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?”
