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My Family Trip To Mexico Included Lots Of Coke And Prostitutes

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I’m the product of an upper-1 percent commonality: a much older father on what could be considered a “second” family, and a mother that makes even the kindest observer realize, “Oh okay, that guy must do something good with his life.” With that in mind, I have this sort of forgotten half-brother almost a decade older than me doing about as well as the major sports teams of Philadelphia (sorry, Dan). He’s from my dad’s first marriage, a mess of an adult with addictions making my vices look like fiscal responsibility. So when my high school senior trip to Cabo was on the horizon, and my parents were rightfully hesitant to send me off to a third world country filled with drugs, legal drinking, prostitution, and ISIS-like cartels, I had essentially conceded the fact that my newly 18-year-old frock would not be enjoying a week of international relations.

That is, until they came up with an unbelievable alternative: “Just go with your brother. Him and his friends are going to Puerto whatever. He’ll keep an eye on you.” I couldn’t fucking believe they trusted the forgotten child to shepherd me through what was my first truly debauched segway into the world of Greek life-level mania. I was about to become an actual man. Well, at least in sexual and substance experience.

While this disaster of a trip could be a movie if left in the hands of a far more talented writer, our second night was the true highlight. Robbie and his friends, the literal goon squad personifying every Silicon Valley startup dream that spiraled into the seedy world of internet scams and porn, were knee deep in so much powder I couldn’t tell if this was Mexico or the North Pole. After a few snorts, puffs, and assorted other misgivings, I wouldn’t have known if my compadres were Santa’s little helpers, anyway.

We make it to the club and, in typical Robbie fashion, he’s got bottle service and no plausible way to finance his champagne dreams and cut-off budget. I’m taking full advantage, though, exploiting the bizarre phenomena that is a woman’s insatiable attraction to men paying ten times the actual value of a mid-level bottle of vodka. While I realize Mexico is vacation pussy, so it doesn’t really count, at this point I’m newly 18 with a wealth of sexual experience consisting of ten or so rabbit pumps and careful post-shot rubber inspections for holes and leakage. Christ, I was an idiot.

Anyway, we meet these sisters from Spain and Robbie and I end up bringing them back to our room in some fucked up version of family bonding. We’re going at it like the tag team champions of the world, switching off with each and somehow ignoring the incredible depravity of this situation as the night continues to spiral towards what had to have been my parent’s worst nightmare.

I’m back with the sister I was originally with, I think, when I realize this is my first unprotected experience. Like Nick Cage, I’m gone in sixty seconds and flooded with instant regret knowing this random coed could have transmitted me something. Filled with shame, I look at Robbie, when she says it:

“Ok, so who’s paying us?”

Robbie motions to me.

“Siblings, pay these whores.”

My heart fell out of my asshole.

“You two are…”

Robbie glares at me.

“Obviously, bro. Come on.”

“Go with your brother,” they said. Thanks, mom and dad. Time to put my dick in the dishwasher.

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Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

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