How Montezuma’s Revenge Ruined My Spring Break In Cancun

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Nice Move

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So I’m pulling out all the stops to bang this French girl “on holiday” in Cancun when she tells me she wants to go shopping. Now, for those of you who haven’t been to Mexico and assume most of the commerce revolves around chiclets and sombreros, you’re not completely wrong. But this is a country of polarities — from donkey shows to Louis Vuitton.

Anyway, I’m near tears when I realize her definition of a fun afternoon includes far more luxury brands than human-horse cock interaction. But I’ve already dedicated half my trip to this Frenchie and my index finger knows she’s got the sort of imported Teflon twat a man would sell his firstborn to sniff.

By the time she’d spent the GDP of a small African nation, my Mexican coke had run dry, my sensory systems were on the verge of total collapse, and she spots a fucking Jamba Juice (or whatever the Mexican equivalent is).

“Jamba! I love Jamba! You love Jamba?”

Sure honey, it’s fucking great. Want to lap it off my sack later?

I mean, “Yeah, great. Sure.”

So now I’m basically Stevie Wonder-blind, dejectedly walking through this place like a sad puppy in heat behind the one French spring breaker who happens to clench her holes like Jared Fogle in the showers.

I’m on the verge of giving up when she grabs me by the collar.

“I think you like me,” she says in the sort of “I’m probably about to blow you” way that quells your insatiable need to stupidly respond “no, but I do like parts of you.”

“Yeah, I think you like me a little too.”

She smiles and grabs me by the center belt loops and, even in my state of total incoherence, I realize that like King Kong, my chains have finally been broken.

“Let me show you how much I like you.”

I lean in and provide her with possibly the worst tongue lashing of her banal existence, but she obliges.

We’re stumbling through the shanty town carrying bags more expensive than financing a snuff film when she turns me around and says “I want you to fuck me.” She grabs it.

“Until its ready to sing for me.”

At this point I’m perplexed. What the fuck does that mean?

“All over my face.”

Oh, ok. Got it.

So as you can imagine at this point, I’m near sprint to the hotel, eventually bribing a Mexican cabbie to take us back to my place with enough pesos to buy him a new hut. We arrive unscathed.

“I want to suck it” she says with an elevator double nip slip so egregious she’d be put on the sex offenders list in a civilized country. I fumble through my wallet searching for the right key card.

“Don’t make me wait.”

Finally I open the door and let the festivities begin. Having worked harder for this than any spring breaker could ever imagine, I wanted to take my time, do this right. So I was going to bite the bullet and just fucking go for it: I was going to wait for her to orgasm first. I know, I know — crazy, right? But this French fucking machine sucked like a Hoover. Her accent actually got more understandable when she had a mouthful. I owed this to her.

So I flipped her over for the inevitable 90 seconds of doggie jackhammering when I hear what I thought was a queef. And then another. I thrust a few more times. Again.

She squeezes my poor grapes like she’s making wine with them.

“Is everything ok?”

She turns over.

“I am so sorry.”

I hear the noise again.

“I really don’t feel well.”

She abruptly stands and I realize in horror the assumed queefs (basically a lady’s way of saying “hey man, good job,” right?) had not been queefs at all, but air escaped from somewhere else — somewhere much more sinister.

“I’m sorry!!!”

She’s hyperventilating and says “where is the…” when green vomit explodes from her mouth. She falls to her knees covered in her own filth. I feel like I am in an exorcism chamber, and I prepare to use the power of Christ to compel her.

She’s now on her side continuing to release trumpet blasts from her previously desirable ass and drooling the sort of mucus-ridden spit usually reserved for 21st birthdays.

“Oh my, are you ok? I’m calling 911. Wait, what the fuck is 911 in Mexico? Do they have 911 here?”

“I’m ok, seriously. I am so sorry.”

More bodily functions occur as I give her water and help her to the shower. I’m cleaning this foreigner’s bile when I feel a gurgle in my own stomach. Must have been the Mexican coke. I try to purge myself.

Holy fuck, the Jamba Juice. I rush to the bathroom exploding from both ends, legitimately weighing the merits of death over this situation. I yell to her in the shower.

“The Jamba Juice!”

She’s sitting on the floor breathing heavily.

“Yeah?”

“Did you order us shit with ice?”

Silence.

“Was there fucking ice in the Jamba?!”

“Why does that fucking matter!”

For the next several hours we both realized exactly why the fuck it matters. From commitmentless facials to Oregon Trail level dysentery, Montezuma had his revenge.

My parents, who of course didn’t quite get this version of the story from the local “sala de emergencias,” claim this is a reason not to go to Mexico. Maybe, but I think it was punishment for taking 4 days to close a European on Spring Break.

Fuck, I deserved it.

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