Nothin' Says Lovin' Like Two Dumb Girls in the Oven (to be devoured later as appetizers)

Fairly recently I was in Turks & Caicos (what a surprise, I know), and my friend Becca, who was born and raised on the island, was back home at the same time. She’s pretty much the perfect second banana when it comes to going out: she’s extremely cute and isn’t even slightly afraid to talk to anyone, which I think, along with her propensity to under absolutely no circumstances ever wear proper socks, is all part of having grown up in a paradise filled with happy vacationers. She’s also a light weight when it comes to drinking, which directly translates into hilariously entertaining outings, especially when she brings along her expensive SLR camera, and all of our drunk, crooked, blurry photos somehow end up looking like the work of Richard Avedon.

One evening Becca rambled into the parking lot in her 1988 Ford F-Series to pick me up. We were going to the hotel that was a little ways down the road and happened to be the place to go if you’re a celeb, or, at the very least, someone who believes themselves to be as entitled as Elizabeth Taylor. Knowing exactly what sort of guys would be staying there, we arrived hoping to secure ourselves some cute, self-important tourists who’d eagerly buy us drinks. 

The moment we stepped into the bar, Becca zeroed in on a group of guys. They were mostly Canadian, with the exception of one who was Italian and decked out in extra-pointy crocodile leather shoes, a pink silk shirt that was unfastened to about his belly button, and slicked back hair that was coated with more greasy product than could be found in the depths of a deep fryer at KFC. The other boys seemed initially semi-acceptable though: one was wearing thick rimmed glasses which I can assure you were just for show; one looked like Turtle from Entourage before he lost the weight; one had a beard that was completely connected to his chest hair in which was buried a large gold chain; and the last one was boring and bored looking, in cargo shorts, with a large piece of lettuce stuck between his two front teeth. Becca, who was unapologetically digging the dude in the faux specs, almost immediately wheedled her way into their conversation, scored us a free shot of Patron, and soon after, an invite up to their penthouse suite.

This is the part in every story where the ominous music is cued and you just know that the two supremely naive girls are going to innocently follow the gang of guys upstairs, only to be dreadfully defiled, then ripped apart limb by limb, their fingers and toes used later on in cucumber sandwiches and hot dog buns. Alas, part of Becca’s upbringing includes trusting just about every friendly-seeming non-islander, so she skipped away with them toward the penthouse without a second thought, leaving me grudgingly trailing behind her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whispered. “Of course!” said Becca. Yeah, of course! How silly of me to even ask!

We got up to the penthouse and Turtle poured us each a drink, heavy on the ice and the mixer. Then he instantly stepped away towards the balcony with the rest of his crew, leaving us alone. We followed them outside, but it seemed that now that they had us in the clutches, they had lost interest entirely. They talked only to one another and when Becca or I asked a question, they answered us monosyllabically, as if they were bored high school rebels being interrogated by the Assistant Principal in The Breakfast Club. I didn’t get it though: what sort of dudes invite two relatively non-repulsive girls up to their room and then absolutely ignore them? There was clearly something weird going on, but I figured it best to just go with it and cross my fingers that my carcass wouldn’t be flung over the railing later on in the night. The more time I spend with guys, the more I realize I really don’t understand them at all. 

But Becca was of the opinion that the longer we hung around, the more interested in us the guys (and Glasses Guy in particular) would become. I was skeptical, not as drunk as I had hoped, and quasi-terrified by the bearded man’s categorical lack of manscaping. Yet, I still agreed to stay put to try to make the most out of an incredibly uncomfortable situation. While Becca made an attempt to romance Glasses Guy, I took the liberty of perusing their musical selections on their laptop, went on an unguided tour of their “crib,” and foraged in the fridge for a snack, to only be met by a roaring avalanche of melty ice cubes. Oops.

At one point, a gigantic island man appeared out of no where. His name was Bubba, and apparently he attended to the Italian as a chauffeur/bodyguard. Why this individual could ever possibly foresee the need for a bodyguard I didn’t bother asking (and perhaps didn’t want to know the answer anyway), but I did feel sad for Bubba who was evidently spending his birthday watching over a bunch of privileged, white numbskulls with affected accents and obnoxious fashion accessories. I then took it upon myself to befriend Bubba, who immediately launched into his life story, concluding his tale by showing me his newly acquired bling: a five inch resin Pillsbury Dough Boy pendent on a necklace of island seed beads. The Dough Boy, however, was actually a “Doe Boy,” had evil blacked out eyes, was carrying two sacks of money, and was cleverly bedazzled (see below). I was enthralled by the Doe Boy, demanded I be allowed to wear it for the remainder of the night, and then asked several dozen questions about how I could procure one of my own.

By this time though, the penthouse boys had really and truly lost interest in us completely and were smoking in the corner of the balcony, having shooed Becca back inside. We made our way for the door, thinking it best to skedaddle before we were obliged to leave the premises, hoisted by the seams of our dresses and tossed out the front door by Bubba like discarded cigarette butts. But we didn’t die, so that was a plus, and thankfully I didn’t have to actually befriend any of those boys, had Becca succeeded in fulfilling her fantasies of dashing off to hold hands with Glasses Guy on a sandy towel beneath the stars. So what did I tell you? She really is the perfect sidekick!

$$Doe Boy$$