Even though I had already used up my annual allocation of vacation days helping

my now-ex-wife recuperate from breast augmentation surgery in February, after

making a big fuss I was able to secure an extra week. Senior management forced

to sign a document saying that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress

disorder, which was mildly embarrassing, but it was worth it.

After arriving at the resort, I knew something was off. I should've treated myself

right and stayed at an upmarket place, but instead I went cheap and was now

paying the price. The lobby was disgusting, as soon as I entered there were men

trying to sell me music CDs and incense. The concierge was extremely unfriendly,

initially pretending to not speak english. I slipped a five dollar bill across the desk and she then checked me into my room without any warmth. Along with my suite

key, the woman provided me with a schedule of activities for the coming week. I

was in luck - tonight was a "jungle beach dance party", whatever that was.

Traveling always makes me ill and this was no exception. I had brought a package

of extra-strength cough medicine pills, and I downed a handful along with a

miniature bottle of whiskey from the suite's minibar. I surveyed the beach party

from my room and I could see a few heavyset people drinking glasses with paper

straws. I meditated for a few minutes as my spiritual teacher had instructed me,

then took a HUGE breath and headed down to the party. I was sweating profusely

and felt awful, but I knew that the best things in life could come when you

weren't waiting for them.

The women at the beach party were so ugly. At first I was upset, but then I

realized that this was a good opportunity - it would be easy for me to get lucky!

Drinks were included in the resort fee, and I was in heaven. They were very strong

drinks, and as I downed my second one, I started to hear the jungle drums

booming. What an odd group, I thought: all the men were very thin, with limbs

like twigs, while all the women were extremely heavy, although with small

breasts. I ordered another drink.

Boom, boom, boom. The speaker system was excellent, and it was accompanied

with live drums. A bit much, perhaps, but the drummers labor probably cost

nothing as they were from the surrounding island. Unlike the male guests, the

men handling the drums were very muscular, with big arms commanding the

bassy beats. Their bald waxy heads shined in the tiki lamp light. A few fat women

were dancing on the beach, and it was much too loud for conversation, so I

decided to make my way to the dance area.

I decided to let myself go, and at this point I had little choice. I swayed my hips

from side to side, spinning and fluttering and stomping my feet in a ritualistic

manner. I hadn't been dancing since my high school prom, but something was

commanding my body to move this way. I felt free, completely liberated. In my

mind's eye I saw my ex-wife, so I ran back to the bar and got another pink drink.

Moving back to the dance floor, I was shaking my hips rapidly to the rhythm,

spilling most of the drink. "One, two, three!" I screamed as I put my hands on my

knees and squatted down. Everyone was looking at me, and I felt empowered.

The songs changed but my rhythm didn't - I was in the zone. At this point no one

else was dancing, it was just me on the sand with a big crowd. The drumming men

were somewhere between laughing and smiling, and one gave me a thumbs up

during a break in the music. I took this as an opportunity to go alone to an empty

part of the beach to take some more cold medicine. It was very dark away from

the tiki torches of the resort. I stepped into the beach water to wash some spilled

pink liquor off of my white shorts, and suddenly felt the pull of a current draw me

into and under the water.

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5922398&forum_id=2#50257685)