Really, the only thing that has been keeping it under wraps thus far was my “No Snitching” clause. At the time of the story Dupa was over a year into what would eventually be a six year relationship. We were part of an epic group vacation in Ocean City, MD, and his beloved girlfriend was not with us…
…I think you see where this is going.
The relationship finally wheezed its last raspy breath last year. But, out of respect for the dead, I was still determined not to air my boy’s dirty laundry. Then, back in June, I was writing the story of MoFo’s wedding, and asked Dupa what level of discretion should be used when telling his piece of the action (wait, did I just pun?...sorry, happens without me even trying sometimes). “After all,” I reminded him, “that took place while you were still with [her].” His response was a measured and resolute “fuck her.” Very well then…
I’ve told a few of the tales from that beach trip in past blog posts. Those eight days in August 2003 were a smorgasbord of booze, quotes, and hilarity. In addition to Dupa’s status as a taken man, BlahBlahBlah (BBB) found himself in a relatively new relationship with the woman who would eventually become his wife (“Mrs. BBB”). Although she had not come along with us at the trip’s outset, Mrs. BBB and four or five of her friends later decided to drive down and join us for the last few days of the vacation.
On the next to last night, our crew split into two groups. BBB, his girlfriend, her friends, and a couple of others went out to dinner at a buffet. Dupa, seven of our friends, and I went to Scandals, where I soon made the first of many blunders with Juli. After a couple of hours of $1 glasses of Hulk, our faction caught the bus from Scandals over to Club 24 to meet up with BBB’s group. While the Hulk had ruined my ability to talk, it’d had quite the opposite effect on Dupa. On the back of the crowded bus, with no warning, he began channeling his ancestors by speaking (loudly) in an exaggerated Eastern European accent. He had turned into Borat, long before there even was a Borat. While our friends and I laughed, and numerous confused strangers watched, Dupa began rattling off praise and amazement over the modern wonderments of America, such as the “motorized wagon” on which we sat.
In joining the party already in progress at Club 24, we found most of BBB’s squad stationed at a large table just off of the dance floor. Exploring the premises, Dupa and I found ourselves a special shot bar, featuring tubes of blue and red elixirs that looked liked something from “The Matrix”. It only took a few words of Polish-accented suggestion for me to join my friend in downing a tube of each color. By that point in the trip, I’d drank so much that I had lost all concern for my own personal well-being; putting away new and untested alcohols and concoctions was merely standard operating procedure.
On our way back to our friends' table, we happened upon our boy, “Erin Go Bragh” (EGB), dancing with one of Mrs. BBB’s friends (“Wagon”, because of the one she was draggin’). Dupa, charmed by Wagon’s physical talents, decided to undercut EGB. Tapping him on the shoulder, he said, “BBB wants you.” EGB obligingly went over to the table to see what was up; Dupa then grabbed Wagon and started freaking her. There’s simply no honor amongst thieves.
I went to the bar for a drink, and soon found myself inches away from a “Wild On!” segment being filmed for E!. After watching a random vacationing slore do a shot from a bottle nozzle stuck through the dickhole of the bartender’s boxer briefs—all for the cameras, I stopped past the dance floor again to check on my compatriot. There I found him with his tongue in Wagon’s mouth, and his hand down the back of her pants. Chuckling, I returned to the table where everyone else was.
Me: “Dupa and Wagon are making out on the dance floor.”
Mrs. BBB: *surprised, and genuinely bummed out* “She was supposed to be for EGB!”
I sat down and drank with the rest of the gang. About 10 minutes after I’d left them on the dance floor, Dupa and Wagon appeared back at the table. Sitting down next to me and leaning over to my ear, he said, “D.E.F.I. pleaaassse tell me you have a condom! Please, please, please, PLEASE tell me you have one!” When I produced one from my pocket and deftly slid it to him under the table, he thanked me more appreciatively than a drowning man whose been thrown a life preserver. When everyone left Club 24 at close, I managed to get separated. And when I finally returned home after an adventure of my own, I was none-too-surprised to find that Dupa hadn’t been seen since.
An hour or so later, a couple of guys returned to the condo with a pizza, and the two or three of us who were sitting around talking hungrily joined them in the feast. As we were doing so, however, the door flung open, and in charged a visibly-agitated Dupa. Throwing the unopened Lifestyles down on the kitchen counter, he mumbled in disgust, “Here’s your fucking condom.”
All of us were shocked, and instantly began pressing him for details. He responded, “I don’t want to talk about it right now” and walked off to his bedroom. A minute or two later he returned, grabbed a slice of pizza, devoured it, and quickly calmed down (marinara and mozzarella can be remarkably soothing). He then, at last, revealed to us the events that took place after he left Club 24:
- Eager to find some alone time, he and Wagon headed back to her hotel room. Unfortunately, she was sharing it with married friends of hers, who either didn’t know that they were cockblocking, or maybe just didn’t care (I know the couple in question; and, really, either option would be believable). Wagon suggested to Dupa that they go back to his place, but he knew all of us were there and…well, that was an obvious “no.” They decided, then, to take a walk on the beach.
[Note: After being a part of two group vacations in Ocean City, and hearing countless stories from other trips, I find it simply amazing that the city is so accommodating to all of the afterhours beach sex that goes on every summer night. Stroll down the boardwalk at about 4 a.m. with some night vision goggles, and you’ll probably need both hands to count how many hookups you spot. They have large machines which come through and clean the sand every night, and guessing how many used condoms it picks up everyday has to be something like the fundraisers where you guess how many jellybeans are in a fishbowl. Of course, I’ve never engaged in this tawdry vacation ritual myself, so…maybe I’m just hating a little. But I digress…]
When they got to the beach, they soon returned to the progress that they had been making at the club. Finding a spot of uninhabited (but not in any way hidden to people less than 100 feet away) sand, they laid down and got closer to the end game. And then…
Wagon: “We…can’t. I’m on my period.”
Dupa: “Hey, I don’t care. We’re here on the beach. Let’s just do it.”
Wagon: “Okay.” *reaches into her shorts and pulls out a large maxi pad, and sails it Frisbee-style into the ocean*
From reading my tales about Dupa’s craziness, you have probably surmised just how hard it is to floor him. You pretty much either have to be a pair of 40 year old swingers or…toss your used maxi pad into the ocean.
Giving her a quick “I can’t do this,” he zipped up, walked a confused Wagon back to her hotel, and then bolted without so much as a goodnight kiss. As we laughed hysterically at this news, someone asked him to confirm just where the pad had landed.
Dupa: “In the ocean! Some dolphin’s probably choking on it!”
Me: “She’s killed Flipper!”