Ah ducklings, has it really been that long since we were at Hedo? The voracious workaday world has devoured any sense of lasting calm we might have achieved. The tans are but a distant memory. Belts are commonplace. And people now frown when we contemplate our first drink at 10:30am. (Tight-asses!)
But let us not focus on this harsh mistress we call reality. Let us instead give into the DIF and float back to those glorious, raunchy, skin filled days of yesteryear (or a few weeks ago, if you really must get technical – and if you must, then reality has certainly regained firm control of you and we mourn your loss).
All together now, let’s do the Wayne & Garth “diddly-doop, diddly-doop” and watch the air before us begin to shimmer as we collectively enter our flashback.
It’s Friday, Sept. 1 at roughly 1:30pm and the bus is pulling into Hedo. MrsQuackers and I weren’t too surprised to hear our room wasn’t yet ready, so we hustled over to the Scotch Bonnet for the first of what would be many beef patties, burgers and French fries. (We had decided to try the new Fred ‘Rerun’ Berry diet while at Hedo. It’s much more satisfying than most others – and about as effective.) Along the way, we saw three young nymphs sliding down the waterslide topless and I knew the world was readjusting itself to the way it should be.
Knowing how long it takes to get a drink at the Bonnet, I dashed upstairs to the bar myself, to run into what would be a recurring cast for the first half of our stay: The Seven Vinnies, constantly in search of their Snow White. They were the personification of Vinnies, too – loud, obnoxious, horny, but terrified of taking their clothes off. Hell, these were guys who honestly believed they were the first ever to use ‘jerk chicken’ as a euphemism. I knew they would be a tremendous source of entertainment.
Lunch finished, we rolled the dice and tried the front desk again. Lo and behold, a room was available directly above the nude pool. Jackpot!! We unpacked, stripped down and hurried to the bar, where we promptly ran into a wealth of friends – Mr & Mrs. Rookie, T&S – and our four buddies from our initial trip The Canadian Bombshell & WhizKid and ChillBoy & RingFinder. Before too much longer, we spotted Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen on the other side of the pool and zoomed over to say hello. The party was underway!
First things first, though… there were some Hedo traditions that needed to be taken care of. I jumped into the first game of water volleyball that broke out, and then ordered a round of Lemon Drop shots. Since MrsQuackers’ unfortunate encounter with them two years ago (http://www.dennyp.com/h3tripreports/2004/chris_0804.htm), they have found their way into every trip. Better to make her face her fears immediately, rather than let them build up. Thankfully, the group drinking along with her helped immensely.
D & B soon came by and joined the fun, just in time to see me dragged up to the side of the pool for a beer drinking contest by the ECs. Asked to taunt my opponents, I simply explained to them “I’m Irish.” (Never underestimate the truth as a weapon of fear, ducklings.) With them cowering before my Gaelic beer drinking might, I won easily. The Hedo bucks began rolling in. (My thanks to BeerQueen, who did not join the contest – as I later learned she surely would have cleaned the floor with me.)
The afternoon was filled with all sorts of naked shenanigans, culminating in plans to meet at 8pm for dinner.
We dined at a Camelot-like round table that evening amongst friends. After dinner, Good Dr. Deputy – the boogie machine that he is – was called up on stage to assist with a reggae dance-off. He objected a bit at first, until they positioned him directly behind the Smokin’ Venezuelan. She didn’t speak much English, but she did have a fine badonkadonk. (I apologize, ducklings. MrQuackers never seems more Caucasian than when he tries to use words like badonkadonk. When he says things like “gettin’ jiggy wit it” it has been known to make people’s heads explode.)
Good Dr. Deputy showed off his rhythm. And well… he tried, friends. He really did. But slowly and cautiously, he began moving backwards on the stage, until he saw his chance to make a graceful and subtle exit from the stage, whereupon he quickly rejoined us at the table and began to drink to erase the memory of the dance (or enhance the memory of the badonkadonk. Oops. Sorry.)
Dutifully, we marched to the piano bar. Sadly, Glen wasn’t there. Even more sadly, karaoke was. The evening wasn’t a total loss, though. In talking with the bartender, I was introduced to the Kelvin special. I don’t know what was in it, ducklings, but it was tasty. And the rest of the night is a bit hazy because of it.
I do remember someone trying to convince MrsQuackers to help him sing “Barbie Girl” on stage. Fortunately, she declined. What that man didn’t realize was there is a U.N. ban on MrsQuackers singing solos while reasonably sober. Had she joined him, people in blue helmets, who undoubtedly would have insisted on clothing, would have overrun the resort. Consider it a bullet dodged.
To re-energize the evening, we headed over to the waterslide. MrsQuackers, myself, Mr. & Mrs. Rookie, and another couple who had joined us along the way made successive runs down. (I did it four times, myself.) Mrs. Rookie kept rallying the troops. Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen sat off to the side, laughing at us. (Good Dr. Deputy, we didn’t realize at the time, held a dark secret about waterslides.)
From there, we marched – wet and naked – to the nude pool and hot tub. Mr. & Mrs. Rookie were planning to power through the night, since they were being evicted at some obscenely early hour the next day. MrsQuackers and I did our best to last, but by 2:00 or 2:30, we had to surrender and go to bed.
We slept like babies, letting our bodies rest up for
SALACIOUS SATURDAY
Despite a full night’s rest, I woke up feeling like lukewarm death. But was I about to let the creeping crud keep me down? Hell no! I started my breakfast with a couple of Advil and Zyrtec, and then we made a mad dash to the dining hall, ordering the first of what would be many omelets. (My personal goal was for my cholesterol to hit 500 before I went home.) They were as good as I remembered them to be.
From there, it was over to the nude pool, where we happened to be the first from our merry band of Hedonists, so we parked our asses on our lounge chairs and began to lounge and read. After a few minutes, Mystery, a relatively new EC, came over and began talking with us. What a sweet, young thang she is. We loved her instantly and spent well over two hours talking with her about a world of topics.
Slowly, members of our little gang began to join us – and after soaking in the sun for a bit, we all sauntered down to the Scotch Bonnet, where we learned The Canadian Bombshell was one of their favorite customers. Hugs were exchanged and drink service was prompt. Clearly, it was a good thing to dine with The Canadian Bombshell.
When we finally wedged ourselves from our chairs, we opted for the pier over the pool. Forming a flotilla of rafts, our group discussed multiple orgasm abilities and the ‘Sea Lion’ – er, sybian. Alas, while it may appear the stuff that wet dreams are made of on the Internet – or when some other people use it – it hasn’t rocked its current owner’s world as much as she (or her partner) had hoped.
Rum was consumed freely and we even attempted body shots, but learned that rum cream and seawater do not mix well. And, ducklings, when MrQuackers does not want to lick rum off of a hot woman’s boobs or cootchie, that’s saying something!
On one of many bar runs, I spotted Officer Humpsalot and NewBoobs at the nude hot tub. The party was about to kick into overdrive. After a bit of coaxing, they joined us at the naked flotilla. All went well until Officer Humpsalot broke away from the pack and had an intimate encounter with a sea urchin. (No, you filthy minded people, he got stung on the arm!) Our advice when he showed us the wound – four stingers embedded in his forearm – was unanimous: Pee on it. Officer Humpsalot seemed to consider the advice, but ultimately decided to take a walk to the nurse’s station.
The nurse, a sweet lady who I’ll bet all my Hedo bucks is someone’s grandmother, told him not to worry, that his arm wouldn’t fall off, then rubbed it down with some ammonia. Were he stranded on a desert island, she said, he could have just peed on it and it would have the same effect. I stifled a chuckle – and, while I’m not sure, I believe I saw NewBoobs do the same.
When the three of us returned, the party had moved back to the nude pool. Before long, someone who looked an awful lot like me had made a round of lemon drop shots magically appear. Not too long afterward, the nipple car wash was invented, with each guy thoroughly cleaning his engine.
Fetish night was a fabulous night for slutwear. MrsQuackers wore a fine two-piece outfit. Short Round wore a borrowed buckle-up pleather dress. B wore a see-through mesh dress. NewBoobs appeared in a barely there pink lace tie top and micro-skirt with thong. They were outfits you will rarely see at the local Steak and Ale. Well, except Tuesdays. They get pretty wild at Steak and Ale on Tuesdays.
After dinner, we wandered to the piano bar. Glen, once again, was MIA – and even karaoke was dead. The disco wouldn’t be open for another 30 minutes, which was more than anyone was willing to wait. We tried the main stage, where we bumped into Good Dr. Deputy and BeerQueen, who was wearing a SMOKING leather outfit. The stage show – a bump and grind featuring male dancers – was fairly predictable fare (though MrsQuackers didn’t blink, from what I could tell) until…
He came out and began dancing. I don’t know his name – and it’s probably best that way. When he ripped off his pants, all I could think of was Spinal Tap – the scene where Harry Shearer’s character has a zucchini stuck down his pants. This dude was hung. Ducklings, I fear for this guy’s life when he gets aroused, because the blood required to make that thing hard has GOT to be two or three pints. We all thought it was a long … well, cock wrapping is about the only way I can think to describe it… that he had stuffed the tip of with a phallic-shaped enhancement. Um, in a word: No. That monster was 14 inches at least.
Ultimately, we headed to the nude hot tub, then a splinter group of us opted for the quad hot tub. Alas, the cold I had pushed off in the morning rallied and was pounding my immune syndrome into submission, so I raided the mobile pharmacy we had brought with us and we called it a night, resting up for…
WATERSLIDE SUNDAY
Revived and feeling human at last, I attacked the omelet bar with an intense ferocity. We headed down to the nude beach pier, where we ended up setting up shop for the entire day.
Ah, the discussions we all shared that day, ducklings. The things we learned. To recount them all would fill a book, but among the highlights were:
Oh, let me pause a moment here, ducklings, to recount this story for the ages. Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen came up with these stellar nicknames for the libidinous geriatric duo that haunted the nude pool. CVA was truly the oddest bird I have seen in my many visits to Hedo. She insisted that her body was 100% natural, yet her tits were incredibly firm and high for someone her … well, hell’s bells, I couldn’t begin to guess CVA’s age. Let’s put it somewhere between early 60s and, oh, Methuselah.
Anyway, CVA might have been in AARP, but she had the sex drive of a 13-year old boy that has just discovered his father’s Penthouse collection. She constantly was escorting young men to the room she and Herbie shared, then boffing their brains out. How she seduced them was the source of great debate, as CVA walked with a slow shuffle and had a look on her face that led you to believe she would have had trouble pointing out the sun if asked. (Herbie: “No, no dear… That’s a monkey. The sun is the big bright thing in the sky.”)
But you had to give it up for CVA. Nana was a playa! We saw several of the aforementioned seven Vinnies leaving her room. She later managed to seduce a pair of frat boy visitors who spent their entire time at Hedo wearing officer’s hats from the Civil War era. (Perhaps she mistook them for old childhood friends.)
Now Herbie? He was something else. Herbie liked to watch CVA do the horizontal bop with her flailing boy toys – from outside the bedroom window! He’d stand silently during the day, just watching as if he were observing a parade go by. One night, later in the week, when Nana was congratulating one of the frat boys for their hard won victory at Gettysburg, we saw Herbie sitting in one of the chairs by the nude pool. Apparently, he saved up his energy for the evening, because one night we caught Herbie … (ducklings, if you’re planning to eat soon, might I suggest you stop here and not continue reading until you have long since digested the food? No? Ok, but you were warned…) Herbie was cranking his own motor. Yep, he sat there, fapping away oblivious to anything but CVA and soldier boy. Hedo is always filled with characters – but these two will be hard to top.
We eventually all got a bit warm and moved the party into the ocean, but not before a load of tourists in a glass bottom boat swung by for a peek – and boy did they get one. The ladies rushed to the end of the pier and danced, jiggled and jumped for the gawkers, who likely pulled a muscle (no, not that one) in their efforts to grab their cameras and start snapping.
As the flotilla of fun assembled itself in the ocean, the conversations continued. Among the topics and activities:
We eventually staggered back to the nude pool. The party had died without us, so we saw it as our solemn duty to liven things up once again. Quickest way to liven people up at the nude pool? Call for a waterslide invasion!
Off we marched, 20-something people strong. Naked as the day we were born and a lot better looking. The prudes didn’t know what to do with us. And we were a bit stymied when we realized the waterslide had closed for the afternoon.
Now, a normal band of miscreants might have turned around and headed back to the bar. Oh, but not us ducklings… We sent representatives to the front desk – buck nekkid, mind you – and demanded that the waterslide be turned back on. At first, it appeared they were going to give in to our demands, so we mounted the stairs and began our chant: “Wat-er-slide!!! Wat-er-slide!!!” Unfortunately, a more senior member of management came out after 10 minutes or so and apologetically chased us back to the nude side. If you looked in her eye, though, you could see she admired our effort.
Dinner was late that night – 10pm, to be precise. So, to help pass the time, we all left to put on our leather and lace finest and met at the bar at 8:30 for drinks. The ladies were ogled regularly and we had a wonderfully relaxing evening. We were not able, alas, to sit together at dinner, but did manage to have a good time – once the screaming seven Vinnies left. (I should note that’s the only time I’ve seen a manager come into a Hedo restaurant and ask guests to quiet down.)
Knowing that the pool couldn’t live up to the action it had seen earlier that day, we all headed to the disco, which was dead. But as learned earlier … we bring the party with us. The girls got in the cage and began grinding (Good Dr. Deputy and I made sure to jump in – one at a time – to join the fun). Then it was onto the floor.
Now I have the dancing grace of an epileptic walrus, ducklings - but on that night, we saw someone that made me look like Mikhail Mother-Fuckin’ Baryshnikov. Officer Humpsalot spotted him first, thrusting and flapping and shaking as if he were having an allergic reaction to peanuts. It was none other than … Scuba Steve.
How he earned that particular moniker, I’m not sure. He didn’t look like Adam Sandler and wasn’t wearing a wetsuit (though come to think of it, maybe he was suffering a case of the bends). Officer Humpsalot gave him the name and it fit like a glove, though.
We all stood, staring. Yeah, our mothers taught us it wasn’t polite, but there are some things you just can’t help. I’m not talking sidelong glances, either. I’m talking standing in the middle of the dance floor, not moving, mouths agape staring. When we finally ripped our eyes from this rhythmically challenged badger, we saw something even more incredible – Scuba Steve’s girlfriend, Scuba Sue..
Ducklings, you might remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine showed off her dance skills? That was pure poetry compared to Scuba Sue. She looked like she was at a church revival and feelin’ the spirit. Her head was back. Her neck was shaking. Her hands were in the air. And she was hopping back and forth from foot to foot, like she was standing barefooted on a stovetop grill.
And that was her smoothest move.
Truly, it’s a wonder no one was injured with these two. Secretly, I hoped we’d see Gene Gene the Dancin’ Machine (from The Gong Show) come out to join them on the floor. At that point, I would have died from pure happiness.
All in all, it was 45 minutes of heated fun and hilarious horror, but enough was enough. We were hot and there was only one way to take care of that: WAT-ER SLIDE!!!
Up the stairs we climbed. At the top we learned Good Dr. Deputy’s secret. While he had led a full life, our friend had never been on a waterslide before. We quickly remedied that.
When he got to the bottom after that first run, he looked like a kid at Christmas. Good Dr. Deputy, brother, you were friggin’ adorable. I wanted to buy you an ice cream cone! He had the bug now – and I’ve had it for years. He, BeerQueen and I must have ridden the slide eight or more times, long after everyone else had given up and was drying out.
We made a quick trip to the quad hot tub, but energy levels were low and MrsQuackers and I decided to call it a night around 2:30 or 3:00am. We needed to rest, after all for…
MALFUNCTION MONDAY
It started like many other Mondays, sucky. The Canadian Bombshell & WhizKid had been given their eviction notice and we spotted them walking with these odd fabric-based items covering their body. We hated to see them go, as once again our trips had intersected much, much too briefly. After goodbyes and (yes) another omelet, we headed over to the nude pool.
It was a lazy day in nakedville, with very little going on. I took the opportunity to finish my book. Roundabout noon, the gang started to show up. We celebrated with nudie-bar nachos. I had found a new love. (In a continuation of that Fred “Rerun” Berry diet, nachos, french fries and alcohol pretty much became the main staples of my daytime diet for the rest of the week.)
This also began MrSafety & Short Round’s continuing adventures with the sex police. As they ate and chatted with us, they shared a stool at the bar. And as any horny couple sitting that close to each other would do, they began to grind a little. Nothing obvious, mind you. And no penetration. Just a little tease for each other for what was to come later.
Bam!! All of a sudden, a guard was on them like white on rice on a paper plate in a snowstorm, telling them to “take that back to the room.” Except, um, there was nothing to take. We all decided to ignore the nice crazy woman and continue our meal, though it did sort of ruin the mood for MrSafety & Short Round – well, for the moment, at least.
Officer Humpsalot & NewBoobs swung by a bit later, having wrapped up a game of topless basketball on the prude side, to see if anyone would be interested in going snorkeling. It took a couple minutes, but we finally shook off the sand gravity and give it a whirl.
When we were all assembled on the boat, our captain turned the key.
Nothing happened.
Now ducklings, I’m not a bright man, but I can typically pick up a hint when fate throws it at me. This time, that awareness was not with me. I choose to blame it on my mind already racing ahead to the evening. I’d later wonder why I had ignored that sign.
After a staffer gave the boat a hand job (honestly, there’s no other way to describe it), the motor started running. And frankly, who can blame it… when MrsQuackers gives me a hand job, it certainly gets my motor running.
We were off – and headed into the harbor. Once we reached the proper spot, we piled out of the boat and got a breathtaking view of the coral, the sea urchins and copious amounts of fish. I had an exhilarating moment when I swam through the middle of a school of blue, yellow and black striped fish. NewBoobs and MrsQuackers encountered another, lesser-known sea creature – the dreaded bikini eating fish. When they got back aboard, the boat crew cheered happily. Come to think of it, so did Officer Humpsalot and I.
After about 20 minutes, we were called back to the boat for the ride home. Once we were all there, our captain turned the key.
Nothing happened.
In my head, I heard fate say: “Well, I tried to warn you, dumbass.”
After 15-20 minutes of false starts and more man-boat lovin’ we had gone nowhere – and it didn’t look like we were going to. Another boat came speeding out. “Aha,” we thought, “We are rescued!”
Boy we were dumb.
No ducklings, the crew simply got aboard the new boat and left, while a new captain came aboard and tried to fix the boar. Our rescue boat left us in the harbor. Floating.
After another 10 minutes of pumping and squeezing and pleading, they gave up and called yet another boat out to come get us. This time, we were allowed to board and returned to the resort, where we promptly returned to the nude pool.
We returned to the pool just in time for Sex on the Beach shots, which I convinced MrSafety & Short Round and MrsQuackers to participate in. The ensuing group waterslide run was tempting, but we passed, sat by the bar and had larger glasses of Sex on the Beach. This helped fill the time until the mother of my child, Destiny, reappeared with some waterlogged watersliders and led us in yet another round of shots – Woo Woo shots.
Soon after, GhostBoy & WardenGirl arrived. Now, as you might recall from several pages ago, I’m Irish. So, basically, I don’t tan – I spontaneously combust. Compared to GhostBoy, however, I was a bronze god. Hell, I was frickin’ George Hamilton!
We met for dinner around 8:30, hoping to enjoy a meal under the stars. A passing storm cancelled the festivities, though, so we sat just outside the dining hall and made do. We did get to meet Rick Moranis and Lisa Kudrow, though. (Well, kinda.)
Now ducklings, some wonderful things happened that evening, but an awful thing happened as well.
Round about midnight, a group of us went to the nude pool for a couple of drinks. (This is the night ducklings, that we saw Herbie sitting in the lounge chair, staring into his room and choking his chicken. *shudder*).
MrsQuackers consumed just two beers and one shot – which, for her, is nothing – yet was acting pure sloppy drunk. We later suspected that someone had covertly slipped something into one of her drinks.
Good Dr. Deputy was showing a greater level of drunkenness than expected as well, given his alcohol intake. BeerQueen had her hands full – especially when he made a dash for the waterslide.
It got to be too much – and knowing something was wrong with MrsQuackers (but, at the time, thinking it was too much alcohol), the evening came to an end for us.
It wasn’t until approximately 5am that we realized how bad things had turned at the bar. MrsQuackers woke me up out of a dead sleep, telling me “something is wrong.” Her entire body felt like it was burning from the inside and she couldn’t stop shaking. I held her and calmed her, watching over her until she went to sleep. It was an awful end to what had turned out to be an otherwise glorious day.
Fortunately, waiting for us just a few hours down the road was
MULTIPLE NUPTUAL TUESDAY
Whatever it was that was slipped into MrsQuackers’ drink did a number on her. While the burning feeling subsided, she still felt like microwaved crap the next morning, not to mention scared and violated. Choosing to sleep in, she sent me to breakfast on my own.
As I got to the lobby, I beheld yet another sad sight… ChillBoy & RingFinder had clothes on. They were headed home. We said our goodbyes and, once again, they gave us a little ‘going away gift’. (It’s something of a tradition with us.) Afterwards, it was off to do my part in keeping the chicken population in check by eating another omelet. MrSafety& Short Round and Officer Humpsalot & NewBoobs joined me in this mission. Die, stupid chicken embryos! Die! Die! (Oh, and stuff yourselves with ham and cheese, too!)
Around 11am, I made it back to the room, where MrsQuackers was still feeling miserable, but agreed to give the nude pool a try, so she might get some fresh air and sunlight therapy. Most of the gang showed up quickly this morning – and it appeared that Good Dr. Deputy was feeling roughly the same as MrsQuackers. He told us that the previous night his legs had gone completely numb.
It was a lazy morning/early afternoon, spent mostly in the shallow end, resting and chatting. That is, of course, until volleyball game broke out. MrsQuackers decided to head upstairs to slowly prepare for MrSafety & Short Round’s vow renewal, which was to take place that afternoon. Officer Humpsalot, NewBoobs, MrSafety, Short Round and I participated in an epic game. Oh ducklings, had scouts from the AVP been at the resort, there’s no question they would have given us all contract offers. We were unmatched in our skill. Misty May? Kerri Walsh? Bah! They would have cowered from our might. (Of course, our rules were a tad different. I mean, I’d have to check, but I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to distract an opponent by having them caress your boobs in the Olympics.)
(But you should be!!!!)
Though it was tough to leave, we forced ourselves to go back to our respective rooms to prepare for MrSafety & Short Round’s vow renewal. The truly odd part about all of this? We had to put on clothes! In the middle of the day! Talk about weird.
The ceremony was actually very nice. The minister, before he got started, told everyone assembled that he’d be doing the “short and spicy” version. He obviously knew what sort of people he was dealing with.
Now, at the alter, it was a very loving event. Back in the peanut gallery, things were a bit more hedonistic, we later learned. NewBoobs was squirming a bit and told the others she was wet. When they asked for more information, she told them that Officer Humpsalot had “just ass [humped her] and his cum was running down [her] legs.”
I defy you to find a wedding story better than that one at your local Methodist church. Trust me, you won’t.
After toasts and cake (and MrsQuackers limping back to the room for more recovery), Officer Humpsalot & NewBoobs’s mischievous side sprang forth. They convinced the minister to pose with them for pictures, making it appear THEY were the ones who had gotten married. The staff took it a step further with another champagne toast and had them feed each other cake.
Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen, knowing a good deal when they saw one, jumped in and followed suit. See, after their first trip to Hedo, they told their friends they had signed ‘some legal documents,’ leading to a frenzy of “OMIGOD! You got married!!” reactions. This time, they took the joke a step further, again posing with the minister, toasting and feeding cake. Good Dr. Deputy, who is my new practical joke sensei, had me take shots of this with his cell phone – and promptly sent the pics to his family.
We all agreed we would get together when we arrived in hell.
Back at the nude pool, Short Round decided she wanted to have some naked pictures taken of her with her bouquet. Once again, the sex police were there to snarl at them. Despite them having nothing but a building in the background – and the bouquet firmly in hand – and no one within a good quarter mile of being within camera range, the sex police still gave them a firm warning. As at the bar, the warning, since it was stupid, went unheeded.
After a bite to eat, it was time for volleyball once again, then we all journeyed over to the quad hot tub. The conversation topic: previous sexual partners who we regretted. The drink of the moment: Milkshakes. And hurricanes. And Big Bamboos. It was quite the afternoon.
Now you might think some of the stories told on that topic would be the strangest moment of that hot tub conference, but oh how wrong you would be. No, that would be the moment one of us looked up and saw someone taking a shower on the second floor. We’re perverts. We all looked.
Oh God, it was a man.
With a hairy ass.
That he was soaping up.
A lot.
Jesus, he didn’t stop.
OH SWEET MERCIFUL ZEUS!!!!! IT’S WAS MR CREEPY!!!!!!!!!!
Mr. Creepy was one of the bit players in our play that week, who only made occasional appearances, but never failed to make every woman in the group feel skeeved out. Heck, he skeeves me out, too, so let us discuss him no more.
This is where we gave up and went to change for dinner.
MrsQuackers was back amongst the living when I returned to the room and we all met at Pastafari. BeerQueen was given grief at the door for wearing her chain mail dress, but the server relented and let her sit, probably seeing the look in everyone else’s eyes and quickly realizing she was outnumbered by hungry naked people who had been forced to watch an extreme ass washing earlier.
After a fine meal, we all went to change for lingerie night, but before heading to the disco, we hit the piano bar. Glen was there! And gave me a giant smile as soon as he saw me. It’s a wonderful feeling to be remembered by members of the Hedo family. If you’re taking your first trip, I hope you get to experience it soon.
The piano bar wasn’t exactly hopping that night, but we did our best to bring the party. Good Dr. Deputy, Officer Humpsalot, MrSafety and I (along with another anonymous bar patron) serenaded our women with a tear-wrenching version of “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling” but it wasn’t enough. Nor was a valiant erotic effort by Officer Humpsalot and NewBoobs. We soon left, headed for the disco.
This time, it was Good Dr. Deputy who got in trouble for his outfit. He was wearing pants – and they wouldn’t let him in. That’s the last we saw of Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen that night. After a little time in the disco, the remaining troopers headed over to the nude hot tub.
Well, most of us.
See, earlier in the evening, we had all met some girl, who collectively came to be known as Blond Bangs. She had subtly introduced herself by jumping into every camera frame she saw. Not surprisingly, she had just arrived with her friend, who wanted nothing to do with the nude side.
As we walked through the quad toward our destination, Blond Bangs came out and began flirting with Officer Humpsalot & NewBoobs. The rest of us walked on and got into the hot tub.
Roughly 20 minutes later, we saw the prude roommate walking around the nude pool, looking for Blond Bangs in a real obvious fashion. She had enlisted the assistance of an unknown gentleman, who would walk her up to a group of people, point and ask “any familiar faces?” She’d say “nooooo” and they’d move on.
So she wandered around the pool. She wandered around the hot tub. She wandered down the pier, heading towards the Scotch Bonnet. Then, she seemed to give up, and headed back towards the quad.
At the last second, though, she veered left and went to the nude beach. Moments later, we saw her dragging Blond Bangs back to the room, like a mother scolding her child.
Officer Humpsalot & NewBoobs came up shortly thereafter, fighting back tears of laughter.
Blond Bangs, you see, had quickly agreed to coming out to the pier with them. Carnal fun ensued. The party stopped, though, with Prude Roomie approached the pier, unable to see exactly what was going on, but asking “Blond Bangs, is that you?”
The company was good, but MrsQuackers and I realized that we were both starving and decided to swing by the midnight buffet before calling it a night. The fuel was critical if we were to survive…
CONCH SHELL WEDNESDAY
This, ducklings, was undoubtedly the saddest day of the trip. Our merry band of Hedonists, already reduce in ranks, was to be shattered further.
We woke up at 8:30, intent on saying goodbye to Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen. We threw open the door to find that sometime during the night, the liquor fairy had paid a visit to our room. Sitting on our doorstep were just shy of a dozen tiny bottles of liquor. Vodka! Makers Mark! Bailey’s! Other stuff! Waterproof lube!
We rushed down to Good Dr. Deputy & BeerQueen’s room, then joined them for a final breakfast. No sooner had we said our sad goodbyes than the time came to repeat the process for Officer Humpsalot & NewBoobs.
It wasn’t any easier.
Thoroughly bummed, we joined MrSafety & Short Round for a long walk around the resort, trying to see the pictures from yesterday’s vow renewal, then split up for couple time. Obviously, MrsQuackers and I had picked up a tapeworm or something, because after dropping our stuff off at the nude pool, we scurried over to the Scotch Bonnet for some beef patties. (In our defense, it had been almost two days since we’d had them!)
Afterward, back at the nude pool, we mourned the loss of our friends. The ECs, seemingly noticing our sadness, kicked off a pop culture trivia contest at the bar. Now I may not be able to tell you exactly where Arkansas is located, ducklings – but I DO know a lot about things that have no value, especially when it has to do with 80s music and television. I quickly amassed an impressive collection of Hedo bucks, which would be later put to good use.
MrSafety & Short Round finally arrived just in time for volleyball with Terry Bradshaw and his crew of buddies. They were a fun group, but it wasn’t the same without the rest of our buddies.
It was a pretty lazy day, to be honest, with volleyball and chillin’ on the agenda. We did partake in the quad invasion, where several shots were consumed and more volleyball was played. That also was the first we’d seen of GhostBoy and WardenGirl for a couple of days. GhostBoy was parked under the long awning of the quad bar – yet had still managed to fry himself to a beat red. Homeboy managed to burn his skin through the friggin’ water. THAT, my friends, is some sensitive epidermis. We thought he might hold the title of crispiest guest, until they introduced us to their friends JJ and S. She had sunburn that was a pretty scary thing to see.
The invasion over, we returned to the nude side and hung a bit with MrSafety & Short Round, then we all strolled down to the beach, so they could gather pebbles and shells for their daughters. Off the pier, we saw a Jamaican native holding up some incredible looking conch shells and waving us over. If we’d like them, he said, they’re ours – just bring him something back. (The going price for a conch shell in Jamaica as sold by strange men in the water, if you’re interested, is $10-$20.) We stood at the end of the pier, haggling with him when I heard a voice behind me: “Give him back the shell, sir.” I turned around and saw one of the security guard/sex police agents.
I didn’t really feel like paying that much for a seashell that customs was likely to confiscate anyway, so told him “the nice lady says I have to give this back to you.” MrSafety, though, was interested – and it became quite the affair. Our shell dude was outraged that his business had been interrupted and gave MrSafety quite the lecture about how the guard didn’t pay for his vacation and, by God, he was a man and quite capable of making his own decisions, in between lobbing insults at the guard, who had called for back-up at this point.
MrSafety, to his credit, tried many times to explain to the guard what his plan of action was: He was going to take the shell (“then what are you gonna do, sir?,” asked the guard); take it to his room (“then what are you gonna do, sir?”), go to the nude pool bar (“then what are you gonna do, sir?”) and get a rum and coke (“then what are you gonna …”). Then nothing (“then what are you gonna do, sir?”). The fact that he wasn’t going to give this guy money didn’t quite register. After about 20 minutes of insults from the shell guy, the arrival of two more guards and many attempts to explain his plan, MrSafety gave up and we all went to the boardwalk to take some sunset shots.
The night sort of collapsed on itself, perhaps feeling the sadness we all felt due to our friends’ departures. Glen was once again off, so the piano bar wasn’t worth visiting. And after spending so much time at the pool that afternoon, we were all a bit waterlogged and didn’t really feel like going back. We tried to salvage the evening by watching the pimps vs. hos competition (Pimps rule), but that ended pretty fast and we decided to split up and call it a night.
MrsQuackers and I held the first world invitational foosball tournament, wherein my ass was thoroughly kicked by her, then took a nice walk around the resort. It turned out to be our early evening of the week, with us calling it quits around midnight. It was all good, though, as it let us rest up for
(Due to new truth in advertising regulations, ducklings, I must tell you up front that this day is nowhere near as fun as its title suggests.)
Omelete-palooza continued! Six straight days of cholesterol soaked goodness!
And in a nod to health (not a friendly one, mind you, but a nod), the majority of the morning was spent at the water volleyball shrine. In between games, my girlfriend Destiny announced toga-tying lessons were about to begin. MrsQuackers and Short Round, having already decided to go with liquid latex that evening, opted out - but MrSafety and I jumped in.
Me? I wound up in the ‘big bamboo’ toga. Basically, imagine a cloth phallus that hangs to mid-shins. (You know, a couple inches longer than normal.) MrsQuackers noted that while it looked fine from the front, when I turned around, it looked like I was a baby who had dropped a load in his drawers.
MrSafety? Why he was a slave boy! That consisted of a barely there toga that neither of us is real sure how it got tied. MrsQuackers noted that at least slave boy did not have ‘poo poo butt’.
Lunch was followed by more volleyball. MrsQuackers decided to take a nap. Actually, decided might be the wrong term, since one second she was reading her book. The next she was laying as if someone had clubbed her and might have been snoring. (When she reads this, ducklings, she will shout out “No I wasn’t!!!!!!,” I guarantee it. Don’t you believe her! This is her punishment for the ‘poopy drawers’ comment.)
MrSafety & Short Round were having some private time at the beach and I was basking in the sun, reading my book when I heard the dulcet tones of Destiny’s voice once again…
“SHOT BLACKJACK!!!! SHOOOOOTTTTT BLAAACK-JAAAACK!!!!!! WHICH OF YOU MOTHER FUCKERS WANTS TO PLAY SHOT BLACKJACK???”
Well with an invitation like that; was there any way I could decline?
The rules were simple. Like any game of blackjack, you wanted to get cards totaling 21. If you had the lowest hand or busted, though, you had to do a woo woo shot – and not a small one. I can speak to their potency, as I promptly lost three hands once we started playing and I busted in two of those.
Truth be told, I lost all of my money after 20 minutes, but because it was Hedo rules, I was comped $10 Hedo bucks to get back in the game. This proved to be a good thing, because the tide turned and all of a sudden Destiny was losing. A lot. And Ebony, her assistant, was making her drink doubles.
‘round about the seventh or eighth time she lost, Destiny declared, “That’s fuckery!” Now, I don’t know if fuckery is a word (my handy dandy spell check here argues against it), but by God I’m declaring it my mission to make it one. As part of this, I will be incorporating it into my daily vocabulary henceforth. Observe:
Get cut off while you’re driving? “That’s fuckery!”
Someone’s in the 6 items or less line with 15 items? “That’s fuckery!”
“Hey Quackers, how’s it feel to be back from vacation?” “Like fuckery!”
Try it! It’s fun for the whole family.
By the time the game ended, I was $35 Hedo bucks richer. And all of us - ECs and guests - had to dash to the reunion party. Once again, there was good food and it was nice to be able to let the staff know we appreciated all they did. It was bittersweet, though, as the free three-night stay that’s given away at each party was for the room exactly one floor below us. That, ducklings, is the definition of pain.
As the night was approaching, we returned to the room and showered up. MrSafety & Short Round came by and it was time for MrSafety and I to ditch our normal Hedo identities and become Picasso and Matisse: Tit painters extraordinaire!
Out came the liquid latex! Out came the paintbrushes! And off we went, layering our wives with colors. Short Round opted for a yellow “top,” which MrSafety applied with glee. (I’m serious… glee! He was smiling nearly as much as Good Dr. Deputy had that first time down the waterslide!) MrsQuackers went with blue, which went on a bit easier.
We had dinner reservations at Pastafari, but we didn’t even make it to the restaurant before some women came up and asked to feel the ladies’ latex enclosed boobs. MrSafety got that smile on his face again. (Yeah, yeah, so did I.)
The menu had changed since the previous night and now blissfully included lasagna. Short Round, who had been sick for a couple days and wouldn’t fully recover until the end of their trip, had been going light on the alcohol, but mentioned that she did, in fact, feel like a drink, then let slip that she really enjoyed cranberry juice and champagne. I grabbed a waiter by the sleeve.
“My good man… would you please be so kind as to fetch us two pink pussies?”
He grinned and ran to the bar, producing the very drink Short Round had described. We had found our drink of the night. (Hell, of the next couple nights…)
After dinner, we watched a couple minutes of the staff/guest talent show and ran into GhostBoy & WardenGirl. The show was about as painful to observe as it had been on our previous visits, so we all headed over to the piano bar. Glen was there, thank God!
Things started a bit slow, but once Glen passed the microphone to Short Round & MrsQuackers and forced them to help him sing “Hole in the bucket” (you Hedo vets know how this one goes), things began to liven up considerably. Oh, the pink pussies were flowing, ducklings. We eventually lost count of how many Short Round and I consumed, probably because MrsQuackers was stealing sips when we weren’t looking. Before long, the joint was jumping. Mystery and I shared a dance at one point. And the round-the-bar version of “We are the World” was the stuff of legend – due, in no small part, to MrSafety’s awesome interpretation of the Tina Turner lines.
We ended up shutting the piano bar down, which is always a to-do on the list for MrsQuackers and I. MrSafety & Short Round decided to call it a night, but GhostBoy, WardenGirl and I hit the waterslide.
They lasted just one trip. I did three. Then we all munched on midnight buffet pizza and headed over to the nude hot tub, where we learned GhostBoy knows more about pressure points than any person should. Remember Star Trek, ducklings? The Vulcan nerve pinch or whatever it was called? Homeboy can do something real similar.
We also heard about the courtship of this newlywed couple. Both are corrections officers and while you and your significant other might have had some fun dates, I’ll bet you can’t say that you’ve been through two prison riots together, can you?
Didn’t think so.
Unfortunately, there was some drama at the hot tub that evening. One obnoxious Wally, who no one wanted anything to do with, began shouting for body shots. See, when a couple calls for this, they might get some others to join them. When a single guy, who has been sourly downing drinks alone at the bar does so, it’s just creepy. He came over to the nude pool and began looking for volunteers. GhostBoy, WardenGirl, MrsQuackers and I all firmly told him no – as did all the other couples in the hot tub. He oozed away and we thought he was done.
Not five minutes later, I looked over and he had a cup of rum cream and was tilting it towards MrsQuackers right breast, without her even seeing him there. This is where MrQuackers lost his jovial attitude and told the Wally to back the fuck off – now. Wally, perhaps seeing the look in my eyes, did so, sulking as he did. He didn’t come back, but MrsQuackers and I decided the evening’s magic had been lost and decided to call it a night.
Mere hours away, lurking behind a bush, was…
RUM RUNNER FRIDAY
The omelet marathon, unfortunately, was not to be today. My streak was ended by an overtired body, which slept right through breakfast. Then again, patties, fries and jerk sauce could be the new breakfast of champions.
Seriously, next time you’re in the cereal aisle, keep an eye out for it. It’ll probably be somewhere between the Grape Nuts and the Fruiti Pebbles.
Eventually, we waddled over to the nude pool at roughly the same time as MrSafety & Short Round. NewBoobs had called their room the previous night to taunt them and mourn the fact that they were still at Hedo, but she and Officer Humpsalot weren’t.
Since we had spent so much time at the pool over the last couple of days, we all decided to go snorkeling again. Compared to our trip earlier in the week, it was rather mundane. The boat worked both ways this time – and they even let us all stay out for 30 minutes this time. The bikini eating fish were just as hungry, though.
We were starving when we got back, so we huddled around the nudie grill. Destiny, though, came up and told me she needed me.
Well, when the mother of my child says something like that, I don’t ask questions. In fact, I moved so fast the only thing left sitting on that barstool was a little Quackers-shaped cloud of dust.
The game was Rum Runners. And once again, the rules were simple. (This was good, since most of the players - myself included - were simple as well.) We were given clues to find three bottles of rum hidden somewhere on the resort. I was too slow for one and didn’t really grasp the other clue, but I DID locate the one near the chessboard.
Our liquor collection was growing.
The Terry Bradshaw volleyball team challenged Destiny to a staff vs. guests volleyball game and she dashed off to the lobby to gather allies, including Romeo, who we hadn’t seen all week. So the teams would be even, I co-refereed two of the games, but jumped in and played the third when one of the guests bailed out. Despite a valiant attempt, the guests got their asses handed to them in two out of three games.
We lounged the rest of the afternoon away, enjoying the pool and soaking up every minute of sunshine that we could. We could sense change in the air – and knew that our time was almost up. Our eviction notice was waiting upstairs.
Before the sun set, we made a point to say goodbye to Bevlynn, our favorite bartender and truly one of the people we love most at the resort.
After another round of sunset pictures and a brief French fry stop at the Scotch Bonnet, we split up to get ready for a final dinner at Pastafari, where we were to meet GhostBoy & WardenGirl.
Afterward, we trooped over to the piano bar, and found the place beyond packed. People just seemed to be milling about, though. The energy just wasn’t there. After roughly 45 minutes, we gave up and made a group run for the midnight buffet.
From there, it was sadly off to bed (well, the part before we went to sleep was pretty fun), as our eviction time was fairly early
When the alarm went off Saturday morning (which does not deserve a title, seeing as reality was about to bitchslap us), I dashed to the trading post and exchanged all those Hedo bucks I’d earned throughout the week for a GIGANTIC bottle of rum cream, which sits in our liquor cabinet today, waiting for the right opportunity to be converted into a milkshake or perhaps used in body shots. Along with the spiced rum that was won during Rum Runners, we’d also managed to acquire two bottles of champagne. We will not be thirsty anytime soon.
After a final omelet, I ceded to civilized standards and put on pants. God, did that suck – but not nearly as much as our departure time: 10:30. It wasn’t the hour as much as it was the wait. Our flight wasn’t scheduled until 5:00pm. And ducklings, lemme tell ya… there’s just not 4 hours worth of things to do in Sangster Airport, especially after having such an incredibly fun trip with such amazing people.
See you all next year! First though, I’ve got this pesky bypass to take care of. And let me tell you… that’s fuckery.
Chris/MrQuackers