Mr. Pansy Is One Sorry Ass

Jamaica is hot. WAY hot. Hot as in caliente on the skin hot. If you are as hopelessly white as I am, you must go to a tanning salon before going to Jamaica. Or you will die. Jamaica is so hot that when we would walk out of our room each morning it was like going straight into a blast furnace. After about 10 minutes we would break out into a full body sweat. Which is why we really liked that the resort was clothing optional. None of that nasty sweaty clothes sticking to our bodies nonsense. Whew.

For some reason Mr. Pansy thinks he is NOT as hopelessly white as I am. He is even whiter. One year the sunblock lotion we used (SPF 5500) seemed different. It did not seem to seal our skin like before. Oh, well. Off to the ocean we go, to loll all day long on floaties. And drink. This place is great. Alcohol drinks are included in the cost. Mr. Pansy drank many, many, many beers. I drank many, many, many of whatever the hell caught my fancy. I am at the bar getting refills and the crowd is laughing and talking about some guy over there that has the most insane sunburn they have ever seen.

I turn to see that they are talking about MR. PANSY! And, indeed, he had one really fucked looking and hilarious sunburn. We both had been properly rotisseiring ourselves by rotating on a regular basis during the hours we were out on the ocean on those floaties...which were composed of the typical air-filled chambers along the length of said floaties. The newly-formulated sunblock, as previously mentioned, was indeed not like before.




I saved his reputation by crossly declaring that he was my husband and how dare they laugh at his terrible Red Stripe beer allergy? hahahahahahaha.