¿Tienes Plan B?
One of the perks of having likeminded friends who enjoy traveling the globe equates to two magical words come nuptial time = destination wedding. Some people might find it burdensome to commit the time and money to attend a friend’s wedding out of the country, but I would call those people not my friends. It’s the perfect opportunity to visit a new place and request the necessary days off of work. “My best friend is getting married in Bali, sorry! It’s imperative that I’m there to give the speech and also hold the tequila unity cup.”
One of my first friends in Los Angeles to tie the knot, Megan had scoured venues in LA, Simi Valley, and Santa Barbara and was at a loss. Taking a pause in the search she hopped on a flight to Tulum with her fiancé to escape the stress of planning a wedding. Three days into the trip I received a text from her that read, “Thoughts on this wedding hashtag? #TulumBecome1”. Of course I was excited for her, but also I couldn’t wait to book a trip to this buzzy seaside town.
Several months and a new bathing suit later a handful of (single) girlfriends and I journeyed to Tulum.
Several months and a new bathing suit later a handful of (single) girlfriends and I journeyed to Tulum for a 5-day getaway on the Yucatán Peninsula. Even though we held a proper bachelorette in our old university stomping ground of Santa Barbara, the vibrant charm of Tulum called for an encore celebration. During dinner at Café Jaguar we asked the locals where the party was that evening. Because it’s a small town and businesses run on generators, the streets aren’t littered with nightclubs and bars a la Cabo. The party shifts from restaurants to unmarked jungle-like settings behind aforementioned restaurants. The locals were friendly enough and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves entangled with the hip transient crowd. We danced, we drank tequila, we watched one of our own make out with a cute, tall Brit. We dragged ourselves away around 2am, responsibility setting in knowing we had a cenote tour the next morning followed by the rehearsal dinner.
After an eight hour day of swimming through cold dark caves, kayaking bright green waters, and shopping to our heart’s content you’d think that after the rehearsal dinner we would be ready to call it a night on the eve of our friend’s wedding. But where’s the adventure in that? Once again we asked around to find the after party and we immediately spotted the cute Brit from the night before. This time he was accompanied by some tall, attractive man in glasses and I had just enough tequila in me to decide that it was probably a good idea to make a move. We chatted until the bar closed down; I learned he was German and…. Well I’m not sure what else I learned about him other than he would do for tonight.
Once the bar closed, my friends and I practically shoved the German and the Brit into our taxi and demanded they come back to our 10-bedroom house on the beach to keep the party going. What do 30-year-old gauchos do at 2am the night before the wedding when you dangle an ocean in front of them? You throw your bathing suits on and tear into the ocean for a moonlight swim. It didn’t take long before the German and I were making out, fighting to keep our balance as the waves knocked us around. About an hour later, once we were completely pruned up we headed back to the house, the last of the group to stumble out of the ocean.
With everyone confined in the hot tub we continued the make out session on the 20 foot long couch and in no time the wet swimsuits were on the floor and there was a German named Flo inside of me. And flow he did, right into my cervix without any warning at all.
That’s right, about 10 minutes of average public display couch sex later he just stopped. Stopped. I asked what was going on and in a thick, incoherent German accent he uttered something under his breath I discerned as ‘I finished.’
‘You finished? Where? because I see and feel nothing!’ I panicked. ‘I went.’ Yep, got that part. ‘You went INSIDE of me?’ I screamed. There was no discussion of birth control, which I am not on. There were no condoms. (well, that’s not entirely true. I stuffed one into my purse during a recent trip to San Francisco where they were given out like lollipops at a coffee shop with hopes that I would perhaps be able to put it to use on the imminent trip to Tulum. That purse was 3 inches from my head as I began to have couch sex and deemed the need for the condom unnecessary). He. Just. Went.
With no energy for coy games I emphatically explained that if I were in fact pregnant I was not going to get an abortion and would be needing his contact info so he could pay child support for his half-American, half-German bastard child. He stared back at me with a look of bewilderment. I took a few deep breaths, realized this conversation was futile, and decided to postpone my angst until the next morning. After all, he was cute and excelled at kissing. We went back to making out and giggling like teenagers, and at around 5am my other friend and the Brit emerged from the laundry room. We walked our hookups to the door and exchanged sex tales. She encountered a jizz-in-the-eye fiasco but admitted that she’d take that over a Flo Junior scare.
She encountered a jizz-in-the-eye fiasco but admitted she’d take that over a Flo Junior scare.
The next morning I awoke to an obnoxiously loud knock on my door from Alonya calling me into her room with the other girls to recount my late night tryst. Through the pounding of my hangover it all came back to me. I might have the sperm of a German named Flo swimming around inside of me and I need to handle it stat. They put me in a cab and to the farmacia I went, a makeshift walk up counter on the side of the road in the pueblo where I attempted to explain in broken Spanish that I was going to need their equivalent of Plan B as seven men in line looked on. In my haste I only purchased one but I should know myself a little better. LESSON LEARNED: Next time you go to Mexico and you’re single, stock up on Plan B. It works, and it’s cheap. Throw in some Retin-A while you’re at it. (Note that the lesson learned here was not about emphasizing condom use or abstaining from random hookups. I’m not that quick of a learner).
The wedding went day on as planned, and I smirked at Alonya when we posed with the bride in front of the couch where I was inseminated the night before. Dios te bendiga, farmacia.
I never heard from German Flo Rida again. Clearly he was as concerned as I was about the prospect of having a kid with a complete stranger. I realized something else after the dust from my Plan B hysterics settled. What is it with me and my ability to hit on and subsequently sleep with random guys I’ve met while traveling? If only that confidence followed me back home to LA. Sadly, it was 5 months since I slept with the Brit in Thailand and following this Mexican romp there would be 7 more months of a dry spell waiting for me at home. Is it LA? Is it the pressure I put on encounters with men in my own city? I feel like a different woman when I’m traveling, but the second I’m back in LA I turn into this insecure lost soul who doesn’t trust the intentions of men but isn’t confident enough to use them to her advantage. I don’t have the answers right now, but I have to figure out how to shake this because sex twice a year does not a satisfied woman make. At least I’m not pregnant. Tequila, where you at?