Blog Swop!

Hello there . Startled? I’m sure you are. No, I’m not Tom, but close enough. Blog twin, am I. I go by the name of ‘ExMi’. We decided to swap blogs today, and have ourselves a little TMI Thursday party. What does that mean? It’s a day to overshare. And I plan to overshare, like, a lot.

Much like Tom’s story, mine takes me back to first year at university. My mate, Furburger (don’t ask) and I decided it would be smart to drive down to our other mate’s beach cottage for the afternoon. So we stopped at home first for the essentials

1. as many bottles of wine as we could find, including a bottle of cane and sherry;
2. cigarettes - 2 cartons – yes, for the afternoon.
3. Money – we managed to scrounge about forty bucks between us.
4. Petrol card – on account of how we were students, and didn’t have any money for petrol.
5. Sunblock – because we’re practical like that.
6. Flip-flops – because we were going to the beach.
7. Bikinis – see above reason.

You might have noticed that we didn’t pack any clothes. You might be wondering about that. Yeah. We only thought we’d be staying for the afternoon, but landed up staying for about four days. Well, I did anyway. Furburger went home the next day, and I landed up staying in a wooden house with 9 rugby-playing, beer-drinking jocks.

We arrived at the Chateau de Drunken Jocks, and were greeted at the door by men in Speedos. It was pretty. Pretty revolting. Forced us to down tequila, and opened every bottle of booze we brought with. Each person was assigned a bottle of booze, and it was their duty to finish it. This involved persuading other people to do down-downs out your bottle. There might have been drinking games, and there may or may not have been strip-blackjack involved. Blackjack? Yes. Because at that stage, poker was too complicated. No one had poker-faces, everyone was far too shit-faced.

The boys, who were dealing, of course cheated. Us girls landed up naked. They were really bad cheats too, because they landed up naked too. Although, now that I think about it, that might have been the whole point. You might also be thinking that it would be very easy for them to get naked, since they were wearing speedos. Not so. When it was decided we’d be playing a game with stripping involved, they rushed back to their rooms to put on every single article of clothing they’d brought with them.

And so there we all were, naked. Somewhere in between the chasing each other round the house screaming, and being willy-slapped and boozing, the sun had set. So we decided it would be the perfect time to go to the beach. Because the best time to be on the beach is after dark.

We had one problem though.

Drew, the smartness he is, thought it was hilarious and disgustingly funny to throw all our clothes over the wall into the neighbour’s garden. And it wasn’t like we could go and retrieve them. These people had massive Dobermans, and I wasn’t exactly volunteering to go stand at their gate and ring the door bell in my birthday suit.
So. The mission to the beach had to be undercover.

Even though the sun had set, it was still pretty bright. Full moon and all. The road to the beach was also rather busy, cars driving past every few seconds. So we set out, the 11 of us, all butt-ass naked. Except for our sunglasses, and towels over our shoulders. Seemed like a good idea at the time, I tell you.

The 11 of us took a naked march down the main road in this little seaside town. Every time a car drove past, we dived into the bushes, and pretended to be deer. Why? Because it was a good idea at the time. Sometimes we didn’t make it undercover in time, and it must have been a sight. 11 naked bums, 9 penises, 4 boobs and 2 vaginas. People hooted. It was a spectacle. If there were no bushes to dive into for cover, we’d throw ourselves down flat on the path, and cover our heads with our arms, like we were under attack from above. Shrieking with laughter.

Anyway, we arrived at the beach, battered and bruised from all the bush-diving, and covered with bits of gravel from the path. Somehow, we decided it would be a smart thing to play touch-rugby. One problem. We had no rugby ball.

So basically this game involved Furburger and I being chased around the beach by 9 naked men, and being tackled to the ground repeatedly. I got in a few groin-kicks, so it was a prett fair game.

Somehow we lost a few members of the party, and I landed up wandering down the beach with Bucket and P Diddy (names they’d assigned themselves for the weekend, strangely enough). Now, we’d had enough of this running around on the beach thing, and were starting to get sober. So we decided to duck back to the house, and get stuck back into the booze. So we went ahead of the others.

They followed shortly thereafter. Bucket came up with a fantastic idea that we should hide in the bushes, and as they came past, we’d jump out screaming and scare the bejesus out of them. Somehow, they landed up getting past us, without us noticing. And they apparently lay up in the bushes in wait for us. So there we all were, naked, hiding in bushes, trying to scare each other. Eventually I get fed up, and take a stroll down the middle of the road, pretending nonchalance, but actually shitting myself in the dark, all alone.

I snuck up behind German and Frank the Tank (yeah, I know, they’re lame like that) and decided it would be funny to run past them screaming like someone was chasing me. I did. They didn’t even seem to notice, so deep in drunken conversation were they. Either that, or behavior like that was so common-place that they didn’t even bat an eyelid.

I got back to the house first. I don’t know where everyone else was. I managed to climb over the front gate and climb through the bathroom window after standing on Gary Player’s car (yes, he’s corny like that) and hauling myself up. I rummaged around in the bedrooms, for clothing, and discovered that there was nothing that these boys had brought with them that was clean and non-smelly. I eventually ripped a sheet off the bed, wrapped it around me, and declared myself a Roman.

The rest of the group trickled in slowly, in various states of disrepair. P Diddy had to be carried, on account of how he’d stubbed his toe and was on death’s doorstep. I decided, at 2 in the morning, that now that I was clothed, I could go ring the neighbour’s bell and ask for my clothes back.

I rang, and rang and rang and rang. Shouted and screamed and woke just about the entire road up. But these people never came to the gate. I don’t even think they were there. Eventually I gave up, and decided to call it quits and go find something to drink.

Sherry and cane was about all that was left, and we got stuck in. the next game of choice was Truth, Dare or Command. Sparky (he’s called that because of all the bright ideas) then dared German to start a fire, and burn everyone’s clothes. And of course in the drunken stoned state we were, we thought it was hilarious. I didn’t care, because I was under the impression that I’d be getting my clothes in the morning when the neighbours woke up.

Turns out the neighbours had gone away. I never got my clothes back. In the morning, once we’d sobered up and realized we all had no clothes, but needed to go to the bottle store for more booze, everyone followed my lead, and ripped off bedsheets, raided the cupboards for towels. Frank The Tank found a maid’s outfit, which he wore. So off we went, to the local mall, me dressed in a brown-paisley (elasticated) bedsheet, flip-flops and sunglasses.

I found a Pep Stores, looked in my wallet, and discovered enough money (coins) to buy myself some underwear. I’m not proud, but I bought Pep Panties that day. Pink ones. I had to, we were going to the beach after the mall, and it wasn’t a nudist beach. So, I spent the day in pink panties, on the beach. Of course, I took my brown paisley (elasticated) sheet along for the ride. And the boys all bought themselves some underpants as well, and clung to their sheets and towels too. Once the boys had bought underpants, they then all tied their sheets around their necks, like Superman capes, and ran around the mall screaming and pretending to fly. Eventually we were asked to leave. I don’t blame them.

A lovely day cooking in the sun, getting plastered and playing silly buggers. We got back to the house, and made one last attempt at retrieving our clothes from the neighbours. No luck, and no one wanted to chance it with the huge slavering guarddogs. So I spent another evening lounging around in my brown paisley (elasticated) bedsheet.

The next morning we all had to return to Durban. We had homes to go to, parents who were worried about us, and exams to study for. The drive home, all of us clothed in Pep underpanters and bedsheets was, well, mortifiying. We were all very much sober at this stage.

The whole way home I was worrying about how I was going to explain to my dad why I arrived home three days later, wearing only my flip-flops, sunglasses and a brown paisley (elasticated) bedsheet.

Turns out I didn’t have to explain, my dad wasn’t home. I threw the Pep Pink Panties and Brown Paisley (Elasticated) Bedsheet in the bin, and pretended nothing had happened. When my dad asked me how my weekend was, and what we’d done, I told him we had a Roman party.

He knew better than to ask, because the conversation stopped there. Needless to say, I can’t pass a Pep Stores without remembering my Roman Weekend. Nor can I ever look at bedsheets quite the same way again.

All I see is myself, running down the main road, with my sheet tied around my neck, billowing out behind me, being chased by my guy friends all trying to spank me with their flip-flops, and tackle me to the ground so they could penis-slap me on the forehead and nose.

Yup. And that, my friends, is why it’s never smart for girls to join boys on a boys-only weekend.