Northern Exposure

It didn’t bode well when the 50-something-ish woman staggered to the gate, oozing liquor from her pores and gasping heavily under the weight of her technically compliant carryon while ranting about someone’s aura. My vacation date and I glance at each other and raise our “this flight calls for bloody marys” eyebrows as we herd into our boarding carrels, dead set on a weekend of relaxation and, well, abject whorishness.

We wind up one row back across the aisle from Shirley McPlane, who had apparently been cut off and thrown out of the airport bar for belligerent, drunken fighting, which she loudly informed the plane of before petitioning the attendant unsuccessfully for a Jack Daniels. Despite being denied, as the four-hour flight progresses she seems to ramp it up to eleven, opening with petitioning her rowmates for sexual favors (as a result of which the flight attendant moves the aisle passenger and relocates her to leave as much room as possible between her and poor Ms. Window Seat). In her new seat, she begins actually assaulting a gentleman easily 20 years her senior who has been pacing the aisle trying to stave off embolisms, at first awkwardly flirting and then accosting him, tearing at his clothing, and trying to pull him onto her lap. Date and I (along with the surrounding passengers) began worriedly murmuring about 1. how she was becoming more rather than less fucked up (we figured liquor + antianxiety meds + altitude + ???), and 2. how to subdue her quickly before the situation escalated into an emergency landing because we had motherfuckin’ places to BE. We are wondering about the feasibility of zip-tying her to the seat as a public service when she droops forward and passes out. After ascertaining she’s not expiring for good, we breathe sighs of relief and go back to pretending like Mad Max: Fury Road is “entertainment” rather than a wet dream for BDSM kids who didn’t get Burning Man tickets.

We land near the border and drive a few hours true north for what promises to be a ridiculous weekend of Bacchanalian excess, checking into a charming boutique ski hotel with a boot-warmer, fireplace, French press (Oh, Canada!), and attentive but non-intrusive staff. Turns out, it’s Victoria Day, the local version of Devil’s Night (“sorry, but I’m here to smash your windows, eh?”), so the hotel is improbably thrilled to host our group of 300 lubed-up weirdos and its collection of shocky, whip-y accessories. Date and I decide fortification is essential before the real fun begins and head out for the best sushi of our life; sure enough, when we return, the hallway is awash with rave extras, flashing lights, and glitter…we’re going to benefit from those Omega-3s.

I promptly lose Date as we both chase shiny things, me heading for the rooftop screw & view to get some true patriot love and him jumping into a pile of writhing humans like a seven-year-old into a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit. When I next encounter him, he’s looking pleased as punch, balls deep inside some woman folded over and tied to what appears to be one of those 80s-era ergonomic kneeling chairs. Eventually we regroup poolside, draping ourselves over dangling loungers in the cool night air and retelling the conquests of our evenings. We stub out our butts and head back inside, me off to the land where I’m a glowing-hearted Viking and him out to fly free among the horny night owls. He’s snoring blissfully next to me when my eyes scrape open in the morning.

After slurping coffee and putting some dents in our headboard (which is one rustic, salvaged board ironically bolted to the wall at the head of the bed) we pry ourselves out of the eiderdown and aim towards breakfast, settling on a hippie-dippie wrap shop with adequate breakfast burritos. As we head out, he realizes his wallet has gone missing; after a few moments’ freakout, he retraces his steps and finds it in the bondage room, where it had fallen under some equipment that resembles a Pilates reformer when he overzealously dropped trou.

I insist we go out and explore the area’s scenic shit, so we spend a few hours poking around the trails in the charming mountain ski town before the group activities begin. We’ve chosen to ease into sluttitude today, spending a few hours doing touristy things like axe throwing rather than getting massages or taking a workshop on how to improve our anal sex lives (cliff’s notes: less is more). We’re back to the (literal) grind by late afternoon when the pool party is in chilly full swing (Canada in May isn’t actually anywhere close to summer, so the weekend’s 70 degree weather is considered a heat wave). Although we’re not technically supposed to be nekkid in the common spaces, about 65% of the population is ignoring this and we are treated to a show of three women twerking and spinning their tits poolside. (One brave soldier attempted to represent the gentlemen with his helicopter maneuvers, but was largely ignored and slunk back to his chaise lounge.)

I learn from Date that one of these performers is in fact gainfully employed as a professional partier. She looks the part, having basically stepped out of a Pharell video (legs for miles, long silky hair, single-digit body fat, standard tattoos) and she’s targeted her sights on Date for the weekend. Apparently she enjoyed his log ride (with a satisfying sploosh) and bought a skip-the-line Magic Kingdom pass to go again and again without waiting in line. I fist-bump him approvingly, because although she’s certainly not my jam, she’s definitely one of the most attractive and coveted women at the event. We part ways for the evening when I tap out of a packed, sweaty orgy, leaving him with Party Professional and a cadre of her beautiful friends.

By the next morning, when we regroup poolside, he’s enjoying the oral attention of an under-kilt scuba diver while musing that he’s really “learning to like this,” by which he means “receiving head.” I snort pina colada out my nose, laughing so hard the head bobs up to make sure I’m not in danger of choking to death. Date muses idly that he thinks—although his math skills and memory aren’t in top shape—that this is the seventh woman who’s blown his love whistle so far this calendar day, including a steamy 3 a.m. hot tub dalliance. (“We see thee rise,” indeed!)

By Monday, we’re exhausted and dehydrated, but rally long enough to get fisted and fucked by the neighbors because, you know, life is short. By the time we scrounge up all our leftover loonies and toonies for the housekeeping staff (god bless them for their service) and slam the door behind us, we are nearly catatonic and are completely overwhelmed at the prospect of going back to the states and explaining to our vanilla hosts why we failed so miserably at taking a relaxing vacation. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t buy our claims that loud partiers had kept us up (although technically the truth); we eventually “confessed” that we had basically spent the whole weekend fucking (although we left out the “dozens of other people” part). Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy their curiosity. Besides, we only had one day to recover before we moved on to a second week of traveling threesomes, foursomes, moresomes and parties, so we were grateful for fewer questions and more glorious and free naptime.


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