Years ago I was in a long distance relationship. Although I was barely making ends meet with an entry-level job, monthly car payment and rent for an apartment sans roommates, I somehow found a way to fly to visit him as often as possible.
Logging as many trips as I did, I very quickly earned a free flight on Southwest Airlines. This included drink tickets. Ding, ding, ding, ding!!!!
We decided to meet for a long weekend in Vegas, as he had vouchers for a free hotel stay thanks to a gambling problem. As long as I kept my underwear in my pants, I figured this would be a really good weekend.
I should precursor the story by saying I had made the decision to try out my first Brazilian bikini wax as a surprise. I did this in the cheap as, again, I was broke.
When you are paying someone to rip out all of your unwanted pubic hair, it’s probably best to shell out a few extra bucks to make sure you are, in fact, seeing an aesthetician versus a medieval torture aficionado.
My boyfriend was surprised all right. He was surprised at the level of bruising that a vagina can withstand. I can’t even begin to try to explain to you what happened or how it looked. But when his first response was a terrified gasp and a “PLEASE don’t ever, EVER do that again,” it’s definitely not the “I’m pretending to be a porn star look” you were going for. We are talking big purple bruising, swelling and some burns.
Something had gone ridiculously wrong. During the course of the wax, I pleaded for mercy. Begged her to stop. Asked for a wooden spoon to bite down on. This Polish midget was relentless. I tried to wriggle away. She was like a hair Nazi. She wouldn’t stop. I definitely will have second thoughts about going to Dominatrix’s Hair Removal Den ever again!
My vagina looking like a boxer’s face after a 12-round boxing match set the tone for a clusterfuck of a weekend.
Now, as big of a drinker as I am, I had never drank on a flight before. I guess I just never felt the need? On this trip, though, I had free drink coupons and figured I had to take advantage! So I ordered a beer and quickly became friendly with the flight attendant.
“You (th)eem fun girl” he told me as his wrists got limp and he fluttered his slightly mascaraed Latin eyelashes. “You want eh shot?”
At this point in my life I was very much all about any type of free alcohol at any time. (I know, so different from my current lifestyle!) If someone asked me if I wanted a shot, the answer was always a resounding YES.
So what does he bring back for me? A CUP of rum. That’s right. A cup. Not a shot. A tiny plastic cup filled so close to the top that I couldn’t pick it up for fear of spilling on myself. I had to bend down to lap it up like a cat drinking milk. Not wanting to seem rude, I opted to sip on the rum in between sips of my free beer. He checked back on me frequently, saying I was his favorite passenger and slipping me free booze when he could. My older neighbor to the right of me joked that he was “sweet on me.”
Seriously lady? The only thing this guy seemed sweet on was ascots and sperm tasting.
The flight went by quicker than any flight I have ever been on. Apparently binge drinking and annoying your neighbors by talking non-stop is the solution for ways to entertain yourself during a four-hour flight. I normally keep to myself on flights. There is a 90% chance I end up sitting next to Chatty Cathy who talks about her recent hemorrhoid surgery, impending divorce with her cheating husband that has a back hair problem and/or about her infatuation with Fluffy her terrier and likely lover.
Several beers and two cups of rum later I arrived in Vegas. We planned to meet at the airport and rent a car, which he was going to use to golf the next day. When I landed I had a voicemail from him saying his flight was delayed and he would call me when he landed. No problem!
I found a cantina in the airport and waited out my time drinking margaritas. When he finally landed an hour or so later, I was bombed. Positively wasted!
We had not seen each other in several weeks, and right away he knew something was up when I took a running tackle at him giggling like a deranged maniac. He very quickly realized that I wasn’t just a little buzzed, but head over heels retarded drunk.
At the car rental place I started crying when I realized I lost the lip gloss I had just bought. And when we arrived at the hotel I refused to discuss making dinner plans. Instead, I wanted to “play in the tub.” He, of course, made sure I didn’t drown, happily tucked me into bed (at 6 PM), and had quite a fun evening gambling and drinking on his own.
Now that’s what I call a perfect romantic vacation. Sigh.
The rest of the weekend was salvaged with good food, lots of drinks and some dancing. He quickly forgave me for my transgressions.
Then again, I told him if he didn’t that I was going to pummel his face to resemble my soft but damaged vaginal area.
That straightened him right up.
Moral of the Story:
Doing shots on a plane is bad enough. But don’t drink straight cups of rum no matter how ungrateful you might feel turning them down to your gay flight attendant.
Especially when you and your purple axe wound are on your way to meet your boyfriend who you only get to see a few days out of the month.