Going Down... Under

Shit was sucking. Big time.

Work was killing me softly, I got dumped twice in two months, and I wanted nothing more than to get away.

My two best friends (equally single, jaded and pissed at everything and everyone in general) decided the three of us should go somewhere.

Somewhere with lots of men. Fuckable men. Men who are very far away from Los Angeles.

The answer was clear. Australia!

We bought tickets and 3 weeks later we were on our way to indulge in unapologetic sexcapades that promised to be the time of our lives.

Stuff happened.

Let's start with Sydney. I met French Guy. He was hot. His friends were hot. He only spoke a few words of English. We could hardly communicate at all. But with enough booze, that inability quickly turned into a positively-reinforced, nonsensical means of seduction. We did a lot of hand gestures and yelling. It was all that was needed apparently. We kissed, we danced, we sort-of talked. Before we knew it, we were laying on Bondi Beach at 3 am getting hot and heavy just hours before I had to be up and ready for my flight to our next stop. Luckily I was riding the crimson wave, so sex was not an option and the clothes stayed on. This was a clear act of fate, but more on that later.

After the most hungover, death-defying flight of my life, I arrived to Brisbane and discovered my ankles were extremely itchy.

"I'm just dirty" I thought. Clearly my romping around and bingeing in Sydney hath left my skin dry and neglected. A shower was in order.

Post bathing, I was appalled and straight-up freaked out to find my ankles swollen to what seemed to be the size of bowling balls. Upon closer examination, I found an array of over forty tiny bites that were pussing a questionable color and consistency.  Brisbane consisted of many bats, holding koalas, petting kanagaroos and nursing my love wounds from my night with French Guy. Needless to say, I was lucky to have kept my clothes on during that fateful night. That could have been really bad... you know... down under.

My friends went out and got hammered after I passed out from the drugs I had to take for my allergic reaction to getting sexy on the beach in Sydney. They woke up with a large ziploc bag of about 20 ecstasy pills and explained they met some buffoon who begged them to hold it so he'd stop injesting them. He offered us a ride to Byron Bay. Clearly a trust-worthy and responsible individual, Tom seemed the perfect chauffeur! Away we went and survived, we did. Barely.

Byron Bay was a sloppy beach town playing host to hundreds of what Aussies call "schoolies" who just graduated high school and were fully committed to getting as drunk as humanly possible over the next few days. With our remaining 4 of 6 duty-free bottles of vodka we carried through Australia, we decided to start drinking at a respectable 1pm. It was around 4pm that I decided I was going to go through a lesbian phase.

At one of the several bars we nearly burned to the ground that night, I met a blonde chick while dancing to Major Lazer. In my drunken state I thought it was beyond remarkable that this human was singing along to the same song as me. Clearly, the stars were aligned and she was to be my queer Mrs. Robinson. Heavy kissing and heavier petting ensued. We went back to her place where there was a kick-back house party happening. I used the restroom. Apparently, instead of opening the bathroom door, I used a magical parallel universe gateway that led me into a full-fledged orgy. Dicks, tits, panties, dildos, straps and more. Doing only what I could imagine to be the right thing,  I burst into laughter. I laughed so hard I pissed the little bit I had neglected to relieve from my body just a few moments earlier. I grabbed three beers (one for each pocket and one for my hand. But I kept one hand free incase I needed to defend myself) and out I ran. Lesbian Phase over.

Ridiculous Tom somehow was convinced that not only can I drive in Australia, but that I am more than capable of driving his car 4 hours north and dropping it off to his parents. We said our farewells to Tom, and off we rode in our newly acquired Aussie mobile. How? Who cares.

A few days later we arrived to Airlie Beach, a self proclaimed Drinking Island with a Sailing Problem. It did not disappoint. Found a guy in a dress, thought he was a good pick for the night. Until he practically fell asleep on my ...umm ... err...  lap. Another night led me to Bearded Guy, who was extremely offended at my calling him Bearded Guy when he asked me what his name is post-hook up. He left soon after. I don't see what the big deal was! It's not like I knew his life story. And in some cultures, knowing one's family history may in fact be considered as intimate as knowing their name. Probably or something.

Off to Melbourne. Ah Melbourne, with your loose drinking limitations, no closing hours, and appreciation for the night life. It's remarkable how quickly my body became accustomed to going to bed at 8am and starting my day at 4pm. Melbourne was sort of a spread out Echo Park. Trendy skinny jeans, hats and boots to compliment the musician-filled hipsterville of Australia.

Our last few nights in Australia is best described as a marathon of sin. We left Melbourne with many bruises, disheveled looks, destroyed livers and memories that will only remain among the three of us on the trip. Sorry Blogger, I don't have it in me to describe the ongoings of this journey that I pray my future children will never hear about.