by Mandy Smith
“Forty nine, fifty,” chanted the headstand spectators. The girl’s legs fell to the floor over her head so that all we could see was her arse swallowing the tiny triangle of orange bikini. She stood up, picking the fabric from her bum. “I feel all dizzy,” she said, reaching for a miniature of rum resting on top of the teak cabinet. “Someone else’s turn now.”
Suzy returned from the table with three glasses containing a viscous beige liquid. “I’ve made Mudslides,” she declared, her eyes radiating mischief.
“She’s taking it up the backside now,” said Jonathan, nodding at the television.
The semi-naked headstand girl came skipping towards us, her boobs now covered by a white T-shirt that was so thin you could see the brown tinge of her nipples through it. “We’re all playing truth or dare,” she said excitedly. “Come and join in.”
I don’t think I’ve been to one room party that hasn’t involved a game of truth or dare. They’re inevitable. I tended to opt for truth rather than dare. It was a no brainer: firstly, you could lie through your teeth, and secondly, everyone was so off their tits they wouldn’t remember anything you’d said anyway – although this did backfire on occasion. I wasn’t a prude; I did my fair share of dares. I just didn’t see much point in flashing my wares to all and sundry every time.
This time though, emboldened by Mudslides, vodka, Screaming Orgasms and wine, I accepted a dare from Nathan, which, astonishingly, didn’t involve flashing or streaking, or performing naked headstands.
“I dare you to fill up the lift,” said Nathan, motioning towards the door with his bunny ears.
This was a common pursuit on trips – to pack the elevator so full of furniture that no one could get in. Sometimes we’d even stack furniture outside hotel room doors so the boring crew who hadn’t come to the room parties couldn’t get out. It was all taken in the lighthearted way it was meant.
“Easy peasy,” I said, handing my glass of mud to Jonathan.
One by one I carried and dragged pieces of furniture from the hallway and Nathan’s suite along the corridor – a chest of drawers, coffee table, two swivel chairs, an armchair and a standard lamp. I was spotted by a few guests leaving their rooms as I assembled the furniture by the lift. “We’re just moving things around – having a change around,” I said with a terrible South African accent. When the corridor fell silent again, I made my move. I called for the elevator, praying no one was inside it. I watched the floor numbers flash by on the digital display, giggling to myself, until the doors pinged open. The lift was empty. I blocked the door with the armchair and set about filling it up. I couldn’t stop giggling. As I heaved the last piece of furniture – a chest from the corridor – into the lift, I heard a door close followed by hurried footsteps. Fuck, I thought, I’m going to get caught here. I tried to crouch behind the armchair still blocking the door but there was hardly any space to stand, let alone crouch. I’ll just walk out, I reasoned, and act shocked. As far as anyone else was concerned, I could have found the lift in this state. So I casually stepped out of the lift … and bumped into Suzy, naked aside from a skimpy pair of black knickers tied at the sides.
“Ah, Suze,” I said, “Thank God it’s just you.”
“I got the topless knock-down ginger dare,” she said, peering into the lift and laughing. “Looks like you’ve passed your dare – no forfeit for you.”
Then she turned, hammered three knocks on the door opposite the lift and sprinted down the corridor giggling. I heard voices calling after me as I darted back into Nathan’s suite.
The party continued, getting louder and wilder as the hours slipped by. Every drink I guzzled was a different colour: red, green, blue, pink, yellow. More and more people were stripping off. A hostie called Francesca was flashing her recently purchased double-D implants, saying, “Go on, touch them,” to anyone who was interested, like they were just hats she had bought. We were all pulling moonies at the window and one guy did a full strip and ran down the corridor and back with his cock slapping his thighs.
It was almost 4am when a security guard arrived to “investigate a number of complaints”. He’d been knocking on the door for some time but no one had heard him. It was only because Nathan had noticed the phone ringing that he knew he was there. Nathan turned the stereo off and answered the door. The security guard – a stocky South African man – did a double take when he saw Nathan, who was still sporting his salmon dress and bunny cap.
“Can I help you?” said Nathan, covering his groin with his huge shovel hand.
The security guard walked into the room, almost tripping on an empty Bacardi bottle at his feet.
“You’re the Virgin Atlantic party?” he said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, that is correct,” replied Nathan.
Drunken sniggers filled the room.
“We’ve received some complaints. May I speak to your captain?”
“Well of course,” said Nathan, removing his bunny cap, “I am the commander.”
The security guard shook his head. “You’re disturbing our other guests. And the furniture in the elevator … is that from here?” He glanced around the room, searching for missing pieces, his eyes momentarily fixing on the lesbian spanking scene now playing on the television.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Nathan. “We’ll clear everything up – and you won’t hear another peep from us.”
The security guard raised his hands. “Please keep the noise down.”
“Of course, of course,” vowed Nathan, ushering him out the door. “Like I said, not a peep.”
It was midday when Jonathan woke me, planting feathery kisses over my face. “Happy Valentine’s Day, gorgeous,” he whispered. I blinked a few times until his face came into focus. He was lying beside me on top of the covers, his head propped in his hand, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Happy Valentine’s, babe,” I croaked.
“Look what I’ve got,” he said, pulling a tube and a paintbrush out from under his pillow. “Strawberry flavoured body paint.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said, “I’ve brought some too … raspberry sorbet.”
Jonathan threw back the duvet and rolled on top of me. “How do you fancy breakfast in bed? Chase away the hangover.”
Hangover? I was still drunk. “Oh yeah,” I moaned, sliding my hands beneath his towel, “colour me in.”
He unscrewed the tube and squeezed the red paint onto the brush. He then painted “I” on my left breast, “love” on my right and “Mandy” across my midriff, adding a kiss below my belly button. He took a moment to admire his work, smiling proudly, as if he’d just created a masterpiece. I looked down at my graffitied skin and laughed. “Now you’re going to have to eat those words.”
“I intend to,” Jonathan said, already lowering his head to my breasts. He rolled back on top of me and, very slowly, kissed a path from my boobs to my navel, devouring the paint. I looked like a murder victim by the time he’d finished, my torso smeared red. And Jonathan looked like Hannibal Lecter after a three-course meal with his strawberry-stained lips and face.
We stayed in our room all afternoon playing with our Valentine’s toys. Jonathan was thrilled I’d bought him a copy of the Kama Sutra. We mastered the Erotic V position – which involved me sitting on the edge of the dressing table with my feet hooked around Jonathan’s neck – the Catherine Wheel and the Splitting Bamboo, which gave me the most intense orgasm. But I nearly broke my neck attempting the Suspended Scissors position. This was the trickiest and involved me suspending my body with one hand on the floor, lying sideways with my feet resting on the edge of the bed. Jonathan’s job was to step over my left leg, hold up my right leg, then, with his other hand supporting my waist, enter me from behind. It was impossible – each time Jonathan tried to step over my leg my arm gave way and my head crashed to the floor. “I don’t think this is happening, babe,” I said, collapsing again after our fourth attempt. “Maybe we should move on to the Ship … or the L
andslide?”
We worked up huge appetites – I was so hungry I ate my edible knickers. They weren’t exactly sexy: white, plastic and surgical-looking. After our Suspended Scissor disaster we were both too exhausted to try any more positions, so we ticked off the ones we had conquered and made a note of the ones we’d try next time. As we lay in our paint-stained sheets, flicking through the book, the phone rang. I answered it. It was Suzy.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, hon – I hope you’ve been naughty like me.”
“Why, what have you done?” I asked in a voice that really said, “I know what you’ve been up to.”
“Adam has only just left my room,” she said in a loud whisper, as if he was still in earshot.
“Why are you whispering?”
“He came back after the room party – I haven’t been to sleep yet. Fuck me he’s a goer: huge cock, very … girthy.”
“Worth going back for more?”
“Maybe. Unless someone better comes along to test drive. Anyway, enough about him, what are you up to?”
“Oh, you know, nothing much. Sitting in bed, covered in strawberry and raspberry body paint, reading the Kama Sutra.”
Suzy giggled. “Well, get yourselves ready – we’re all meeting in the bar in an hour.”
She hung up before I could reply.
Another night in Joburg turned into another debauched night in Joburg, ending with another room party interrupted by security. This time Nathan was wearing a Fred Flintstone costume when the guard arrived. “I’m terribly sorry,” he explained again. “Would you care for tequila?” It’s a good job the security guards had a sense of humour.
The days all seemed to blend into one in Joburg. We hardly slept and the amount of drink we got through was criminal. On our final day – our only sober day – a few of us went on a safari tour at Pilanesberg National Park, near Sun City. Set in the crater of an extinct alkaline volcano, and fringed by concentric ridges, the park is home to every South African mammal, including the “big five”: lion, leopard, black-and-white rhino, elephant and buffalo. We were told this by our tour guide, Ryan, who looked as though he too should’ve been roaming among the wildlife. He was so hairy: a mop of curly black hair, furry arms, woolly neck and hands. There were even hairs sprouting from the bridge of his nose, but strangely he suited it and was actually quite handsome – in a Neanderthal kind of way.
The Jeep crawled a long rugged paths, past forested ravines and rolling tawny grasslands where rhinos lay on their sides, lazy and heavy against the trees, and zebras pranced along the plain. Every time we thought we’d spotted a lion it turned out to be nothing more than a mound of moving dry grass. Ryan got us into a little spot of difficulty en route to the Main Lodge house for lunch. We were driving along a tree-lined road – he was singing along to that annoying song “The Bad Touch” by the Bloodhound Gang, which was blaring from the radio, and trying to get us all to join in – when a baby elephant emerged from the trees and trotted alongside the Jeep, swinging its little trunk with a cute smile on its face. Ryan continued along the path, singing, oblivious to the calf, driving us almost head-on into the calf’s mother, who charged out from the trees, flaring her ears, screaming and trumpeting. We all screamed. Ryan shouted, “Holy fuck,” slammed on the brakes and reversed the Jeep at top speed. Fortunately the three-tonne elephant didn’t give serious chase – she just wanted to put herself between us and her baby – but it was still terrifying how close she had come to ramming us.
We couldn’t even go on safari without a drama occurring. And there was a further drama on the flight home. No one had seen Sindy or Katie since our first room party. We hadn’t thought much of it at the time; it was perfectly normal for some crew to do their own thing on trips and Sindy and Katie went everywhere together, anyway. But they reappeared in the hotel lobby when the crew bus arrived, looking a little drained and stiff. I noticed Sindy struggling to lift her flight bag, flinching and clutching her chest every time she tried to hook it onto her arm. “Shall I take that for you?” I offered.
“I’ll be okay,” she said with a grimace. “I want to look normal.”
“Have you injured yourself? You don’t look very well, babe.”
“No, I’m fine,” she said. “I think I overdid it in the gym yesterday, that’s all. I’m perfectly fine.”
But halfway through the flight Sindy was forced to admit to our flight service manager, “I’ve had my boobs done,” after her new implants had exploded mid flight. During our trip to Joburg, Sindy and Katie had been under the knife, which explained why they’d gone AWOL. After Sindy’s trauma mid flight, Katie also confessed she’d had a boob job and they were both taken off duty. They thought they’d saved themselves a fortune getting top surgery at a snip of a price in Joburg, but their new inflatables ended up costing them dearly. When they got home they were sacked. Honestly, the lengths some girls will go to … all for a pair of fake boobs.
CHAPTER 8
THE FLOWER GIRLS
I blame my naked antics in Barbados entirely on Felicity. She’s always had a bizarre fascination with skinny dipping, taking her clothes off and running around in the buff. But who can blame her for showing off her size-eight figure and gigantic GGs? Now it seemed Felicity’s love for streaking had rubbed off on Laura and me. It was late evening – approaching midnight – and the three of us were completely starkers, standing by a pool at the lavish Tamarind Cove resort, giggling hysterically with the local tall Heliconia Wagneriana flowers sandwiched between our butt cheeks.
We’d just been skinny dipping in the waters of the Platinum Coast – where a cast of mischievous crabs had moved our clothes along the beach – and we were running back to our hotel, ducking behind plant pots and palm trees, when Felicity suggested a further prank.
“Let’s do a dare,” Felicity said, reaching into the plant pot and yanking three of the long-stemmed flowers from the beautiful tropical display. “I say we stick these flowers in our bum cheeks and swim across every pool in the resort. Anyone who drops the flower has to perform a forfeit.”
“You’re fucking mad, you,” Laura said, snatching one of the flowers. “How am I supposed to fit this in me crack? My bum’s virtually non-existent.”
“Easy, I’ll show you.” Felicity turned around, poked her slender bum in our faces and slid the flower between her cheeks, snorting with laughter as she did so. Laura and I were clutching on to each other, giggling.
“You have to clench,” Felicity added, squeezing her bum and waddling forwards. “Just like this – squeeze and clench, squeeze and clench.”
“Oh fuck it, I’m game if you are, Mands,” Laura said.
“Honestly, the stuff that girl gets us doing,” I said, having no trouble positioning my flower between my ample butt cheeks. “Let’s just pray no one sees us.”
Leaving our clothes in a pile behind the floral display, we climbed into the amber-lit pool and tried to swim to the other end. It was an impossible task – the only way to keep the flowers in place was to keep our legs together and use only our arms to swim – and we couldn’t do that for laughing. We made it across the pool, despite losing our flowers several times, and then repeated the process in the second and third pools before dashing back for our clothes, our flowers now soggy and droopy in our backsides.
“I think we’ve all earned forfeits,” Felicity said, scooping up her clothes.
“Bugger that,” I said. “That was a forfeit in itself.”
We then ran, dripping wet, clothes clutched to our chests, past the bar terrace and guests’ rooms, through the hotel lobby, where we were greeted by a red-faced receptionist.
“Morning,” chirped Felicity as we jiggled and slipped through the lobby, our feet making wet slapping noises on the marble flooring.
“Don’t mind us,” I sang.
The receptionist didn’t know where to look. She just nodded and turned her eyes to some paperwork. We pattered up the stairs, still giggling and pulling on items of c
lothing, and returned to the room party we’d nipped away from … all dressed in each other’s clothes.
It was late July in 2001, and Felicity, Laura, Jonathan and I had used one of our two monthly requests to jet off to Barbados together, along with Laura’s then BA pilot boyfriend, Dan.
Barbados is a beautiful teardrop of an island with dramatic cliffs, ocean views and exotic wildlife: turtles bobbing in crystal waters and monkeys lolloping by the roadside. The Tamarind Cove resort was a blissful oasis of calm, with red tiled buildings, fountains and tropical gardens opening out to a glorious Bounty advert crescent beach where the waves ruffled at the shore like can-can girls’ knickers. It was such a quiet, tranquil resort … until us lot tarnished it with our Club 18–30 style behaviour. The local night-life left a lot to be desired in those days (although it’s a lot livelier now), there wasn’t much else to do in hurricane season, when there was more hotel staff than guests. So we amused ourselves.
