspool. Bums and hoodlums were double-fisting forties everywhere; the streets were littered with rubbish; even a trashcan was on fire. The place reminded me of Hill Valley in the alternate universe when Biff took over.

The bar scene was infested with minors; the of-age chicks were pasty and fat; and there was a McDonald’s around every corner. And every one was packed with blathering drunks (I know because I went inside and waited 25 minutes in that septic muddle to get a lousy chicken sandwich.).

I was so fed up with all the kiddies and bumbling scumbags that I went to a local hotel, paid a couple Euros to use the internet, and researched “quality bars in Helsinki with an older crowd.” It took a few minutes, but I found a place a couple blocks away.

It was perfect: at least eight different lurk-zones, semi-cheap drinks, even a blackjack table–and a hundred or so girls aged 25-45. Only problem was that of those, three were attractive–actually more like “acceptable.” The other 97 Big Macs were 2s, 1s, and 0.5s. I went 0 for 3 and called it a night.

I did, however, get something out of the city. While eating lunch the next day at an outdoor shopping center, I ordered the tastiest dish I’d had in months. Three huge meatballs (with reindeer meat, the best kept secret in the meat packing industry) to go with succulent mashed potatoes, juicily steamed vegetables, and savory lingonberry sauce made the Ikea cafeteria look like jail food. Absolutely delicious.

I returned to the hotel and met a few people on the tour (another one), but being a Sunday, no one was going out, which was fine by me; Helsinki’s nightlife blew chunks, and we had a long day ahead.

St. Petersburg, Russia (three nights)

When I told my friends I was going to Russia, the first thing they told me was, “Dude, be careful. The Russian mafia doesn’t fuck around. Seriously, it’s fucking scary over there.” Or: “Don’t wind up in an alley one night with your kidney missing.” I didn’t get what all the hype was about. Sure Russians don’t smile much, but everyone seemed peaceful and friendly. The entire trip I only saw one probable mafia member, and he was passively eating a sandwich at a picnic table with a blonde bimbo. And speaking of which, apparently Russian women have an affinity for fat guys. Ninety percent of the attractive, non-single women I saw were with walruses. To all you obese men reading this: STICK TO YOUR DIET–continue to passionately eat Cinnabons and Zingers, and move to Russia; pussy will flock to you like those white floaty things in Avatar.

Our first stop was St. Petersburg. Though rainy all three days, the city was well maintained, and there was a museum or historic park or building around every corner. The night scene, however, was pathetic. It didn’t help that we were there for the worst nights of the week–Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. To make matters worse, the central part of the city (where all the nightlife is) was protected by the Neva River, which drew all its bridges from 12:30-5:00 a.m. to let ships pass in and out of the Baltic. And our tour had stupidly booked our hotel a quarter mile outside of the island. So if I wasn’t in a cab by 12:15, I was stranded until five.

I stayed in the first night because we had a nine-hour sight-seeing session the following day beginning at 8:00 a.m.–Lenin, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, etc. Usually I’d rage it up until three, get four hours of sleep, and then rally the next day for the tourist stuff. But with the obnoxious bridge factor, that wasn’t an option.

I went out the following night with Jack (a Kiwi), and an Aussie named Annette wearing a white Ed Hardy get-up (apparently things in Australia become fashionable two years after they’ve washed up in the states). When she met us in the lobby I hardly recognized her. She cleaned up so well that she went from a 4 to an 8. Annette had a solid rack–which she continuously talked about–but she was 23 and thought the world of herself, whining and cussing up a storm if someone got in her way. Whatever, if she was down to go out, she was probably cooler the other twenty-five girls on our tour, only three of whom were attractive–two sisters with boyfriends back home and a black girl who looked strangely similar to Jada from my disastrous “Lost Night.”

The three of us had a do-or-die decision to make on whether to stay or beat the bridges and give up on the night. Things became clearer when we discovered only two bars had actual people inside (we asked everyone for advice, and this was it). Each spot had a few dozen locals circulating in and out, and both were blasting mid-nineties hits–Nirvana, Madonna, Offspring, Green Day, even a Weird Al song.

I got my first glimpse of Russian dancing. I didn’t know people could move in such ways to portray their fun. The men looked like a bunch of Vlade Divacs trying to run under water. The women nervously jumped and performed feeble half fist pumps (like Deruki). I spent twenty minutes sitting by myself, watching the freak show.

Once I drank enough to promote mediocre chicks into sexy, I made my move. It was awful. They were digging the whole American thing, but I found myself doing sign language in order to communicate even the most basic information. One exchange:

Me: “Who are you?”

Her: “Vut?”

Me: “You. [pointing at her] Who are you?”

Her: [nervously] “I am here at the bar.”

Me: “Nevermind. What’s up with those rocks on your necklace?” [Using my index finger and thumb, I mimicked a crab’s snapping claw to communicate “rocks”]

Her: “The bathroom?”

I eventually became impatient and fled. Fuck. If this was how it was going to be in all of Russia, I was going to masturbatingly run my laptop’s batteries to the ground–similar to my two-week trip to Spain in the summer of ’06 (the Spanish refuse to acknowledge English-speakers) when I hooked up with one local in fourteen days.

After getting salted on by Jack a couple times, then doing a quick motorboat in Annette’s tits, we were out of there just in time to make it across the bridge.

Jack and another guy on the tour went out the following night, but they were going back to the same two bars. Exhausted from ten hours of walking, seeing museums, and sitting through a folk show, I threw in the towel and returned to the hotel where I hung out with Jada, the hot black girl, and her mute roommate down in the lobby before crashing. Sleep comes at a premium when traveling. If the nightlife sucks, you get out while you can, sleep, and go hard another night at a higher energy level. Economics.

Novgorod, Russia (one measly night)

The night was freezing and only one bar was open.

Nobody was inside.

Moscow, Russia (three nights)

I don’t know what it is with these trips, but every time I go alone, I get stuck with the hugest geeks. My new roommate looked like a real-life Waldo. Sure he was nice…and sweet, but he cussed worse than a tourette’s patient, and he ended every sentence with “man.” “You gonna go out tonight, man?” “The shower’s fucking cold, man.” “What do you think about my fucking pants, man?” “Is that fucking salsa any good, man?” At least he wasn’t clingy, and above all, didn’t snore.

Of all the cities I visited in my three-and-a-half week extravaganza, Moscow was by far the most exquisite. From its history with Stalin, the statues, St. Basil’s Cathedral, the busy night scene, and the Hollywood landmarks I’d seen in movies, Moscow is a must-go. (Note: For those who played video games during the Golden Eye 007 era, I walked through the real life “Statue Park” level. Funny how seeing a Nazi tank at one of the museums didn’t come close to the awe that came with walking through the place I once shot fake assault rifles at virtual bad guys.)

I hit the town that Friday with one of the Aussie guys on the tour named Phil (To my college friends reading this: This guy was the living, breathing, Australian version of “Philthy.” He had the same mischievous, tooth-less smile as our beloved house rat. Not only did he look like him, he was equally sleazy. He smoked his cigarettes in the exact same manner–head tilted to the right, eyes closed to a sliver, big adjectives leaving his mouth…you know the look). Of the 50 people on the tour, only Phil and I went out on a Friday night in Moscow. I can understand the need to save energy, or how other people don’t care as much about hooking up with foreigners like I do.

But going out isn’t always about that.

Someone recently asked me if the only reason I did these trips was for the women. Yes, girls are a big part of why I travel, but it certainly isn’t the sole purpose. While sites are cool, I’m more interested in the little things: the smells, the sounds, the mannerisms, the guessing game of deciphering what two girls are gossiping about in their native tongue, the way the supermarkets are set up, the unusual shoes the women wear, the style and speed at which people walk, the way a toddler and his mother show affection while eating lunch at a cafe, the way a college couple on a subway pet each other and wordlessly stare into each other’s eyes for five consecutive minutes, a man’s turbulent reaction after being bumped while eating a Curry Schnitzel.

Details are what make life interesting.

Traveling is less about the sites, and more about seeing and experiencing the unique ways people live, interact, and react. And, it’s also about seeing how they party. Which is why no Friday night should be wasted in foreign land.

Phil and I met two Russian sisters at a grunge bar in the heart of Moscow.  Digging our foreign roots, it wasn’t long before we were making out with them all over the place. I took the hotter one. They were 25 and 26, lived with their mom, and were too naive to realize their own horniness, which caused them to be overly protective of each other, leading to their refusal to come back to our hotel.

Russians, I’ve noticed, are very intense lovers. The wordless, staring couple on the train is the norm. While sucking face with the sister, she would kiss me passionately and then stare into my eyes for thirty seconds. Acting as a wannabe Russian, I stared back. But then I became impatient, and scared, and looked at something else.

On a side note, I was baffled how any girl in her right mind would hook up with Phil.

The guy stank.

He wore the same shirt he’d been wearing all day (he didn’t believe in pre-going-out showers), and used this spray deodorant that he continuously applied to his chest and back–never his pits. There was a perpetual scent of BO anytime he was within a six-foot radius. Every day, a group of us had to remind him, “Phil, change your shirt.” Other than the stench, however, Phil was a hell of a wingman, always down to party.

The next two nights were major busts. The bars were empty Sunday, and on Saturday our tour went to a 60-dollar club only to discover that all the guys there were middle-aged rich guys, and all the women were gold-digging, unsmiley cunts. I did manage to make out with a forty-year-old blonde local, but when we left the club and stood under a streetlamp, I noticed her teeth were rotting out of her mouth! The two front teeth looked like little pieces of wood, two of her bottom ones were missing, and her molars looked like yellow raisins. I ditched her and popped in a fresh stick of gum.

Europe should seriously incorporate Dental Hygiene courses into K-12 education. A 10-year plan should remedy the problem–or at least teach them a toothbrush is their friend.

Minsk, Belarus (one night)

This place was the hugest rip-off ever, and you can tell them I said that. Sure it’s a poor country, but those fuckers made me pay $270 for a ONE-DAY Visa, fucking me in the ass with Lex Steele’s cock in the process. This is all I shall write about Belarus.

Warsaw, Poland (two nights)

The Polish don’t fuck around when it comes to food–mainly fatty meat patties and Schnitzels with all kinds of cream sauce and mayonnaise slopped on top willy nilly. They’ve likely never heard of carbs or cholesterol, and I doubt they’re aware that sugar turns into fat. So I was amazed when I went out that Tuesday night to find not a single overweight Polish girl. Few, however, spoke English and they were visibly irritated with my inability to cater to their language. They gave me looks of disgust, and one girl became so annoyed that she called Sebastian Janikowski over to shove me eight feet across the room. Jack, Phil, and I all went 0-fer and left, eating a shit-sized schnitzel on our way home.

The following night was essentially the grand finale of the tour. The last night of these things is always the biggest. Everyone, even the behemoths, find a way to hook up.

Wednesday was VIP night at all the good spots, so we couldn’t get in anywhere worthwhile. We settled on a bougie lounge with expensive drinks and pictures of Hollywood actors everywhere. As a dozen of us sat on the couches sipping our drinks, I sensed Jada stealing looks at me. I hadn’t pursued her because I didn’t want to deal with the risk of clinginess–but things had come down to the wire tonight. Over the past few days, we’d sat next to each other on the bus for a couple long stretches and learned about each other’s life back home. At twenty-nine-years old, she was a teacher from England, but had only moved there recently, so she didn’t carry much of an accent. While I was interested in her, I had to keep my options open.

Suddenly greedy, Jack and I ditched everyone because we heard there was a casino three blocks away. We gambled for an hour, consumed free drinks, irritated the hot dealers, and won over three hundred Zloti each. They did make us write down our driver’s license and contact info before playing, so our winnings are still pending identity theft and a future beat-down from Sebastian Janikowski.

When we arrived back at the lounge, fresh couples from the tour who I thought hadn’t even met each other yet were making out in corners. The joint was now bustling with unsullied locals, so I hit on them, striking out gloriously. Closing in on two a.m., I was tired as hell, so I said my goodbyes to everyone and grabbed a cab with Phil, who took shotgun.

Night over.

I looked out the cab window. Actually. Standing on the curb with the remnants from the tour was Jada. At 5’10–6’1 in her heels–she towered over everyone like a swan. I opened the cab door. “Jada!” Her head jolted towards me. “Let’s go,” I commanded, motioning her in with my head

She almost ran to the cab and laughingly flung herself in, obviously tipsy. I pulled her in close and positioned my hand along her inner thigh. Phil looked back at us, and, realizing the developing situation, spoke. “Alright, here’s the deal. It’s the last night. You guys are gonna go back to the hotel, have a good shag–nice and dirty–and maybe have another drink, and then shag again.”

I had to hand it to him. He may have stunk worse than my asshole after a 15-wiper, but he was hands-down the coolest guy I’d met all trip.

Jada and I laughed. “Nooo!” she squealed, unconvincingly.

“She’s not that kind of girl,” I chimed in, only to make it seem like I didn’t expect anything.

“Yeah,” said Jada. “Phil, what about you? Are you going to party in the rooms with us?”

“Me? No, I’ve got a long day ahead, and I need my sleep. But you two go ahead. This is the last time you’ll ever see each other, so Jada, I expect you to party hard tonight, and take care of my mate…and have a good shag.”

We laughed again.

We went from room party to room party, delaying the inevitable. These final nights really are quite sad. The last two weeks of our lives were intertwined in the most exuberant of circumstances, and despite all the promises to visit, you know this is the only time you’ll ever share. We sipped our drinks to celebrate time spent and the blossoming memories that only belong to travelers.

After an hour of pre-partying, Jada and I found our way back to my room. Somehow, Waldo was still out partying. I flopped on my bed, and Jada followed. When she propped herself up on her elbow, I laughed. “Come here.” I pulled her on top of me and started making out.

Having never been with a black girl (condom blowjobs in Vegas don’t count), I didn’t know what to expect. Jada’s ass wasn’t in Serena Williams’ class, but she definitely had some junk. So after maybe thirty seconds of boring missionary, I flipped her over. Even skinny girls look like their ass is big in doggie position, so Jada’s looked absolutely ghetto fabulous–jiggling, undulating, and sloshing everywhere in chocolate magnificence. I squeezed it and slapped it silly as I pounded her doggie with my non-black dick.

Suddenly, I heard a keycard at the door. Waldo! Luckily the door had a deadbolt I’d locked that prevented him from barging in. I scurried to the door to bargain for some extra time.

Waldo looked exhausted. “Hey, can you give me like twenty minutes?” I panted.

“Twenty minutes, man?”

“Okay, ten. I’ll be quick”

“Alright, man. Hurry up, man.”

“Thanks.”

I shut the door.

Back to sex.

The interruption didn’t phase Jada. She was horny as hell, a clear sign that it’d been months since her last slam. A few minutes later things were becoming stagnant. She was riding me, but my dick was slowly losing its steam. For a couple minutes, I just lay there like a piece of plywood, watching as Jada rode my marshmallowy wiener. I’d lost my motivation to work, but in a sudden rush of urgency, I decided to give it one last go. I pumped her like a jackhammer, fast and hard, rejuvenating some rigidity. Moments later, I felt a wet sensation at the base of my dick. I looked down and saw a pool around my crotch too substantial to be sweat. She had squirted! In one of the biggest comebacks in black-girl-fucking-an-average-penis history, I now had some serious confidence–like Forrest when his leg braces fell off. I put everything I had into my thrusts, and the squirts came every twenty seconds! And she was screaming. I knew from our conversations on the bus that she’d dated several black guys. Apparently my dick was right up there with them–getting the job done, ready for the Big Time.

After over fifteen squirts–which were streamlined like pee, rather than the huge sprays I’d seen in pornos–I realized I was too drunk to bust. “Well, you can use my mouth,” she told me, which sounded like a great idea. It took a while (a long while), but I was finally able to bust my lone squirt down her throat.

I walked her back to her room, told her I’d see her at breakfast, and sauntered my sweaty, squirted-on self back to my dorm. Figures–I go to Europe, the land of white people, to have sex with my first black girl.

I ran into Waldo in the elevator.

“So who was it?” he asked.

“Jada.”

“Yep. I saw that coming from a mile away.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, man,” he said, surprised, as if explaining the obvious.

Waldo’s the fuckin’ man.

Berlin, Germany (three nights)

I arrived in Berlin late on a Thursday after a grueling seven-hour drive and toured the city all day Friday and Saturday. I only went out one night–with some folks from the hostel–and struck out.

Berlin had the most chaotic night scene I’d ever seen. The sidewalks on a regular Saturday night were packed like Vegas on New Years. I’d be willing to bet that over 40% of the population was out partying, and everyone had a beer in their hand. Policemen lingered in the streets while hooligans chucked bottles at them–and the cops did nothing about it. Broken glass, blood, vomit, and unfinished schnitzels lined the gutters. College girls were curled up in balls against the walls crying into their cell phones. The subway stairs were used as urinals. Every 7-11 had at least an eight-person booze line. The bars buzzed with screams and freakish laughter. Music from a nearby club was constantly pulsing with malevolence. Girls with buzz-cuts were picking fights with people who looked at them funny. The drunkest guy in the history of drunk guys got arrested for God knows what. Even an 80-year-old couple was making out against a street fence…at midnight. Berlin’s nightlife gets what it wants.

I flew home early Sunday morning, eager to return to something more…tangible. The entire trip had cost me over eight grand. Life can take my money, but it won’t take my summers.

The defining moment of my trip–I remember it vividly–was waking up at the butt-crack of dawn just as our boat left Hvar. The first one up, I had the whole deck to myself. A gentle breeze on my back, I walked to the rail and thought about what was to come: For three and a half weeks, I’d sleep maybe five hours a night–7:30 wake-up calls every morning; I’d get stuck rooming with another freak; I’d spend five hours waiting around in airports, 20 hours on airplanes, and another 50 on buses; I’d hook up with wildabeasts who had corn for teeth; diarrhea was a certainty; I’d get stabbed by fucking sea urchins; I’d drain my bank account; and my health would go to shit. And as I leaned over the rail, I looked across the sea at a passing island, and I smiled…knowing all those things might lay ahead.

I needed a vacation, so for the first week of my annual summer trip, I flew solo to the land of over a 1,200 islands, six-foot women, and the friendly Mediterranean sun: Croatia. Though I wouldn’t exactly be on land–I’d be sailing through the endless islands of the Adriatic Sea, stopping every now and then for some fresh partying.

I arrived in the coastal city of Split on a Friday evening. I had actually slept on the plane, so after a quick shower I headed into town. I’d been to bars alone in the past–once in Hawaii, the other in Mammoth–but it just wasn’t the same without friends. I found myself pounding my drinks to drown the fact that I was creepily…a loner; and I used my phone as a wingman to portray my fake importance and mystique. I struck out both nights, all in sub-two-sentence exchanges.

It was the same story for my first night in Croatia. Supposedly Split was known as a big party town, but I was rather disappointed with the quality. The place was crawling with 19-year-old kids running around like sterile ostriches in heat, and the clubs (there were no quality bars) were jam-packed with high maintenance locals who were irritated with tourists like me. After striking out with fifteen of them–all of whom were taller than 5’10 and who spoke minimal English–I hit the sack.

I had never met or really seen many Croatian people until arriving in the country. In fact, the only person I knew of who was 100% Croatian was the ex-NBA player Toni Kukoc. So coming to Croatia, I expected all the girls to look like him. I was way off. One in every three Croatian girls weren’t just attractive; they belonged in a Vogue magazine. With their towering height and Slavic faces to go with unblemished skin, they made Swedish women look like Louisiana hicks. And none of them were even slightly overweight, which might have been because McDonald’s–or any American fast food chain–hadn’t yet expanded to the country yet. And if they’re smart, they’ll keep our fatty Western food out.

The next morning I met with my boat tour in the hotel lobby, and we made our way to the docks. Our fifteen-room cruiser could sleep about thirty people plus the crew. It was about two and a half bus-lengths long with some of the rooms on the bottom floor, a dining area on the main deck, and a lounge/lay-out area on the captain’s level. Most of the other travelers were Australian, with a couple Canadians and Americans in the mix. None of the girls were even remotely attractive–except for a 23-year-old Australian “beautician” who was an 8 but considered herself a 10, and she wastefully had a boyfriend back home. Not to mention she was one of those chicks who never actually laughed for real, but rather cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and forged a face that looked more painful than amused.

My roommate Brian was a nerdy college kid from Australia who looked like Jonah Hill. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he was certainly a fan of the occasional donut. He kept to himself most of the time but contributed to conversations here and there, particularly at the group meals. The only obnoxious thing about him was sometimes during our downtime in the room, he’d throw on his headphones and put his iPod on max volume, blasting some sort of Chinese hip hop. I eventually got used to it and was able to nap in peace.

Our first stop was on the slender island of Hvar, supposedly famous for its nightlife. We went to a rooftop bar to pre-party, and then took a ferry to an island club that had maybe ten attractive girls, five of whom were 19 and sucking some gump’s face. The quality of acceptable women was so poor (and it was a Saturday night) that I maybe went 0 for 8–all stupid college chicks. Eight girls.

Apparently no women over the age of twenty-five like to travel and party simultaneously anymore. You’d think that Eat Pray Love craze would at least inspire some recent divorcees to hit up exotic islands and hook up with guys like me. But no, they’d rather stay home, save money for when they’re 65, and watch Friends reruns.

But after careful thought, I think I’ve figured out why I never have any luck with the younger girls: because what comes out my mouth–and how I say it–has no effect on their attraction for me like it does with older women (believe me, I’ve tried making adjustments); so unless I’m her perfect type, I’m doomed before I’ve even asked about her bracelets. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I’ve found that a twenty-year-old will go for the tall, dopey dude with “sexy blue eyes” over a poised, intelligent guy like me who actually knows what he’s doing. The dope won’t have the slightest idea how to talk to her, and she’s too stupid to realize this, yet they’ll still make out all over the place and have sex if she’s drunk enough. I can’t compete with that, and I don’t want to. I’ll go for the older women where the products of our minds–aka human interaction–actually have value.

The next day, a Sunday, we docked at the island of Korcula, home of Marco Polo. I was still recovering from jet lag, so I accidentally napped through the final hours of sunlight. I did, however, wake up just in time to party–at midnight. I found our group raging at an empty outdoor joint in the vicinity of all the other bars. At this point, all the guys I’d partied with the previous day and night had decided to hang around the Australian beautician like flies on shit, tricked into thinking her hotness made her cool. I instead made friends with some of the Canadian-Indian guys from the boat who knew better.

When it became evident that the outdoor place was destined for nowhere, I wandered over to where all the noise was: two back-to-back bars with college kids partying out front. Inside, drunk twenty-year-olds saturated the dance floors, and a handful of fifty-year-old men clustered sporadically around the edges like human plaque (If I ever turn out like one of these guys, shoot me). Only two girls looked over the age of 25, and only one of them was hot, a 5’11 athletic-looking brunette in a white sundress.

I approached her as her friend was ordering drinks to her right. “So is this place your hotspot?”

“What? No. Why?” She had an accent.

“This place sucks. Are there any other bars on this island?”

“Not really. Where are you from?”

After answering that question, it was all over. She eventually ditched her friend–who was talking with one of the 50-year-olds–and we migrated to a table a couple buildings down to get away from the riff raff.

Her name was Brigita, a 30-year old Slovenian schoolteacher on vacation, who was also a fan of Eat Pray Love (Finally!). One thing worth pointing out is that besides the obvious features in women–face, legs, ass, stomach, tits, etc–I’m a fan of the little things as well. Some friends of mine have a fixation for well-defined shoulders, “nice necks,” big teeth, or lower back dimples, among others. As for me, I’ll always notice a woman’s hands. I like a girl with smooth, well-defined fingers and properly manicured fingernails, fake or polished–either is sexy. A girl with dry, scaly, masculine hands with chewed-up nails reminds me of dandruff and dirty silverware; and I don’t want those things anywhere near my cock (though I’m sleazy enough to make an exception on occasion if it’s just for one night).

Brigita’s hands were perfect (She was attractive, too.). She was so well groomed that I even noticed her feet were flawless–perfect shape, clean, clear, smooth, sexy white polish, no bunions. In my last blog, I recommended guys to never compliment girls. In this case, however, exceptions can be made. If I’ve been talking to a girl for long enough–20-25 minutes–I’ll usually comment on her hands (if they’re nice, otherwise I’ll just tell her I’m glad she isn’t one of those chicks who shaves her arms–which works by the way) She probably hasn’t heard it too often, it isn’t suggestive, and it separates me from all the other complimenters. Did this guy just say he likes my hands? What a fucking weirdo! But…I think I’ll continue talking to him.

Her place was a no-go because her mediocre friend had somehow blown it with her man and gone back to their room to sleep. So I took Brigita by the hand and led her towards my boat. When we arrived, I stupidly jumped the gun and asked if she wanted to see my room, almost scaring her off. Being clutch, I then suggested we go for a stroll by the water, which regenerated her juices.

We walked along the rocky shores, making out in various spots. In one particular reef, the cliffs were high enough to feel secluded from any passers-by, so Brigita suggested we go skinny-dipping, which sounded like a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, skinny-dipping is like ordering the hugest possible dessert from Claim Jumper. It looks awesome on the menu and tastes OK, but after you’re finished you feel crappier than Kobayashi after a hot dog contest.

Making out and feeling her tits pressed against my body was fun, but there was something unpleasant about our footing. We couldn’t find a comfortable place to just…stand; there seemed to be some kind of spiky shit all over the ground. After a brief two-minute dip, we trudged back to land, stupider.

We got dressed, put on our shoes (I had to remove a strange spike from my foot), and lumbered along another crag. We were up on another small cliff when Brigita suggested we take an approaching staircase back down to the rocks. I knew what she was doing: she wanted to get railed on the beach. It was obvious. As soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, I leaned her against a semi-flat area of rock (there was no sand), and made my typical moves: Make-out, neck-kissing, more make-out, pull down her sun dress, suck on left tit, more neck-kissing (lick this time), tits, make-out, other tit, rub clit over panties, tits, make-out, neck, make-out, push fingers past panties, two-fingers in, tits, finger, faster, finger, finger, finger, finger, franticly unbuckle pants, take wallet out and remove condom (make sure she sees), put condom on, begin plowing.

That all happened, except for the plowing part. The rocks were bumpy as hell and scraping her back and my knees, so after putting on the condom and barely slipping it in, we both came to the conclusion that it couldn’t go down like this. “Come on,” I told her, getting up. “We can’t do this here. Let’s go back to the boat.” I took the condom off, tossed it in a rock hole on top of two small crabs named Lefty and Boomer, and we left.

When we arrived at my room, Brian was fast asleep. Great. The rooms were tiny, and Brigita refused to go inside with him in the room, so I told her to wait outside for a sec. I scurried over to Brian’s bed. “BRAIN!” Uh, I mean, Brian!

Brian jerked hastily towards me, eyes wide, as if he’d just woken from an alien-encounter nightmare. “Herf?” he murmured.

“Dude, I need the room for like ten minutes. The hottest Slovenian girl ever wants to fuck. Sorry, man. Drinks on me tomorrow.”

Brian sat up, realizing he was back on Earth; then he squinted at the wall, made a farty face, and let out a rumbled sigh.

Realizing he was going to leave, I thanked him like five times, and reminded him that drinks were on me.

Brian left the room with his blanket draped over him like Frodo and walked past Brigita, who gave him a sincere thank you. Fuck yeah–I love girls who are honest about their intentions and show appreciation to people who understand they just want to get slammed real quick.

We got down to business immediately. She had a substantial bush, but I didn’t care. This was Europe, and the sex here should be rough, dirty, and even a little hairy. The only problem was that my bed was so damn small, and the side wall was at a 75-degree angle, so it was tough fucking her doggie because my shoulder kept jamming. After screwing for 10-15 minutes (I did try and hurry things up for Brian, but a couple times I greedily staved off ejaculating), I made the switch to her ass. She didn’t make a sound as I tried to slowly stuff my manhood inside her hershey highway. Once it was in, it never left, and I eventually busted in the condom despite having to deal with the wall factor.

I later learned this was Brigita’s first time in the butt, which would explain why when I took the condom off, it looked like a deformed neopolitan ice cream scoop. I quickly flushed it down the toilet and tried to pretend I didn’t see anything (Note: The next day Brian told me the room smelled so bad that he almost just stayed outside, ultimately deciding to use his Cool Water cologne as Lysol. “I don’t know what you guys did in here, but I feel sorry for her,” he said.)

We emerged from the room in a sweaty mess and chilled on a bench up on the captain’s deck. Suddenly a door nearby whooshed open and a figure stomped around the corner and began barking. “Hey! What is the name of this boat!?” exclaimed the captain, wearing nothing but saggy Fruit of the Looms.

“Uh, Catarina.”

He paused and assessed us. “Okay, YOU can stay, but she is not from this boat! Get her off my boat!”

Brigita was already up and walking before I could even respond.

I was wide awake and somehow still horny despite the ice cream condom, so Brigita and I walked back towards the cliffs where she blew me on the rocks. Then I pounded her again on an acceptable rock bench, took down her email address, and called it a night. When I returned to the boat, the sun was rising across the bay, and the crew was already untying the ropes. We left fifteen minutes later.

When I woke the next day, I could barely walk. It felt like I was constantly stepping on glass. After careful examination, I discovered nearly twenty irremovable splinters in both feet. I showed one of the guys on the tour who owned an expensive snorkel set; he had to know what had happened to me. I told him my skinny-dipping story, and he immediately knew the problem. “Sea Urchins, mate. Yeah, it’ll hurt for a few days–just gonna have to wait it out; your body will eventually reject the splinters in time.” (Update: It has now been over seven weeks since the urchin attack, and I still have a few remaining black spots in my feet.)

That day we hit up the island of Dubrovnik for a two-night stay. Dubrovnik, with its castle walls and Gothic architecture, was also known for its partying, but it was the same shit as Split–kids everywhere.

At the tail end of the night–as I limped back to the boat, already fifteen 0-fers deep–I encountered an attractive, past-college local with emerald green eyes. In her tight white pants, she appeared to be mesmerized by two movie posters on a wall. One was the new Harry Potter flick and the other involved Tom Cruise. She was just…staring.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She glanced at me a moment, then continued to gape. “I like looking at these.”

“For that long?”

“Yes, I like it.”

I was drunk and impatient at this point, so I jumped right in. “I see…well hey, I like your pants, so come sit with me as I watch all these drunk tourists stumble around.” I sat down on a bench a few feet away and sophisticatedly brought my right leg up and crossed it on top of my left.

She looked back at me, smiled, then back at the painting. But her focus was rattled. A few moments later, she moseyed over to my bench and sat down.

Her name was Marina, a 28-year-old local on her way home from drinks with friends. She seemed sweet, genuine, and sexy, so I stayed and talked with her. Not to mention she had glistening black hair and unprecedented green eyes, which was able to compensate for that one tooth on bottom that looked like a popcorn kernel. We talked for at least an hour before I gave her a kiss goodbye and made plans to meet tomorrow at “the statue” at five. I was stoked–now I didn’t have to do any tours; I had a sexy local who could show me around at my own splintery pace.

Before passing out on the boat, I masturbated to my mental sex files while Brian had his Jurassic Park nightmares just two feet away on the other side of the wall. My load plopped into the toilet with a thunderous thoip noise, but I doubt Brian heard.

After kayaking with the guys to a neighboring island and going for a swim, I met up with Marina, whose hair had amassed all sorts of split ends over the course of the last thirteen hours. The lazy-ass couldn’t even brush it? Even so, I had been looking forward to seeing her for a romantic night out in the Mediterranean sunset.

It didn’t start well. She was sober now and suddenly smoked like a chimney (Chain smokers should be sent to Tasmania or something. You guys fucking stink and are abusing everyone’s oxygen. Get out of here.). Then I learned a few interesting facts about her:

-Her last boyfriend had OD’d on heroin a year ago.

-She still wasn’t over him.

-She used to be a heroine addict herself.

-The ex before that had murdered her dog, which caused her to show up at his house with an ax in her hand, ready to kill. (He smartly didn’t open the door.)

-Her only passion in life was going for a weekly swim in the ocean.

It’s all good, I thought. That’s all in the past. She’s cool now. Nope. In our two hours of hanging out, she showed me one cool place–a scenic bar on a cliff. And in those two hours, she rambled on and on about herself, saying nothing remotely interesting or sane except for the hardships she faced during the Croatian War and the Siege of Dubrovnik in the early 90s. Other than that, it felt like I was watching a live recording of Intervention: the boring-ass Behind the Scenes edition. After two beers, I told her our crew was having dinner on the boat at 7:30 and then we were all going out together. She gave me her number and told me to “please, PLEASE” call her later. I lied to her and left.

The next morning I awoke fresh from yet another 0-for-20 college night (though I did fulfill my drink promise to Brian, who was tossed after two long islands), and I walked outside to find our boat anchored in a secluded cove. One of the best parts about the week, in addition to simply laying out on the deck, was the swim stops. Every day we’d anchor at a picturesque cove or bay, toss our floaties in the shimmering Adriatic, jump off the twenty-foot roof, snorkel, and paddle around in 75-degree water, all the while shooting the shit with each other, discussing sex and new travel destinations. And the weather was perfect, which I couldn’t quite say for the Greek Islands due to the violent wind factor. The Croatian Islands in July are unbeatable.

Our next stop was at the quaint harbor town of Trstenik. The village was a quarter mile horseshoe around its cozy harbor, and that was it. The population was maybe a few hundred. After feeding my internet addiction, I ate waterfront pizza with a couple girls from the boat, then napped until midnight. When my alarm went off, I was so tired I almost stayed in and slept. No! There would be no wasted nights in Croatia. I took a lukewarm shower to give my aching body a bitch slap, got ready and walked to an adjacent harbor, home of the lone bar in town.

It was more of a cove, and the outdoor bar, all 200 square feet of it, took up what little flat area there was. With the exception of six dancing high school girls who likely had Geometry homework due the next day, our boat crew accounted for the entire tavern. And apparently everyone had decided to dress like pirates–a handful of the guys moronically let the beautician put black eyeliner all over their faces. I knew about the pirate thing, so I wore my douchiest shirt–a grayish knock-off Affliction shirt (on sale at Nordstrom for twenty bucks) with a huge cross stitched on it, as well as some other loud junk.

Factoring in the village population, in addition to it being the middle of the week, I knew it’d be just us at the bar, so I planned on having a couple drinks with my boat mates, then hitting the sack. Halfway through my third and last drink, a sexy local with a stunning body and punky blonde hair appeared out of nowhere and stormed onto the dance floor. Okay fine, I’ll hit on her, then I’m off to bed. Unfortunately she had come with a group of six, half of them ugly chicks, the other half were bald dudes.

I waited until she was by herself. Then, finally, I found her sipping on a black drink in the darkness off to the side. I slithered up to her. “Who are you?”

“Who am I? Who are you?” Accent.

“Nope. I asked you first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well for one, what is that thing you’re drinking?”

“Orahovica. Here, try.”

The dark fluid tasted like stale Jager. I made a face.

“This is what Croatians drink. You don’t like?”

“It’s different,” I said, trying to wrinkle my face back to normal.

She passionately explained how the drink was considered gourmet brandy in Croatia, and how great it was blah blah blah. Then the conversation resumed.

“So what else would you like to know?”

“What’s your story? Who are you, and why are you at this bar on a Wednesday night?”

Her accent was a pain in the ass, and I didn’t feel like putting in the listening work, so I ignored everything she said and instead brainstormed possible detours around the six-friend cockblock factor. I nodded my head and kept my eye contact, asking her instinctual questions at opportune breaks in the conversation. I eventually discovered her name was Tatjana, 27, and she’d moved here a few years ago from Sarajevo. When she learned I lived in California, predictably, the questions started gushing out of her.

One of my moves with foreign girls like Tatjana–and even American girls–is I’ll invite them to do a fun activity with me. I’ll say things like “If you ever visit California, call me up. I’ll take you surfing.” We never actually go surfing, or see each other ever again, but saying shit like this spawns excitement and stirs their vagina juices like minced grapefruit.

Tatjana was hooked. After a couple more drinks mixed in with some pee breaks, we found ourselves standing on a ten-foot bluff overlooking the bar. Off to our left was an uphill trail that appeared to carve around the western bank of the cove.

Tatjana motioned to the trail. “Every time I come here, someone gets lost in the woods, but we can’t do that,” she weakly asserted.

“Nope. Definitely not.” I smiled at her, giving her a playful nudge.

“We are not going to kiss tonight, so I hope you weren’t expecting things to happen.”

Perfect. “Of course not. I’m just enjoying drinking with you.”

Two minutes later, when I sensed her body leaning into mine, I pulled her in by the side of her belt and gently kissed her. She kissed me back, then stopped. “Hold on, my friends are right there.”

I looked down and noticed a couple of her bald friends glancing back at us. “I’ll be right back,” she told me.

She appeared to be arguing with one of them as I sipped on my drink from above. A couple minutes later, she abruptly got up and stormed back to me, reached for my hand, let go, and then said impatiently, “Come on.”

I followed her up the trail for at least a couple hundred feet until she stopped and faced me. “My friends say I am only talking to you to feed my ego.”

I laughed. “Well who cares what they say.” I pulled her in for a make-out. She kissed me back violently, then took me by the hand and led me up another twenty feet into an opening on the right. I let go of her hand and followed her down the steep path towards the water, branches whip-lashing my face.

The jagged trail led to a small private beach, and this one actually had sand. How many guys had she banged here? The music from the bar throbbed off to our right as we lay down on the soft earth. I got on top of her, made my typical moves, but became slightly disenchanted when I realized her nipples tasted like garlic. I’ve been with one of these before, and it wasn’t good. I kept the other one around because she was a squirter, but I always steered clear of her tits.

After all the waist-and-above stuff, Tatjana made a frustrated groan. “I can’t doing anything,” she grumbled. I knew before she even finished. “It’s my time of the month.”

“That’s cool,” I said, kissing her neck. “Do you like it in the butt?”

“Sometimes. But not tonight.” Dammit.

She eventually took my dick out, but didn’t even suck it, and gave up on the handjob after the first quarter. Realizing there was nothing in it for her, she got up and said we needed to go back. What a bust.

When we were back on the trail, she said that we couldn’t go back down because if her friends saw us “lost in the woods” together, they might kick my ass. “What? Why? Are you even dating any of them?”

“No, but they are very protective. Come on, follow me. I know a way around.”

We climbed up an impossible mountain through vineyards and heavy brush. With my feet already killing me, this had disaster written all over it. Half a mile up a car drove by on a road. “There! We must go there,” she pointed, obviously lost. There were no trails of any kind leading up, not to mention we were already on a 45-degree angle of land.

“Are you kidding? There’s no way we’re going to make it. Let’s just go back down and split up when we get back to the bar.” All I wanted to do now was avoid injury and go to sleep.

Tatjana agreed and we made our way back. She went first. I waited behind a tree in case any of her meathead friends came wildly sprinting up the trail looking for blood. After a few minutes, I made my return and skulked around the bar back to the trail from which I came.

With the exception of some site-seeing, parasailing, and a few more swim stops, the last two days were uneventful. We spent a night at the coastal town of Makarska, and even found an all-Croatian nightclub. Unfortunately, the big-town locals didn’t want anything to do with North American tourists like the villagers back at Trstenik. 0 for 50.

We returned to Split for the last night, but the five hours a night of sleep I’d been getting had finally caught up to me. I was zonked out by nine like Brian.

The following morning I said my goodbyes to the boat crew, took a bus to the airport, and caught my flight back home.

Only I didn’t fly back to California; I flew up north for a couple hours. This shit wasn’t over. Russia awaited.

To be continued…

Vince, Dane, and I started the night off with a wretched glass of “Adios Motherfucker.” Next came the worst Jager-Bomb of all-time. The floozy bartender tried to be cool and filled our glasses up with all Jager and a meager splash of Red Bull on top. Sipping on Yager without the bomb is no fun. In the five beers that followed, I began lurking. 

After four rejections, I made eye contact with a reclusive-but-sexy brunette with fishnet stockings sitting in the corner of the smoking patio. She was sitting next to her two blonde friends who were connected at the mouth to two surfer-looking dudes. The brunette had her purse where an open seat would have been, so after making eye contact, I pointed to the purse. She smiled and quickly put it on her lap. I sat down.

Me: “Who are you?”

If you haven’t noticed, whenever I can’t think of a clever line, my default line is “So who are you?” It’s extremely potent, mostly because it gets girls talking about themselves, which is what most of them want to do anyway.

Her: “I’m Courtney. Who are you?”

Me: “I’m Dave. Are these two girls your friends?”

Her: “Yeah, they’ve been making out with these douchebags all night. Who are you here with?”

Me:  “A couple friends. They’re inside. Why are you drinking a Red Bull?”

Her: “I’m the designated driver.”

Me: “Aww you’re so responsible. Are you a nurse also?”

Her: “Huh? What? No, why?”

Me: “The last girl I knew who drank Red Bull was a nurse, but she had issues–

something about hamsters.”

Her: “What the fuck? No, I’m not a nurse. I’m currently jobless. What do you do?”

Me: “I teach math.”

We talked for another thirty minutes about jobs, hair, fingernails, bracelets, phone numbers, and living arrangements until her friends got up hand-in-hand with their douchebags and declared they were leaving. “Get his number and tell him to come out with us tomorrow,” one of them told Courtney. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, and we agreed to hang out the next night.

Shortly after she left, I received a text from Vince and Dane telling me they were leaving. Even though there was still over a half-hour until closing time, I left with them and called it a night.

As much as some of my friends and acquaintances assume my foremost aspiration in life is to fuck as many girls as possible, they are wrong. Aside from her striking looks, twenty-one-year-old Courtney was cool as fuck. When I meet girls like her and can sense a connection, a tingly feeling of excitement brews deep within. A relationship suddenly becomes a possibility. Unfortunately, my history has shown that every hopeful prospect turns to mush. I end up either cutting them or trying to convert them into a fuck buddy. It’s tough for me to find “my type,” which I still am trying to define. I’ll know when I know. What I do know is that I want to get married one day and have kids; but I’m no fool, and I don’t settle. People who settle on stagnant relationships/marriages to please their parents, society, and/or their sexual needs are pathetic and need to grow up.   

Excited about Courtney, I quickly masturbated and then went to bed drunk.

Still buzzed, I awoke that morning at 6:45 because I had to pee. The shitty thing about drinking is that I will always wake the next morning at an unfavorable time like 6:45, which renders my sleeping abilities useless for at least the next half hour. I lay in my bed, exhausted but unable to even doze, for another ten minutes when my phone rang. I looked at the red digits on my alarm clock–7:00 a.m. precisely. Then I grabbed my phone off the bed stand. It was Courtney.

Me: “Hello?”

Her: “Hello-hello! What are you doing?”

Me: “Lying down. What about you?”

Her: “No one will drink with me!”

Me: “Really? What idiots! I’ll drink with you; come over.”

Her: “Yay! Okay, do you have a community pool or something?”

Me: “Uh, no, but I have a spa.”

Her: “Okay, perfect. How do I get there?”

I gave her directions and hung up. Just like that, the “tingly feeling” I’d had for this girl quickly transformed into “just another fuck.” Who booty-calls someone at seven in the morning? I didn’t think of the causes. I prepared for the effects. I hopped out of bed and went straight to the bathroom to do some touch-up manscaping and take a shower.

After showering, I cleaned up my room, which consisted of me shoving my heap of dirty clothes into a compact wedge in the corner. Then I tossed my four pairs of shoes in the closet and scanned for any leftover female jewelry or condom wrappers. I threw on my board-shorts and a red T-shirt, and waited in bed.

Courtney stumbled out of a freshly washed black Explorer. She looked much sexier than last night. She had shed the reclusive look for a look-at-me look. She wore a purple top, an exposed bra, and low riding jeans–no underwear–while flaunting a tatted left arm along with another tattoo creeping up from her waistline. “Shots!” was the first thing out of her mouth. My mind came up with a few plausible hypotheses for the attractive human being who was about to enter my house and probably fuck me:

1)      She hadn’t slept, and after dropping off her sex-bound friends, had taken drugs, partied some more, and then driven to my house under some form of intoxication.

2)      She had slept but was a raging alcoholic and began drinking as soon as she awoke. 

3)      She was sweet and wanted to spend the entire day with me because she “really felt a connection last night.”

I immediately crossed off hypothesis 3 because I realized this was real life. Then I crossed off hypothesis 2 because she was too hot to be calling a guy she had just met; she had to have other early-morning fuck buddies. It had to be hypothesis 1.

When she got inside, I grabbed a beer and gave her a shot of tequila as requested. “Have you been partying all night?” I asked.

            “My friends were fucking those guys at the hotel, so I drove down to my friend’s place in Newport and partied there for a while.”

            “You haven’t slept have you?”

            “Sleeping’s for losers.” Three seconds later, she took the shot. 

For the next twenty-five minutes in the living room, I listened to nonstop jabbering about how she got a partial track scholarship to USC, but her loser boyfriend introduced her to cocaine, which subsequently sent her life spiraling to the gutter. I could tell she played some kind of sport. Her arms were wiry but well defined, and her stomach was flat; her hipbones stretched her low-riding jeans to create a space down the front. I could just make out the upper stubble of her shaved vagina.

When she finally got to the events of the last five hours, she explained how her friends were mad at her for no reason and how some guy named Jeff was “such a fucking faggot.” She repeated the story two and a half times. Then mid-story she abruptly stopped and demanded I heat up the spa. When we got outside, I realized I’d never worked the spa. I went around the side and flipped some switches, but my efforts were hopeless. My roommate and landlord, KG, was upstairs, but like every normal person, he was sleeping on this hot Saturday morning.

Courtney sat in a white plastic outdoor chair smoking a cigarette as I toyed with the switches. “Hurry the fuck up!” she yelled, followed by a cackle.

            Fed up, and not excited about getting in hot water on a hot morning, I lied, “I don’t think it works.”

            “Oh my God. Can you wake your roommate? Maybe he knows,” she said, flicking her cigarette.

            “Okay, calm down. I’ll see if he’s awake.”

KG eventually came down on his own time and got the spa working, but it was going to take at least an hour to heat up. In the meantime, Courtney took two more shots. As KG cooked himself breakfast, Courtney babbled the same Jeff-is-a-faggot story to KG, twice. KG fake listened, nodding his head and saying “Uh huh” repeatedly. When KG finished cooking an egg sandwich, Courtney snatched it from the plate and asked, “Oh! Can I have this?” Irritated but not showing it, KG let her take it.

Having sympathy for KG’s hunger, I took Courtney upstairs to my room. I wasn’t stoked on fucking her, but after making out with her, she took off her pants. My dormant sexual desires suddenly went aflame again. Just as I was putting on the condom, she exclaimed, “Wait! I haven’t had sex in five months. Your dick is going to hurt.”

            “Okay, want me to go slow?” I asked.

            “Yeah.”

She wasn’t lying. She was a small girl and probably a slut, but she blew away my expectations. She had the tightest pussy I’d ever had. I couldn’t even fuck her properly because she yelped every time I went too fast. I had to fuck her so slow that I couldn’t even get off. I finally jerked off on her back–despite noticing a brown particle in her asshole–after fucking her from behind.

After sex, insanity ensued. We went downstairs to the kitchen. KG had already taken off, so we now had the house to ourselves. She checked her phone, didn’t see a single message, and then yelled, “Fucking Jeff! It’s all his fault! I have no friends because of him.” I let her be. As she looked around the house starry-eyed, her eyes grazed over me. “And where the fuck am I? Irvine? And I just had sex! With you! Who the fuck are you?”

            I smiled.

            “No, seriously, who the fuck are you?” Her body lurched forward.

            “Uh,” I muttered.

            “Fuck! I told myself I wouldn’t have sex until I had a boyfriend, and I just wasted it on you!”

            I made a face as if to show confusion, trying desperately not to laugh.

            Her eyes darted to the backyard window. “And we didn’t even go in the fucking spa!” she screamed.

I listened to another ten minutes of her self-deprecating soliloquies. When she’d finally cooled off, she asked me, “So what are you doing today?”

            It was almost noon at that point, and an annual “Beer Olympics”–a giant day party in Costa Mesa–was beginning in about two hours. When I told Courtney about it, she flipped out.

            “Oh, so you’d rather play fucking beer pong than hang out with me?”

I tried to reason with her but it was hopeless. Then she threatened to leave. Normally, I’d let the girl go, but this girl was far too shit-faced to drive for my conscience to allow it. “You’re not driving; I’ll drive you home.” I took a shower to wash her sex off, leaving the bathroom door open just in case she tried to leave or started breaking things. In the midst of washing my cock and balls, the shower curtain whooshed open, and Courtney began yelling at me again.

            “Are you seriously playing beer pong instead of kicking it with me?” she whined.

            “It’s not just beer pong,” I said.

            “Well, can I go?”

            “No, it’s an all-guy thing,” I lied, still scrubbing my genitals.

            “I don’t mind.”

            “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

She closed the curtain door and said, “Hurry up, I want you to fuck me again.”

When I returned to my room, Courtney was naked, lying spread eagle with a mischievous smile slinking across her face. “Fuck me now,” she demanded. I’d just taken a shower to wash off her sex, so even though I was tempted, I refrained. “I don’t have any more condoms,” I lied.

            “Well find one. I want you to fuck me.”

            “I need a condom.”

            “FUCK ME!!”

            “I can’t. We need to go.”

            “What the fuck? Guys out there would die to fuck me, and here I am begging you to fuck me. Are you fucking stupid?” She sat up.

            “Let’s go.”

            “No, I’m not going anywhere until you fuck me,” she said, spreading her legs wider.

            I got an idea. “Okay, let’s go buy some condoms on the way home. Do you have a bed?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay, We’ll buy some condoms, and then I’ll fuck you on your bed. Let’s go.” I had done it. She got up and put her clothes on.

The Beer Olympics were at my buddy’s apartment complex in Costa Mesa, and Courtney conveniently lived in Costa Mesa also. I figured I’d drop her off and have a friend pick me up from her place. Off we went.

Even though the outside of her car was freshly washed, the inside looked like a large poker tournament had just taken place. There were dozens of cigarette butts, dirt, old fast food bags, loose change, water bottles, and at least ten empty Cherry Coke cans. Courtney grabbed some CDs from the side compartment and threw on one of her mixes. She skipped over to track six. I was expecting something new or original. Instead, she played that Black Eyed Peas song that had been on the radio for seven months: “Boom Boom Pow.” She put it on full blast and started singing along. What a loser.

The OC fair was clogging up the freeways, so I took the back roads. Courtney took out a cigarette but had left her lighter at my house. Her crankiness escalated to new levels. Not only did she want condoms, but now she demanded food, booze, and a lighter. I told her not to worry; I’d find her a liquor store.

After passing Newport Golf Course, the same golf course that started this crazy chain of events, I made a right toward the 55-freeway into a neighborhood. Courtney freaked out. “Where the fuck are you going?”

            “Newport Boulevard. There’s a liquor store there.”

            “What! You can’t go to Newport Boulevard. That has the worst traffic!”

            “No, it’s fine now. We already passed the fair.”

            “No! Are you fucking crazy? Turn around! Now!”

Every ounce of my patience had gone out the window. I was done with this girl. I snapped. “Okay, you know what? FUCK THIS. I’m out of here.” I stopped the car, took the keys out of the ignition, opened my door, and threw the keys on the seat. I walked away from the car. When I turned around, Courtney had gotten out of the car perhaps quicker than I had, and she was yelling.

            “Where the fuck are you going? I can’t get another DUI!” she screamed.

            “Then call a fucking cab. I’m done.”

Before I knew it, she was sprinting after me. Suddenly I found myself sprinting down the block also, running in a combination of adrenaline and hilarity. I looked back. She was still chasing me! But I was beginning to separate myself. Two years ago, her USC track body would have probably caught up to me. Now she was no match. Thanks, cocaine. Off in the distance behind me, I heard her final yell: “You fucking pussy!” I never looked back. I made a right turn and hid behind a wall just in case she tried to run me over.

A few minutes later I received three texts from her:

You could have kicked it with me but instead you chose beer pong.

Fuck you!

Ur a piece of shit.

It took me an hour to walk to Beer Olympics, but I made it intact and had a fine day of partying ahead. And to think, there once was a time when I put Courtney and the word “relationship” in the same honest thought. Instead, she became the main character of this story.