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“Wanna go down to the front desk in say…an hour or so?” I ask, nudging her with my elbow. “We could get the jump on him…like, surprise the surpriser!”
“Yeah…I’d like that, actually. Do you think he’ll mind that I’m drinking?”
“We’ll bring him a beer,” I tell her.
And then I steal her Corona. Y’know, for good luck.
She’s smiling and happy and tomorrow’s her wedding day. So, there I am, thinking that maybe—just maybe—this whole Butts wedding thing isn’t such a bad decision after all.
Then, an hour later, we walk in on the world’s gayest Mexican fiesta orgy, and I realize exactly how fucking wrong a woman who’s just inhaled two bottles of Goldschläger—currently working on a third—can be.
Chili pepper-shaped anal plugs. Mexican mustache rides on demand. Pool boys in multi-colored ponchos chasing pool boys dressed like piñatas around with dildo bats.
As we push open the unlocked door of Norbert Butts’ hotel room, I see men doing things with hard shell tacos that I didn’t think were even physically possible—at least, not without a whole lot of lube, anyway.
But it’s the maracas that really get me. The maracas should be the end of it.
Especially when I hear a distinct rattling noise coming from one corner of the room and see Norbert Butts naked on his knees, a maraca poking out of one end of him and his best man’s dick poking into the other.
“What the actual fuck,” Mysti May says as a cock-ring-wielding naked mariachi band pours into the room off the balcony playing a Lady Gaga song, and her fiancé begins keeping the beat with his ass-maraca.
When they hear her voice, the entire room goes silent and everyone finally stops putting their dicks into each other long enough to realize that they’ve got guests—and not the cock-having kind.
“Oh, shit,” Norbert says as Jeff’s dick slips out from between his lips and flops onto his chin.
He’s double fisting tequila bottles and has a wet load of something white smeared all over his nose that I’m guessing ain’t baby powder.
“Mysti Biscuits, it’s, uh…it’s not what it looks like.”
Now, if I were Mysti, I probably would have yanked that maraca out of his ass and beat the shit out of him with it.
From the looks on Becky and Sammi’s faces, they concur.
But Mysti…Mysti’s been through a lot. Mysti doesn’t yell or scream or cry or physically assault her new ex-husband-to-be with an ass maraca.
No, Mysti just goes ice fucking cold.
“Come on,” Mysti says, turning and leaving.
I hear a littleclinkas she doffs her engagement ring and leaves it there on the floor next to a pile of penis-print sombreros.
“Okay, Myst,” Becky says, “you’re probably feeling a lot of things right now…but where exactly are we going?”
Mysti doesn’t answer. Mysti just pulls out her phone and dials the front desk, ordering a rental car and a driver—on Norbert’s tab, obviously.
“And where will we be taking you today?” the front desk asks through the phone.
“Las Vegas,” Mysti May tells her. “We have a wedding to attend.”
“Oh my God,” Becky squeals, clapping her hands together. “More like a wedding to break up, am I right?!”
“Yeah, fuck this whole shebang,” Sammi adds. “We’ll go visit Brendon, break up his engagement, steal a tiger—”
“Crash the rental car into a pole and light it on fire!” I bellow, getting all caught up in the moment and shit—becauseVegas!Fuck, yes, Vegas!
“No,” Mysti says, shaking her head. “We’re not breaking up any marriages—and we’re not lighting anything on fire.”
She looks pointedly at me. “In fact—before anyone does anything, you’re all giving me your phones.”
