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Sexican conquest

Midnight marauding in Mexico



I didn't go to Mexico to act like a big ol' slut. I went to Mexico to drink underage and make bad decisions — and I'm sure I don't have to explain where overlap might exist.

First, let me give my 17-year-old self credit where it's due: Not all the decisions I made were bad. For instance, one of the members of my high school she-posse got a belly button piercing in a less-than-sterile-looking tattoo parlor near the outdoor market, a body embellishment that rapidly became a festering, infected bubble o' puss. I did not do that, so that was smart. I also decided to sleep in the day the group went on a Jet Ski excursion during which one of my girlfriends sustained an injury so freakish — it involved the unhappy introduction of the "jet" of water to her most delicate orifice — and so severe she had to undergo surgery and more than one blood transfusion. Oh, and, at one point, I averted arrest by proving to a police officer that I hadn't, in fact, expelled the contents of my bladder onto a sidewalk; the spot where he'd seen me hike up my skirt and squat like a feral animal was still dry. I should clarify that it wasn't the threat of arrest or an aversion to public indecency that made me decide against peeing at that moment: It had simply dawned on me that it would splash against the hard surface and get all over my feet.

It was the summer after my high school graduation, and 30 or so members of Flagler Palm Coast High School's class of 2000 boarded a plane bound for Mexico's west coast. Already seated were just as many graduates of a high school about an hour away from ours, which meant one thing to a teenage girl: new boys. Boys we hadn't known since they were falsetto-voiced elementary schoolers. Boys whose disgusting morning breath we'd never had to inhale during first period. Boys we might never see again.

It didn't take long for my group of ladyfriends to befriend a group of these new guys. There were two in particular who really took a shine to me — I'll call them Dawson and Pacey — and a couple of other girls and I were always sneaking over to their hotel room to drink beer or play cards. Now, these organized senior trips are a package deal, so our food and entertainment were included in the original price, as were the nightly "parties" thrown on our behalf at touristy shitholes known for serving weak, saccharine drinks in those plastic yard glasses. Usually the shitholes were conveniently located within walking distance, but one night the party was just far enough away that we all decided to take taxis.

I arrived at the party with several of my girlfriends, but when it was time to head back to the hotel, I ended up in a cab with Dawson and Pacey — Pacey up front with the driver, me and Dawson in the backseat. It took about a nanosecond, maybe two, for Dawson's hand to find its way to my thigh. Then my hand was on his hand. Then I was smashing my face into his face with the kind of unbridled vigor that you can only drum up after six or seven beers from a cheap keg. All the while, Pacey sat in silence, pretending he didn't know what was going on behind him.

Later that summer, back on American soil and, perhaps, more clear-headed, I decided that I actually preferred Pacey to Dawson and ultimately ended up sleeping with him at some point during my freshman year of college. None of this sounds terribly tawdry, does it? I guess the only thing that makes it salacious is that I had a boyfriend the entire time. He should have kept a closer eye on me in Mexico.

Creative Loafing Staff Writer Gwynedd Stuart is actually still a virgin.

Next: A former Atlantan fights to survive on the mean streets of New York

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