by Sami Lukis
Jesus.
We flirted for a while but, ultimately, Jesus didn’t turn me on, so that was that. I moved on.
Later that night I was very much turned on by a full-blown Brooklyn hipster. The guy was a total dude, complete with statement beard and trucker cap, checked shirt and designer dark jeans, cuffed at the bottom. He was the absolute epitome of that effortlessly cool urban look I was so into at the time. He was also tall and easy on the eye and he spoke with that sexy Noo-Yawk Brooklyn accent that makes me go weak at the knees. So, basically, he had me at his hipster hello.
He was in Aspen on business, but only for one night. So after a very entertaining flirt-fest, I ended up back at his hotel. A shag was off the menu because neither of us had condoms (#fail) but it was still fun to have a kiss and a cuddle and a bit of a snuggle and I decided to spend the night anyway. When we reached the inevitable point of sheer frustration at being virtually naked with someone you’re insanely attracted to but can’t have sex with, we decided to get some shut-eye.
Which was when the guy rolled over, opened the bedside table and pulled out a small box. I heard a click. And then I heard waves. The distinct sound of very loud waves. Which was puzzling, considering the nearest ocean was 1000 miles away.
Turns out the Hipster had brought the ocean with him to Colorado, courtesy of his very own portable sleep-inducing wave machine. He reluctantly told me it was the only way he was able to fall asleep.
WTF?
As I lay there in his arms, in the middle of a ski resort, listening to the sound of the ocean, I did a quick mental analysis of the situation and realised that a guy who could remember to bring his own sleep-inducing wave machine but couldn’t remember to pack a couple of condom s, was probably not single. I decided to leave the hot Brooklyn hipster and his wave machine to fall asleep in each other’s company. And I left.
I really shouldn’t have been as shocked as I was when I Google-stalked the Hipster the next day and discovered the online gift registry for the gorgeous baby that his wife had given birth to, two months before. Yep. While this imbecile was having a romp with me (and his wave machine) in Aspen, his poor wife was home in Brooklyn with cracked nipples and their newborn.
No wonder the guy had brought the sleep inducing implement on his business trip. The new dad was desperate for a good night’s sleep.
I tried to think of an alternative explanation for this situation. Maybe he was newly separated (despite having a two month old baby, nice!). Could the baby shower have been for another guy with the exact same name? Or did the Hipster just believe it wasn’t cheating if you didn’t actually put it in?
Well, here’s what thirty years of dating has taught me:
1) I seem to be the undisputed world champion of making up excuses for cheating arseholes.
2) Most single guys over the age of twenty-five who are out of town, whether it’s for business or pleasure, will be packing rubber.
3) If a guy does not have condoms, he probably should not have you in his bed.
4) And if he has a wave machine, you should run a fucking mile.
This one time, at band camp (AKA Aspen), I met four cheeky Texans who were in town on a boys’ weekend, with a clear mission statement to get drunk, get laid and party. I’m not entirely sure if skiing even factored into their plans.
We met during a rowdy lunch at Cloud Nine, which is a hugely popular ski-in, ski-out restaurant tucked away on the side of the mountain. The food is okay, but the main attraction is the wild party that happens in the dining room each afternoon. The champagne-spraying and tomfoolery kick into high gear just after lunch, when the music gets everyone dancing on the tables in their ski boots. It’s a pretty small cabin with a crazy YOLO party atmosphere, so you can pretty much guarantee you’ll become lifelong friends with everyone else in the room by the end of the day.
I’d noticed a table of four well-dressed guys, who all looked to be in their early to mid-thirties. One of them was tall, dark and super fine. We pretended not to notice each other for a while, but he eventually made his way over and introduced himself and my attraction to him shot into the danger zone the moment I heard his slow, smooth, Southern drawl. Now, listen up, y’all, there’s a very good reason that accent is repeatedly voted the sexiest in America. There is something seriously seductive about the Texan twang that truly tickles your fancy.
I was delighted. I’d never met a Texan before. He wasn’t the J. R. Ewing type, with a ten-gallon hat, gigantic belt buckle and enormous teeth. He was more Matthew McConaughey – hotter than a Texan barbecue and sweeter than pecan pie. Also, his name was Buck. One of the most Southern names you could possibly give to a boy. Well, Bucky Boy had just the right amount of swoon-worthy charm and I couldn’t help wondering if he might help me discover my inner cowgirl later that night.
Lunch at Cloud Nine puts most people in the kind of euphoric mood that makes you feel like you just don’t want the day (or the party) to stop. So after lunch the Texans invited a group of us to a house party back at their place. Turns out their holiday lodging was a gigantic chalet in one of the most exclusive parts of town, where the average vacation home is worth about 30 million bucks. The place belonged to the in-laws of one of our new Texan friends, and they were clearly loaded, in a Fortune 500 kind of way.
The entrance foyer alone was bigger than most studio apartments, with a ridiculously large chandelier that looked strangely out of place in a ski chalet. There was a majestic Gone with the Wind–style staircase and an oversized framed photo hanging on the wall. It was the typically cheesy, all-American glamour shot of the family who owned this quaint little eight-bedroom, eleven-bathroom, 15 000-square-foot mountain shack.
The party went from zero to a hundred in a matter of minutes. Bottles of champagne, tequila and bourbon appeared from nowhere and it sounded like a professional DJ had mysteriously set up when I wasn’t looking. The Texans were a breed of money I’d never experienced before. Yes, they were ridiculously privileged ivy-league frat boys, having the time of their lives on a weekend away in the alpine playground of the rich and famous. I’m sure they flew in someone’s daddy’s private jet to get there. But there was something surprisingly likeable about them. They weren’t wankers, like those repulsively ostentatious ‘rich kids of Instagram’. They were just there to have a good time and share the fun with a bunch of new friends.
I have to admit, I was also a little bit turned on by it all. Everything seemed super glamorous and a little surreal for a girl who grew up in the bogan northern suburbs of Brisvegas. I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole.
They were fun guys to party with. But I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be married to any of them. Our host might have been staying in the Aspen abode of his wife’s outrageously loaded parents, but that hadn’t stopped him from picking up two pretty young girls that afternoon and inviting them back to the party. And the photos of his gorgeous wife and cute-as-a-button kids all over the house didn’t deter him from grabbing a couple of bottles of chilled Cristal from the kitchen fridge and disappearing with his two new lady friends to the outdoor spa.
That was Buck’s cue to offer me a tour of the house. Conveniently, the first room we visited was his guest suite, which was about five times the size of my hotel room. The tour ended there. I didn’t see the rest of the house. I’m not even going to pretend that I could ever cut it as a proper Southern Belle.
We had a fun shag but, sadly, it was nothing extraordinary. I was expecting big things from my Texan cowboy, but I guess we’ll just blame the twelve solid hours of drinking beforehand. Besides, he wasn’t actually a cowboy. I think he worked in insurance.
The really titillating stuff happened a few hours later. I didn’t feel like waking up in a house full of strangers (makeup-free) the next morning, so I called a taxi around 2 a.m. and decided to get out of there. But as Buck and I were waiting in the enormous entrance foyer for my cab to arrive, two naked women suddenly appeared on the giant staircase in front of u
s. They were the young ladies who had disappeared with our host (and the Cristal) hours earlier. The girls didn’t appear to be in any kind of distress. They were giggling uncontrollably and bounding down the stairs like they were playing an especially fun game of hide-and-seek.
The lights were on, so I copped an eyeful. Both girls were completely starkers. Not a stitch. And they made absolutely no effort to hide their nakedness. They skipped straight past us, in their birthday suits, before disappearing somewhere into the abyss of the Ewing mansion. It was like a scene out of a movie. Where the movie is Gone with the Wind meets Animal House. Or any film starring Zac Efron.
I was in shock but Bucky Boy wasn’t surprised at all. He just kind of shrugged at me and smiled, like that shit happens to them, all the time.
My taxi came and he gave me his number. But I never saw him again. One wild night with those naughty Texans was more than enough for this gal from little ol’ Brisvegas to handle.
A man once offered me ten thousand pounds to have sex with his virgin nephew in London. Yeah. So that was weird.
The day started out innocently enough. I had just flown into London with my friend Mary and by late afternoon we were both starting to feel the early strains of jet lag. But it was the first day of our holiday and we’d resolved to get the party started, so we decided to push through and head out for dinner at one of the trendiest restaurant recommendations from our in-the-know London mates. We dressed up in our sexy frocks and applied full hair and makeup, determined to show London town that these Aussie chicks were fabulous and single and ready to mingle.
However, as our circadian rhythms slowly but surely descended into complete meltdown and the jet lag took over, we suddenly both reached the point where we felt like we were about to die. So, despite every single piece of jet-lag advice that tells you to stay awake at all costs, we stupidly decided to take a ‘quick power nap’ at around 6 p.m. as a cheeky little refresher before we stepped out.
We woke up at 11.30 p.m. Because: jet lag.
As we lay there in that fuzzy jet-lag haze, where your body kind of feels like it’s encased in a cement-filled coffin, we agreed that our wild night out was not going to happen. But we were still wearing the sexy LBDs we’d fallen asleep in, so we dabbed on a fresh coat of lippy and popped across the road to the bar at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel to grab a late-night snack.
We found a couple of stools at the bar and ordered two glasses of champagne to celebrate the start of our spectacular European adventure. Two well-dressed gentlemen arrived shortly after and plonked themselves down in the stools right next to me. Which was strange, considering they could have sat anywhere in the near-empty bar.
One of the guys looked about fifty and the other was much younger. I had a friendly chat to the older fella. He was Turkish and on holiday with his nephew, who was visiting London for the first time. The nephew didn’t speak English, so he just sat there quietly as we spoke.
When he could see that my glass was empty, my new Turkish friend kindly offered to buy me another champagne but I declined. I wasn’t interested and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. And that’s when he very politely said to me, ‘Could I offer you ten thousand pounds to have sex with my nephew?’
I sat in stunned silence, wondering if I had misheard or misunderstood his broken English. Surely he didn’t just say what I thought he said? Nephew. Sex. Shitload of money.
‘Pardon me?’ I said, bewildered.
He leaned closer and said, in hushed tones, ‘My nephew is eighteen years old and he is a virgin. I would like to pay you ten thousand pounds to provide his first sexual experience.’
I laughed in his face. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
But it wasn’t a joke. He looked a little puzzled at first. And then he said to me, quite diplomatically, ‘Would you take twenty thousand pounds?’
‘Buddy, I am not a hooker,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘And I’m really insulted that you think I am.’
Oh. My. God. How fucking embarrassing. I couldn’t believe it. My very own indecent proposal.
Did he actually think I was a hooker? Was my dress that slutty? Sure, it was a little shorter than I usually wear, but I didn’t even have my boobs out. I was mortified. Although I will admit that I was also secretly a little bit flattered that he’d offered me so much money. It would have been a million times worse if he’d only offered me a hundred pounds. Even if the guy had mistaken me for a prossie, at least he’d assumed I was high class.
And then it dawned on me. That’s exactly what we looked like. Two high-class hookers, all dolled up in our sexy best, sitting at the bar of a five-star hotel drinking champagne at midnight on a Tuesday. We sure didn’t look like two ravenous Aussie gals trying to push through a dreadful bout of jet lag.
When he realised his enormous error in judgement, the Turk seemed genuinely ashamed. I actually felt a little sorry for him when I saw the look of horror on his face. He apologised profusely and quickly gathered up his things (and his virgin nephew) and they left.
Mary and I erupted into fits of uncontrollable laughter. One of those overwhelming laughing episodes that actually makes you pee your pants, just a little bit. Amplified, no doubt, by the fact that we’d just consumed champagne on an empty stomach after travelling across seven different time zones.
‘Only twenty thousand pounds?’ Mary shrieked hysterically.
‘Is that all? Doesn’t he know you don’t get into bed for less than six figures?’
‘Well, the offer did double in about ten seconds.’ I laughed. ‘I probably could have got him up to fifty thousand if I’d tried!’
‘You sure you won’t do it for twenty thousand?’ Mary snorted, tears streaming down her face. ‘You know that would pay for our holiday! And the nephew wasn’t that hideous. You should have asked for fifty thousand . . . and offered to teach him a couple of tricks as well!’
The story of my indecent proposal at the Mandarin Oriental in London has sparked some interesting debates among friends over the years. Some of them think I was mad for turning it down. Some girlfriends say they would have said yes to the first offer. They reckon it would have been the fastest ten thousand pounds they’d ever earned. It was the poor kid’s first time so it probably would have been all over in a matter of seconds.
Most people agreed I did the right thing. There is absolutely no way I would have accepted the offer. Not even for a million dollars! Because we all know what happened between Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson when Robert Redford and his gigantic wad of cash got in the way.
I have no regrets. I could never have done it. Not for any amount. Being paid handsomely to have sex with a Turkish teenager was never especially high on my bucket list anyway.
Lesson learned: next time I feel like a midnight snack in London, I’m going to McDonald’s.
After our brief (but eventful) stay in London, Mary and I decided to check out Barcelona. Neither of us had been before and we’d heard it was loads of fun. Plus, it’s the spiritual home of Zara. So, well, shopping.
But we got a lot more than we bargained for in Barcelona, when we ended up on a stranger’s superyacht on the ‘wild coast’ of Spain. As you do.
We’d randomly befriended two lovely local lads on our first night out. Barcelona Boy #1 was a sports agent. He told us his clients were racing car drivers and tennis players, including some Wimbledon champions we’d know for sure. Barcelona Boy #2 was one of his clients, a racing car driver in the Formula Two series, which is one rung below Formula One. That was our very first experience with Spanish men, so we had no idea if they were world champion bullshit artists. We decided to believe roughly half of everything they said.
The fact that we’d only known BB1 and BB2 for a couple of hours didn’t stop them from inviting us to a party on a yacht in a place called Costa Brava the next day. They assured us the party would be amazing and offered to pick us up from our hotel, drive us the two hours to Costa Brava and drop us back afterwar
ds. They even offered us free accommodation at the party host’s house, if we decided to stay the night.
It was a wildly generous offer from a couple of fellas we’d only known for half a minute. And it all sounded a little bit too suss for my liking. I told them we’d check our schedule and let them know in the morning.
We hit Google as soon as we got back to our hotel and realised that BB1 and BB2 were both who they said they were. Also, Costa Brava probably should have been on our to-do list all along. It’s just north of Barcelona, closer to the French border, and it’s known as one of the most stunning stretches of coastline in all of Europe. It’s also renowned as one of Spain’s most exclusive holiday playgrounds.
Okay, so Costa Brava was a no-brainer. But the whole partying with total strangers scenario? Well, that required some more serious consideration. On the one hand, an uber-glamorous shindig on a superyacht in the Mediterranean with a bunch of charming (and hopefully hot) Don Juans did sound quite fabulous. On the other hand, we might be taken hostage and kept as sex slaves in their friend’s dungeon in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country. Not so fabulous.
We decided to take the risk. My gut told me they were decent blokes. Still, in an effort to be mildly sensible about this ridiculously nonsensical situation, we hired a car and drove ourselves to Costa Brava. That way, we could leave in a hurry if we needed to. I did google ‘where to buy mace spray’ before we left, but I couldn’t find any, so I stole a small knife from the hotel and hid it in the glove box instead. You know, just in case.
The Spaniards arranged to meet us in a small village in Costa Brava and escorted us to their friend’s house. We found them waiting in an enormous black SUV with very dark tinted windows. It looked like the kind of vehicle the FBI uses to transport the President. Which was as intriguing as it was unsettling. At that point, we did seriously consider turning around and driving back to Barcelona. But we were also really invested in the prospect of a fabulous party on a superyacht. So we followed the SUV through a maze of narrow country roads for about twenty minutes until we arrived at an enormous iron sliding gate. The gate was wedged into one of those massively oversized hedges that borders the entire property of a ludicrously expensive home. As we drove through the gate, I noticed it slide shut (and presumably lock) behind us. That was officially the point of no return. We were committed. Come what may.