Up Shit Creek

Monday

I didn’t sleep much the night before we landed in Progresso.  I stayed up a few extra hours so my snoring wouldn’t keep Josh up all night long.  Sadly, we were both still exhausted when we rose at 6:30 in the Mexican sun.   We ran for a quick breakfast and made our way down the ship to the Port of Progresso.

You know those Sally Struthers commercials that used to come on all day long, where she would show you kids in shanty towns in Africa, then she would unhinge her jaw and just eat one of the fucking kids whole?  Well this was sort of like that, but in Mexico.   Progresso’s port looked like it had been built just the night before, held together with duct tape, silly putty and dried up shit.  These people are fucking poor, and they are forced to live their lives trying to shill crappy glass figurines, ugly hats and cheap cheap fucking beer and beg money off our fat asses just so their fucking kids can get fed  (and presumably be well nourished when it’s their turn to jump the border).  I feel really goddamn bad for the people of Progresso.   Josh and I scheduled a kayaking excursion.  The description promised education and adventure.  Well not so much.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Our tour guide put us on a bus hobbled together with sticks, rubber and superglue.  His name was… fuck… Pablo or Tico…  I don’t know, something Mexican.  All I know is he kept making bizarre monkey noises intermixed with broken Spanglish.  So I’ll call him Tarzan.   Tarzan spent the majority of the ride… well, making said monkey noises… but in between he assured us repeatedly that Progresso is the most important port in Mexico, and that is why there were dozens of armed military men stationed everywhere.  (Because apparently the real Pirates of the Carribean couldn’t give a shit about Incan gold, preferring instead to steal burritos and “I love McDonald’s!” tshirts from fucking dirt farmers in the middle of a wasteland.)  We asked what made Progresso so important.

“Progresso is de moooost im-por-tahnt port in Me-hee-co.”

“Yes, we got that, but why?”

“Progresso is de moooost im-por-tahnt port in Me-hee-co.”

That’s all we were getting out of  him.  And I don’t think its that his English was bad.  I think he just didn’t fucking know.  I think he was just like “Look, I have to tell you this or that big monkey looking guy with the k-mart brand AK-47 is going to fuck me like an exra in Oz.” Meanwhile the bus driver apparently plays way too much Grand Theft Auto, because he was gunning for those kids in the street like he got extra points for each hit.

Seriously, the people of Progresso live in squalor.  I grew up in New Orleans my whole life, so I know what poor as shit looks like, and these people are… like, poor as fuck-all.  It seems every building was in various drastic states of disrepair, and many seemed impossibly uninhabitable, despite the obvious residency.  Every building– except one.   There was this big pink goddamn mansion in the middle of town, like a flower blooming in a wasteland.  It was the oddest thing.

They took us to their encampment where our adventure would begin.  Curiously, there were no real safety instructions or tutorials.  They just passed us a life jacket and paddle and pushed us in.

The kayaks were different than the ones I’d seen in Tennessee. There were old, and lacked the covering to keep out water.  Being especially heavy, this was not a good thing as I started taking on water a few seconds in. There was an overcast sky and a breeze pushing past the brush that surrounded us, so it felt good to be alive and on the water.   I enjoyed paddling around in my little boat, right up until I realized that I would have to paddle harder than anyone else there because my weight sunk my deeper in the water, pushing me more upstream.  Paddling became a bitch.

Even trying to tread water during breaks became a chore, since the constant pull of the stream made my paddle useless even when anchored deep into the ground.  The worst part though were the tunnels.   The majority of our tour took us through these tiny forest crevices barely large enough for the kayaks to pass and just small enough to get our oars caught in their branches.  In some spots the water was so shallow that we’d get stuck in the mud and have to fight to get out.  The breeze and current were non-existant there.  All that were present were the sweat upon my brow, the strain on my muscles and back and the terrible, terrible stench.  The forest’s odor was a disturbing mix of red beans and shit.  The water’s color did little to assuade that assessment.

After a while we came to open area for our final break.  They served water and bananas for lunch.  I declined since paddling to their boat would have required more energy than the banana was worth.  My patience was pretty much at an end by this point.  The adventure I was promised was just me struggling through the Mayan jungle at low tide.   I wanted off the ride.  By then my kayak was nearly sub mersed and each time I moved, I nearly flipped the boat.  My shoes were soaked.   Josh took this time to laugh at me, which is fine.  But  he also felt the need to give me advice on how to maneuver and paddle.  Which was not so fine.  I knew perfectly well how to paddle, but my weight combined with a flooded boat meant I wasn’t getting anywhere and his unwanted (yet, as always, insistant) advice wasn’t helping my mood.  Finally as I was in the throes of just giving up and waiting for the sweet hands of death  to take me down, he came up with a useful suggestion.  Ask them to let me ride in the motorboat.

Which they did.  And that was the best part of the whole damn time.  Fortunately for my ego, I wasn’t the only one who’d had it, and a couple had to hitch a ride.

Not long after we got back to the dock, they sent us back to the port.   I was soaked, tired and hungry, so we skipped out on looking around the port and went straight back to the ship.   As soon as we got back to the room, I tore my clothes off and ran in the shower.

After we ate, I went back to the room and ended up taking a long nap.  about 3 hours.  My left shoulder was killing me by then.   So when I woke from my nap, I put on my bathing suit, headed up to the spa and scheduled a massage.

With and hour and a half to kill before my appointment, I went to find Josh out on the pool deck. He was down in the hot tub talking to a girl.  When I got there, they weren’t alone.  Besides the hot girl, there was a middle aged couple and two kids.  The lanky kid was apparently trying to get with the just recently collegiate hot girl, but mostly he was just getting on her nerves.   Josh was the one with her ear, so lanky kid decides to show off by doing a flip off the hot tub into the pool.  When he was gone, the middle aged man asked if he was with us.  When we said no, he beathed relief.  I hadn’t noticed, but lanky kid had some sort of whistle and was apparently aggravating everyone in the hot tub.  Apparently I just completely tune teenagers out, because I never heard the damn thing.  When he got back in, he started in with the whistle again, and this time I did hear.

I’m not certain whether Josh was truly irritated by the whistle, or didn’t like the kid, or if it was just a case of male hormones pushing him to show off in front of the girl, but he kind of went off.

“Hey!  You see that whistle thing??  You’re pissing off everyone here!”   Cue stupid kid’s need to push authority.  He whistles again.  “You know I could punch your teeth down your throat.  Or he could. {me}  Or him. {middle-aged man}  You need to cut that shit out right now.”

I was fucking shocked.   The whole hot tub was silent.  I can’t speak for them, but I felt like it was over-kill. It was a fucking whistle.  And the kid looked like he was going to cry.  So I kind of stepped in.     “Don’t worry, he isn’t going to hit you.  But you are annoying everyone.  Seriously… STOP IT.”  The kid felt threatened and scared, so he bailed into the pool again.   I made a comment about him never getting an erection again after being emasculated so thoroughly in public.  Everyone laughed, but I really felt bad.  Still, I guess it worked because Josh and Hot Tub Girl took off to… well, that’s private.

I went up to get my massage.  My masseuse was a Welsh girl named Rachel.   She was skinny and tall with deep black hair cut shoulder length. Cute is definitely a good word for her, but it’s true what they say about teeth in the UK.  Seriously, these people need affordable orthodontia like flowers need sunshine.

She told me to strip down and said I could leave my underwear on if I wished.   Two problems with that.  One: all I had on was a damn bathing suit.  And two:  I was on vacation. It’s naked time.   Her hands were divine.  Which presented a problem.  When I was face down, all I could think about was her sticking her finger in my ass.  No, only kidding, but I did want her to rub my butt.  And then when I was face up… well… let’s just say I would have made a very effective sun dial.  And more I really really hoped this was going to go all 70’s porn on me.   Sure my arm felt better, but by the time I left I was so horny that I was more wound up than when I started.

I got dressed and headed down to dinner.   As we ate, Hot Tub Girl passed by with her family, not so discreetly giving Josh those eyes.  Fucker.

When dinner was done I went off to get my suit back on for late night hot tub action.   I saw HTG on the way to the room.  When I was leaving, Josh was walking in and I told him I’d seen her.  He told me he’d meet me at the pool soon.   I was up there for about an hour by myself and it was getting really really cold.  I went back down to the room to get some clothes on and go singing.  I opened the door to silence and pitch darkness, but there was something off.   Specifically HTG’s panties on the floor.  From the darkness, Josh asked if I could come back later.

This presented a problem.  On the one hand, guy code demands that I leave immediately.   Cock blocks are specifically un-dude like.   But on the other hand, I wearing nothing but a wet bathing suit, a bathrobe and some flip flops.   Which is bullshit.   So I decided to be a dude.

I went back up to the pool deck and tried to wait it out.   That lasted about a half an hour.   Having no other alternative, I went to the karaoke bar in my bathrobe.  I could hear the snickers and hoots of “Hey Hugh Hefner” as I found a seat.  I ordered a smirnoff ice, because this is the sort of occasion that requires alcohol.   I sang two songs; one of them being Wave on Wave by Pat Green.  What’s cool is that it’s a fun song, and it actually brought a few new people in.  The legend of the swimsuit swinger began to spread far and wide.  Soon my reputation would preceed me.

After I did my second song, I left.  By then the rules of dude-hood meant jack shit to me.  I needed clothes. Josh was there alone when I went in.   Unfortunately before I could be thankful for my good luck, he informed me that she was coming right back.   I dried off the leftover dampness and put on some underwear when suddenly there was a knock at the door.  Needless to say I could barely get my pants zipped before I was booted out the door.

Mostly what I did was wander around for the rest of the hour.  By the time I got back she was gone.   He told me about his own personal three ring sexual circus, which mostly made me sleepy.  Then I told him what I did all night while he was out banging the Pink Power Ranger. It was mutually agreed upon that I am the greatest Dude ever and that Josh owes me a debt which is either beyond recompense or only satisfiable by providing pussy.  And then I passed the fuck out.

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One response to this post.

  1. :))))) You soooo were not kidding about the finger in your ass.

    Great story well told.

    Reply

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