‘Life’s a Beach’ - or - AnD nOw FoR sOmEtHiNg CoMpLeTeLy DiFfErEnT -

[Kahuna3]

That FB photo of the guy Passed out at he No Limit bar wasn't me. . . but I was talking to that guy just before he 'passed out'.

I left the pub crawl (which was a blast!) early so that I could be back at the hotel when Fabs got there. I hung around the office for a while, then went to the rec. area and shot a couple of games of solo pool – I won both games.

I heard a bus pull up and went out to the driveway. I could see Fabs inside the bus. He yanked the sliding door open and yelled, “Hey Mon!” he yelled.
He looked as if he was stepping from the pages of GQ. He sported a crisp hairstyle and was smartly dressed – nothing outlandish – just everything he wore was casual, coordinated and complimentary. He had a bit of a tan from the ‘fake bake’ sessions, and I knew that he’d been dieting for the last month and going to the gym four times a week, doing his ‘beach-body’ workout. His teeth would be freshly bleached, his back, chest and eyebrows newly waxed, his nostril and ear hairs harvested, and his finger and toe nails spa mani-pedded.

He'd probably clipped and trimmed in other places too, but I’m not going to take you there.

As he stepped out of the van, Fabs was the poster-child for detailed, head to toe man-scaping.

Which was in stark contrast to me; it’s not that I don’t groom, I do – but it’s not the first thing I think of when I get up in the morning, especially when I’m in Negril. My tendency is to neglect my toenails. I’m six foot, two inches tall, so my toenails are a long way down – an out-of-sight and out-of-mind type situation. For me, the chore of clipping my toenails is somewhat like cleaning out the garage – a task that I’ll get around to . . . someday.

When I saw Fabs in all his resplendentry, I reached up and scratched at my two-day stubble.

There were a couple of young women, a blonde and a redhead (and I looove redheads) on the shuttle who pulled the windows open and waved goodbye to Fab’s, saying, “See you at Rick’s for sunset in two days.” So - Fabs had already been at work.

Fabs and I shook hands and did the one-armed, self-conscious, ‘hope-nobody-is-watching’, guy-hug thing.
After Fabs got all settled in his room, he came down to the beach where I was anchored, pinned there by a particularly strong concentration of beach-gravity. He’d sparked one up in his room as he unpacked and was all mellowed out. We hung out on the beach until sunset.

OK 'jeannieb', I've thought it over and decided to post a photo of Fabs:

[Dana1]

Haha...Fabs has a strong resemblance to Matthew McConaughey LOL

[Guirigay]

That's funny Kahuna! Damn, Fabs might be the Sexiest Man Alive...

[Sophie2012]

Hilarious picture pf Fabs! I'd still like to see a real one sometime on your report Either way, loving your journey and can't wait to read more.

[marley9808]

LOL.....love it!

Fabs IS cute! He also looks like the kind of guy who could spark one and then I don't know maybe play some bongos in the nude or something
hahaha

[booger]

LOL.....love it!

Fabs IS cute! He also looks like the kind of guy who could spark one and then I don't know maybe play some bongos in the nude or something
hahaha

Lol! Your buddy sounds too metro to be a Mcconnaughy guy. I have a buddy just like him and his game is second to none.....

[mud]

now you know what id look like if i didnt shave my head

[Pisces]

Fab Report...lovin' the visuals!

[Kahuna3]

Yes, Fabs does look remarkably like Matthew McConaughey. But, as you shall soon see, some think he looks like Nicolas Cage.



OK - here we go into full 'GUY' mode . . .

After sunset we got chicken at Best in The West and scarfed it down on Fabs’ deck. Then we set out to do our regular night thing – that’s drinking and trolling for loose women; ‘loose’ as in un-attached, not the other ‘loose’. We’d been up and down the beach, stopping in at the usual haunts, Tony’s, Fun Holiday, Boat Bar, Tree House – places where Fabs had had some success before.
So, it was getting quite late and we’d been cruising all night and Fabs hadn’t found any takers – this in spite of buying a lot of drinks and even reverting to the late-night tactic of lining up the Tequila shooters in an attempt to get ‘em drunk. Fabs had had a couple of nibbles, which was not unusual, but he wasn’t able to seal the deal, which was unusual.

We walked up to the bar at Sun Beach and ordered a couple of Stripes. Fabs was getting depressed; he’d been looking forward to coming to Negril for so long and, like many single guys, he’d envisioned his first night on the beach as a prolonged hedonistic, debaucherous party replete with ranks of fawning females. Well, as it turned out, the beach was actually kind of dead. Fabs is not used to striking out. I think he needs to score – it’s like he’s addicted to it.

We’d been at the bar for a couple of minutes when we heard female voices approaching from down the beach; naturally, we perked up. In short order we spotted the women. There were four of them, emerging like specters from the dark. They were laughing, talking loudly and stumbling their way to the bar. It was obvious that they were quite drunk.

The lead of the group got within thirty feet of the bar, then she spotted Fabs and made a bee-line for him.

“Uh – Oh!” I said.

“They’re big-uns,” Fabs snorted. Fabs is really picky about his women; he likes them on the lean side. I guess he can afford that luxury. Truth be told, Fabs scorns heavy-set women and can be quite disdainful towards them. The other day we were lounging in front of White Sands and Fabs, as usual, was propped up in his lounge scanning the passing beach traffic. I knew he’d spotted a ‘big-un’ when he uttered, rather derisively, “Thar she blows!” with a piratical affectation to his voice.

Me, I’m not so picky: I like em short, and I like em tall. I like em big, and I like em small. Just like Jesus, I love em all.

All four of the women approaching the Sun Beach bar were of substantial girth; not a pound under two-fifty any one of them. It looked and sounded as if they were on a serious bender too. Since they were still in their day-time beach wear, I assumed that they’d been drinking a good part of the afternoon and all evening.

“Oh! Aren’t chew a purdy one!” the lead girl squealed as she berthed into Fab’s lap, spraying him with fine droplets of spittle. She wrapped her arms around him. “Lookee what I got here girls!” Then she leaned back, pointed at Fabs’ nose and peered down her finger like she was aiming a pistol and cried, “You look like Nicolas Caaage!”

Her friends had gathered beside her and they were ‘ooo-ing’ and ‘aww-ing’, examining Fabs and generally agreeing that, yes indeed, he did look like Nicolas Cage (in Nic’s younger days, when he wasn’t quite so creepy looking, they consented). They’d formed a tight cluster of quivering female flesh with Fabs, looking helpless and aghast, firmly pinned in the middle.

The girls totally ignored me – it was as if I wasn’t there – which was not unusual, but this time I was okay with it.

“He’s mine, I saw ‘im first!” the lead girl exclaimed. She hiccupped loudly, then proclaimed, “We’re from Eye-Oh-Whaaa!” dragging out the ‘whaaa’ as she exhaled alcoholic fumes into Fabs face.

Fabs was stricken, he tried to pull back, but the bikini-clad big-uns had a death-grip on him. I was quite enjoying the spectacle. I sat back and took a long pull on my beer, waiting to see what happened next. You can’t buy entertainment like that.

“I’ll fight-cha for ‘em, Clara!” one suddenly shouted to another.

“Yer on!” bellowed the other. They let go of Fabs and thumped down onto the sand in front of him. They jostled around until they were laying side-by-side, head to toe, then each raised a leg – revealing quite a bit more than a lady ought to. It was quite a sight to see, I can attest. It became obvious that they were going to Indian-leg-wrassle for Fabs.

Fabs looked at me, his eyes wide. He was terrified. I laughed suddenly and explosively – beer jetted from my nose – I choked and coughed and sneezed all at the same time. As much as I like Red Stripe, having it forcefully propelled through my nostrils was not pleasant.

The girls had hooked their ham-sized legs at the ankles and were grunting loudly as they exerted themselves. Their companions were hunched over them, hands on their knees, cheering them on. The bartender was leaning over the bar to get a better vantage point. I was transfixed.

Freed from the fleshy trap, Fabs hopped off the bar-bench and grabbed me. “Dude!” he yelled, and then he sprinted for the beach. I snatched my beer from the bar-top and followed him.

Once we got a safe distance out we stopped and looked back. The ladies were still at it. One of them, Clara I believe, was canted up at a 45 degree angle and was about to lose the wrasslin’ match. The other two danced about them, shouting encouragement. None of them realized that the prize they were fighting for had escaped the arena.

“That was scary, man,” Fabs said, catching his breath.

“I thought it was funny,” I replied.

“Yah, whatever. Where to next?”

[Kahuna3]

We didn’t want to pack it in - we’d spent a lot on booze and had a good buzz going and didn’t want to waste it. It was very late so we decided to go up to Scrub-A-Dub – the strip club up the Texaco road. I guess Fabs figured that since he wasn’t going to get any, he might just as well go up there and have a good look at what he was missing out on.

So we hiked out to the road and flagged a taxi.
Scrub-A-Dub. What a place.

Our taxi eased up to the heavy gates and a pair of burly, tough-looking dudes came out and looked into the back seat. They gave Fabs and me the once-over.

“Okay,” one of them said and nodded. The tall gates swung slowly open. We rolled into the yard. I had a flash that we were passing through the gates of Mordor - in a way, we were. We climbed out of the taxi and entered the establishment, where we were thoroughly frisked.

Inside it was almost totally devoid of any light and the music was ridiculously loud. We were a bit disoriented, but worked our way over to a table and settled down. Within a minute our eyes adjusted to the darkness. Within another minute there were three dancers at our table. Two of them were sitting in Fabs’ lap; he had an arm wrapped around each and was grinning widely. The girls were very friendly and they were gorgeous. They had quick hands too; caressing our thighs, squeezing our shoulders, tickling the backs of our necks - and deftly sneaking into our pockets. We knew from previous visits that some of the girls at Scrub-A-Dub will pick you clean if given the opportunity.

The front wall of the club was covered in a lattice-work of interlinked piping. Several dancers, in various stages of undress, were clambering across the pipes like harpy spiders. It was fascinating.

I could go on, but I won’t. What goes down in Scrub-A-Dub . . . you know. Let’s just say that Fabs and I stayed there for a few hours. In fact, we stayed just as long as our cash supply lasted.

When we stepped outside, the sky to the east was just starting to show some bashful pink. Prior to entering the club, Fabs and I had each had stashed $500J in the soles of our shoes for taxi fare back down to the beach. There are no taxis at that time of the night/morning, so we talked a rude bwoy that was hanging around outside the club to shuttle us.

Back at the hotel, I said goodnight to Fabs and as I closed the door to my room I heard a rooster crowing.

Yup, for a first night, it wasn’t bad.