The Best of the Worst from Penthouse Letters

I went to Cancún for spring break during my senior year of college. I was paranoid about getting sick, so I didn’t eat anything for the first 24 hours. Then I stumbled upon a Domino’s Pizza around the corner from my hotel and made that my regular grub spot. It’s all I ate for the entire fucking week I was there. I was a regular, and I got to know the other regulars. One of them was a Mexican girl named Marisol. Marisol had a smoking body but a beat face… and she was a bit of a loose cannon, like a stereotypical chola. She was terrifying.

Naturally, we started hanging out. She took me to Señor Frog’s one night and we got wasted off tequila poppers. Borracho! Peda! I wobbled through the crowd to get another round, but stopped mid-mission to talk to another chick. Suddenly, Marisol comes flying in out of nowhere, grabs the girl by the hair, and starts punching her in the face relentlessly. Wait, what?! A bouncer rushes Marisol and tackles her to the floor, which was slick with god-knows-what. And like the gentleman I am, I ran out of the bar and ducked into the bus that takes you back to all the hotels.

I found a seat next to this chunky blonde who didn’t seem to mind that I was a drunken sweaty mess. My stomach was churning from pizza and tequila, and I started to mumble something incoherent. The blonde, Jessy, turns to me and mumbles something back, eyes glazed, hair matted, sweat beading on her upper lip. She was just as drunk as me. Of course I started leaning in, touching her, and telling her how sexy she is. After about three stops, I pop out of my seat, stumble backwards, catch myself and slur, “Let’s go for a walk.”

I pulled out and shot my load on what turned out to be the inside of my shirt.

Somehow, we fumbled our way to a cement pier by Parque de las Palapas. Benches line the pier about every fifteen feet, and there were a few people milling about, fishing in the dark water. We found a bench away from the lights and started making out. She pulled my dick out and started sucking it the way only a fat girl knows how. I had to fuck her. I needed to fuck her. (I really didn’t need to fuck her. I really shouldn’t have fucked her… but that trip was filled with a lot of shouldn’ts.)

We positioned ourselves on the hard ground, “hidden” from view under the bench, and mauled each other like animals in heat. I hammered her for a good ten minutes before I pulled out and shot my load all over what turned out to be the inside of my shirt. I made my way to standing, bent down to pull up my pants, fell forward, and smashed my head on the bench. I popped up quickly — too quickly — stumbled backwards, and crashed into the railing, the only thing that kept me from falling off the pier and onto the rocks below. As if on cue, I let out a loud, guttural belch and vomited all over myself.

Jessy just stared at me in disbelief, mumbled something unintelligible, then stood, waddled away, and disappeared into the darkness.

Illustration by Jason Johnson