I needed a vacation, so for the first week of my annual summer trip, I flew solo to the land of over a 1,200 islands, six-foot women, and the friendly Mediterranean sun: Croatia. Though I wouldn’t exactly be on land—I’d be sailing through the endless islands of the Adriatic Sea, stopping every now and then for some fresh partying.
I arrived in the coastal city of Split on a Friday evening. I had actually slept on the plane, so after a quick shower I headed into town. I’d been to bars alone in the past—once in Hawaii, the other in Mammoth—but it just wasn’t the same without friends. I found myself pounding my drinks to drown the fact that I was creepily…a loner; and I used my phone as a wingman to portray my fake importance and mystique. I struck out both nights, all in sub-two-sentence exchanges.
It was the same story for my first night in Croatia. Supposedly Split was known as a big party town, but I was rather disappointed with the quality. The place was crawling with 19-year-old kids running around like sterile ostriches in heat, and the clubs (there were no quality bars) were jam-packed with high maintenance locals who were irritated with tourists like me. After striking out with fifteen of them—all of whom were taller than 5’10 and who spoke minimal English—I hit the sack.
I had never met or really seen many Croatian people until arriving in the country. In fact, the only person I knew of who was 100% Croatian was the ex-NBA player Toni Kukoc. So coming to Croatia, I expected all the girls to look like him. I was way off. One in every three Croatian girls weren’t just attractive; they belonged in a Vogue magazine. With their towering height and Slavic faces to go with unblemished skin, they made Swedish women look like Louisiana hicks. And none of them were even slightly overweight, which might have been because McDonald’s—or any American fast food chain—hadn’t yet expanded to the country yet. And if they’re smart, they’ll keep our fatty Western food out.
The next morning I met with my boat tour in the hotel lobby, and we made our way to the docks. Our fifteen-room cruiser could sleep about thirty people plus the crew. It was about two and a half bus-lengths long with some of the rooms on the bottom floor, a dining area on the main deck, and a lounge/lay-out area on the captain’s level. Most of the other travelers were Australian, with a couple Canadians and Americans in the mix. None of the girls were even remotely attractive—except for a 23-year-old Australian “beautician” who was an 8 but considered herself a 10, and she wastefully had a boyfriend back home. Not to mention she was one of those chicks who never actually laughed for real, but rather cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and forged a face that looked more painful than amused.
My roommate Brian was a nerdy college kid from Australia who looked like Jonah Hill. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he was certainly a fan of the occasional donut. He kept to himself most of the time but contributed to conversations here and there, particularly at the group meals. The only obnoxious thing about him was sometimes during our downtime in the room, he’d throw on his headphones and put his iPod on max volume, blasting some sort of Chinese hip hop (he was white). I eventually got used to it and was able to nap in peace.
Our first stop was on the slender island of Hvar, supposedly famous for its nightlife. We went to a rooftop bar to pre-party, and then took a ferry to an island club that had maybe ten attractive girls, five of whom were 19 and sucking some gump’s face. The quality of acceptable women was so poor (and it was a Saturday night) that I maybe went 0 for 8—all stupid college chicks. Eight girls.
Apparently no women over the age of twenty-five like to travel and party simultaneously anymore. You’d think that Eat Pray Love craze would at least inspire some recent divorcees to hit up exotic islands and hook up with guys like me. But no, they’d rather stay home, save money for when they’re 65, and watch Friends reruns.
But after careful thought, I think I’ve figured out why I never have any luck with the younger girls: because what comes out my mouth—and how I say it—has no effect on their attraction for me like it does with older women (believe me, I’ve tried making adjustments); so unless I’m her perfect type, I’m doomed before I’ve even asked about her bracelets. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I’ve found that a twenty-year-old will go for the tall, dopey dude with “sexy blue eyes” over a poised, intelligent guy like me who actually knows what he’s doing. The dope won’t have the slightest idea how to talk to her, and she’s too stupid to realize this, yet they’ll still make out all over the place and have sex if she’s drunk enough. I can’t compete with that, and I don’t want to. I’ll go for the older women where the products of our minds—aka human interaction—actually have value.
The next day, a Sunday, we docked at the island of Korcula, home of Marco Polo. I was still recovering from jet lag, so I accidentally napped through the final hours of sunlight. I did, however, wake up just in time to party—at midnight. I found our group raging at an empty outdoor joint in the vicinity of all the other bars. At this point, all the guys I’d partied with the previous day and night had decided to hang around the Australian beautician like flies on shit, tricked into thinking her hotness made her cool. I instead made friends with some of the Canadian-Indian guys from the boat who knew better.
When it became evident that the outdoor place was destined for nowhere, I wandered over to where all the noise was: two back-to-back bars with college kids partying out front. Inside, drunk twenty-year-olds saturated the dance floors, and a handful of fifty-year-old men clustered sporadically around the edges like human plaque (If I ever turn out like one of these guys, shoot me). Only two girls looked over the age of 25, and only one of them was hot, a 5’11 athletic-looking brunette in a white sundress.
I approached her as her friend was ordering drinks to her right. “So is this place your hotspot?”
“What? No. Why?” She had an accent.
“This place sucks. Are there any other bars on this island?”
“Not really. Where are you from?”
After answering that question, it was all over. She eventually ditched her friend—who was talking with one of the 50-year-olds—and we migrated to a table a couple buildings down to get away from the riff raff.
Her name was Brigita, a 30-year old Slovenian schoolteacher on vacation, who was also a fan of Eat Pray Love (Finally!). One thing worth pointing out is that besides the obvious features in women—face, legs, ass, stomach, tits, etc—I’m a fan of the little things as well. Some friends of mine have a fixation for well-defined shoulders, “nice necks,” big teeth, or lower back dimples, among others. As for me, I’ll always notice a woman’s hands. I like a girl with smooth, well-defined fingers and properly manicured fingernails, fake or polished—either is sexy. A girl with dry, scaly, masculine hands with chewed-up nails reminds me of dandruff and dirty silverware; and I don’t want those things anywhere near my cock (though I’m sleazy enough to make an exception on occasion if it’s just for one night).
Brigita’s hands were perfect (She was attractive, too.). She was so well groomed that I even noticed her feet were flawless—perfect shape, clean, clear, smooth, sexy white polish, no bunions. In my last blog, I recommended guys to never compliment girls. In this case, however, exceptions can be made. If I’ve been talking to a girl for long enough—20-25 minutes—I’ll usually comment on her hands (if they’re nice, otherwise I’ll just tell her I’m glad she isn’t one of those chicks who shaves her arms—which works by the way) She probably hasn’t heard it too often, it isn’t suggestive, and it separates me from all the other complimenters. Did this guy just say he likes my hands? What a fucking weirdo! But…I think I’ll continue talking to him.
Her place was a no-go because her mediocre friend had somehow blown it with her man and gone back to their room to sleep. So I took Brigita by the hand and led her towards my boat. When we arrived, I stupidly jumped the gun and asked if she wanted to see my room, almost scaring her off. Being clutch, I then suggested we go for a stroll by the water, which regenerated her juices.
We walked along the rocky shores, making out in various spots. In one particular reef, the cliffs were high enough to feel secluded from any passers-by, so Brigita suggested we go skinny-dipping, which sounded like a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, skinny-dipping is like ordering the hugest possible dessert from Claim Jumper. It looks awesome on the menu and tastes OK, but after you’re finished you feel crappier than Kobayashi after a hot dog contest.
Making out and feeling her tits pressed against my body was fun, but there was something unpleasant about our footing. We couldn’t find a comfortable place to just…stand; there seemed to be some kind of spiky shit all over the ground. After a brief two-minute dip, we trudged back to land, stupider.
We got dressed, put on our shoes (I had to remove a strange spike from my foot), and lumbered along another crag. We were up on another small cliff when Brigita suggested we take an approaching staircase back down to the rocks. I knew what she was doing: she wanted to get railed on the beach. It was obvious. As soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, I leaned her against a semi-flat area of rock (there was no sand), and made my typical moves: Make-out, neck-kissing, more make-out, pull down her sun dress, suck on left tit, more neck-kissing (lick this time), tits, make-out, other tit, rub clit over panties, tits, make-out, neck, make-out, push fingers past panties, two-fingers in, tits, finger, faster, finger, finger, finger, finger, franticly unbuckle pants, take wallet out and remove condom (make sure she sees), put condom on, begin plowing.
That all happened, except for the plowing part. The rocks were bumpy as hell and scraping her back and my knees, so after putting on the condom and barely slipping it in, we both came to the conclusion that it couldn’t go down like this. “Come on,” I told her, getting up. “We can’t do this here. Let’s go back to the boat.” I took the condom off, tossed it in a rock hole on top of two small crabs named Lefty and Boomer, and we left.
When we arrived at my room, Brian was fast asleep. Great. The rooms were tiny, and Brigita refused to go inside with him in the room, so I told her to wait outside for a sec. I scurried over to Brian’s bed. “BRAIN! Uh, I mean, Brian!”
Brian jerked hastily towards me, eyes wide, as if he’d just woken from an alien-encounter nightmare. “Herf?” he murmured.
“Dude, I need the room for like ten minutes. The hottest Slovenian girl ever wants to fuck. Sorry, man. Drinks on me tomorrow.”
Brian sat up, realizing he was back on Earth; then he squinted at the wall, made a farty face, and let out a rumbled sigh.
Realizing he was going to leave, I thanked him like five times, and reminded him that drinks were on me.
Brian left the room with his blanket draped over him like Frodo and walked past Brigita, who gave him a sincere thank you. Fuck yeah—I love girls who are honest about their intentions and show appreciation to people who understand they just want to get slammed real quick.
We got down to business immediately. She had a substantial bush, but I didn’t care. This was Europe, and the sex here should be rough, dirty, and even a little hairy. The only problem was that my bed was so damn small, and the side wall was at a 75-degree angle, so it was tough fucking her doggie because my shoulder kept jamming. After screwing for 10-15 minutes (I did try and hurry things up for Brian, but a couple times I greedily staved off ejaculating), I made the switch to her ass. She didn’t make a sound as I tried to slowly stuff my manhood inside her hershey highway. Once it was in, it never left, and I eventually busted in the condom despite having to deal with the wall factor.
I later learned this was Brigita’s first time in the butt, which would explain why when I took the condom off, it looked like a deformed neopolitan ice cream scoop. I quickly flushed it down the toilet and tried to pretend I didn’t see anything (Note: The next day Brian told me the room smelled so bad that he almost just stayed outside, ultimately deciding to use his Cool Water cologne as Lysol. “I don’t know what you guys did in here, but I feel sorry for her,” he said.)
We emerged from the room in a sweaty mess and chilled on a bench up on the captain’s deck. Suddenly a door nearby whooshed open and a figure stomped around the corner and began barking. “Hey! What is the name of this boat!?” exclaimed the captain, a Colonel Mustard-looking dude wearing nothing but saggy Fruit of the Looms.
He paused and assessed us. “Okay, YOU can stay, but she is not from this boat! Get her off my boat!”
Brigita was already up and walking before I could even respond.
I was wide awake and somehow still horny despite the ice cream condom, so Brigita and I walked back towards the cliffs where she blew me on the rocks. Then I pounded her again on an acceptable rock bench, took down her email address, and called it a night. When I returned to the boat, the sun was rising across the bay, and the crew was already untying the ropes. We left fifteen minutes later.
When I woke the next day, I could barely walk. It felt like I was constantly stepping on glass. After careful examination, I discovered nearly twenty irremovable splinters in both feet. I showed one of the guys on the tour who owned an expensive snorkel set; he had to know what had happened to me. I told him my skinny-dipping story, and he immediately knew the problem. “Sea Urchins, mate. Yeah, it’ll hurt for a few days—just gonna have to wait it out; your body will eventually reject the splinters in time.” (Update: It has now been over seven weeks since the urchin attack, and I still have a few remaining black spots in my feet.)
That day we hit up the island of Dubrovnik for a two-night stay. Dubrovnik, with its castle walls and Gothic architecture, was also known for its partying, but it was the same shit as Split—kids everywhere.
At the tail end of the night—as I limped back to the boat, already fifteen 0-fers deep—I encountered an attractive, past-college local with emerald green eyes. In her tight white pants, she appeared to be mesmerized by two movie posters on a wall. One was the new Harry Potter flick and the other involved Tom Cruise. She was just…staring.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She glanced at me a moment, then continued to gape. “I like looking at these.”
“For that long?”
“Yes, I like it.”
Drunk and impatient, I jumped right in. “I see…well hey, I like your pants, so come sit with me as I watch all these drunk tourists stumble around.” I sat down on a bench a few feet away and sophisticatedly brought my right leg up and crossed it on top of my left.
She looked back at me, smiled, then back at the painting. But her focus was rattled. A few moments later, she moseyed over to my bench and sat down.
Her name was Marina, a 28-year-old local on her way home from drinks with friends. She seemed sweet, genuine, and sexy, so I stayed and talked with her. Not to mention she had glistening black hair and unprecedented green eyes, which was able to compensate for that one tooth on bottom that looked like a popcorn kernel. We talked for at least an hour before I gave her a kiss goodbye and made plans to meet tomorrow at “the statue” at five. I was stoked—now I didn’t have to do any tours; I had a sexy local who could show me around at my own splintery pace.
Before passing out on the boat, I masturbated to my mental sex files while Brian had his Jurassic Park nightmares just two feet away on the other side of the wall. My load plopped into the toilet with a thunderous thoip noise, but I doubt Brian heard.
After kayaking with the guys to a neighboring island and going for a swim, I met up with Marina, whose hair had amassed all sorts of split ends over the course of the last thirteen hours. The lazy-ass couldn’t even brush it? Even so, I had been looking forward to seeing her for a romantic night out in the Mediterranean sunset.
It didn’t start well. She was sober now and suddenly smoked like a chimney (Chain smokers should be sent to Tasmania or something. You guys fucking stink and are abusing everyone’s oxygen. Get out of here.). Then I learned a few interesting facts about her:
-Her last boyfriend had OD’d on heroin a year ago.
-She still wasn’t over him.
-She used to be a heroin addict herself.
-The ex before that had murdered her dog, which caused her to show up at his house with an ax in her hand, ready to kill. (He smartly didn’t open the door.)
-Her only passion in life was going for a weekly swim in the ocean.
It’s all good, I thought. That’s all in the past. She’s cool now. Nope. In our two hours of hanging out, she showed me one cool place—a scenic bar on a cliff. And in those two hours, she rambled on and on about herself, saying nothing remotely interesting or sane except for the hardships she faced during the Croatian War and the Siege of Dubrovnik in the early 90s. Other than that, it felt like I was watching a live recording of Intervention: the boring-ass Behind the Scenes edition. After two beers, I told her our crew was having dinner on the boat at 7:30 and then we were all going out together. She gave me her number and told me to “please, PLEASE” call her later. I lied to her and left.
The next morning I awoke fresh from yet another 0-for-20 college night (though I did fulfill my drink promise to Brian, who was tossed after two long islands), and I walked outside to find our boat anchored in a secluded cove. One of the best parts about the week, in addition to simply laying out on the deck, was the swim stops. Every day we’d anchor at a picturesque cove or bay, toss our floaties in the shimmering Adriatic, jump off the twenty-foot roof, snorkel, and paddle around in 75-degree water, all the while shooting the shit with each other, discussing sex and new travel destinations. And the weather was perfect, which I couldn’t quite say for the Greek Islands due to the violent wind factor. The Croatian Islands in July are unbeatable.
Our next stop was at the quaint harbor town of Trstenik. The village was a quarter mile horseshoe around its cozy harbor, and that was it. The population was maybe a few hundred. After feeding my internet addiction, I ate waterfront pizza with a couple girls from the boat, then napped until midnight. When my alarm went off, I was so tired I almost stayed in and slept. No! There would be no wasted nights in Croatia. I took a lukewarm shower to give my aching body a bitch slap, got ready and walked to an adjacent harbor, home of the lone bar in town.
It was more of a cove, and the outdoor bar, all 200 square feet of it, took up what little flat area there was. With the exception of six dancing high school girls who likely had Geometry homework due the next day, our boat crew accounted for the entire tavern. And apparently everyone had decided to dress like pirates—a handful of the guys moronically let the beautician put black eyeliner all over their faces. I knew about the pirate thing, so I wore my douchiest shirt—a grayish knock-off Affliction shirt (on sale at Nordstrom for twenty bucks) with a huge cross stitched on it, as well as some other loud junk.
Factoring in the village population, in addition to it being the middle of the week, I knew it’d be just us at the bar, so I planned on having a couple drinks with my boat mates, then hitting the sack. Halfway through my third and last drink, a sexy local with a stunning body and punky blonde hair appeared out of nowhere and stormed onto the dance floor. Okay fine, I’ll hit on her, then I’m off to bed. Unfortunately she had come with a group of six, half of them ugly chicks, the other half were bald dudes.
I waited until she was by herself. Then, finally, I found her sipping on a black drink in the darkness off to the side. I slithered up to her. “Who are you?”
“Who am I? Who are you?” Accent.
“Nope. I asked you first.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well for one, what is that thing you’re drinking?”
“Orahovica. Here, try.”
The dark fluid tasted like stale Jager. I made a face.
“This is what Croatians drink. You don’t like?”
“It’s different,” I said, trying to wrinkle my face back to normal.
She passionately explained how the drink was considered gourmet brandy in Croatia, and how great it was blah blah blah. Then the conversation resumed.
“So what else would you like to know?”
“What’s your story? Who are you, and why are you at this bar on a Wednesday night?”
Her accent was a pain in the ass, and I didn’t feel like putting in the listening work, so I ignored everything she said and instead brainstormed possible detours around the six-friend cockblock factor. I nodded my head and kept my eye contact, asking her instinctual questions at opportune breaks in the conversation. I eventually discovered her name was Tatjana, 27, and she’d moved here a few years ago from Sarajevo. When she learned I lived in California, predictably, the questions started gushing out of her.
One of my moves with foreign girls like Tatjana—and even American girls—is I’ll invite them to do a fun activity with me. I’ll say things like “If you ever visit California, call me up. I’ll take you surfing.” We never actually go surfing, or see each other ever again, but saying shit like this spawns excitement and stirs their vagina juices like minced grapefruit.
Tatjana was hooked. After a couple more drinks mixed in with some pee breaks, we found ourselves standing on a ten-foot bluff overlooking the bar. Off to our left was an uphill trail that appeared to carve around the western bank of the cove.
Tatjana motioned to the trail. “Every time I come here, someone gets lost in the woods, but we can’t do that,” she weakly asserted.
“Nope. Definitely not.” I smiled at her, giving her a playful nudge.
“We are not going to kiss tonight, so I hope you weren’t expecting things to happen.”
Perfect. “Of course not. I’m just enjoying drinking with you.”
Two minutes later, when I sensed her body leaning into mine, I pulled her in by the side of her belt and gently kissed her. She kissed me back, then stopped. “Hold on, my friends are right there.”
I looked down and noticed a couple of her bald friends glancing back at us. “I’ll be right back,” she told me.
She appeared to be arguing with one of them as I sipped on my drink from above. A couple minutes later, she abruptly got up and stormed back to me, reached for my hand, let go, and then said impatiently, “Come on.”
I followed her up the trail for at least a couple hundred feet until she stopped and faced me. “My friends say I am only talking to you to feed my ego.”
I laughed. “Well who cares what they say.” I pulled her in for a make-out. She kissed me back violently, then took me by the hand and led me up another twenty feet into an opening on the right. I let go of her hand and followed her down the steep path towards the water, branches whip-lashing my face.
The jagged trail led to a small private beach, and this one actually had sand. How many guys had she banged here? The music from the bar throbbed off to our right as we lay down on the soft earth. I got on top of her, made my typical moves, but became slightly disenchanted when I realized her nipples tasted like garlic. I’ve been with one of these before, and it wasn’t good. I kept the other one around because she was a squirter, but I always steered clear of her tits.
After all the waist-and-above stuff, Tatjana made a frustrated groan. “I can’t doing anything,” she grumbled. I knew before she even finished. “It’s my time of the month.”
“That’s cool,” I said, kissing her neck. “Do you like it in the butt?”
“Sometimes. But not tonight.” Dammit.
She eventually took my dick out, but didn’t even suck it, and gave up on the handjob after the first quarter. Realizing there was nothing in it for her, she got up and said we needed to go back. What a bust.
When we were back on the trail, she said that we couldn’t go back down because if her friends saw us “lost in the woods” together, they might kick my ass. “What? Why? Are you even dating any of them?”
“No, but they are very protective. Come on, follow me. I know a way around.”
We climbed up an impossible mountain through vineyards and heavy brush. With my feet already killing me, this had disaster written all over it. Half a mile up a car drove by on a road. “There! We must go there,” she pointed, obviously lost. There were no trails of any kind leading up, not to mention we were already on a 45-degree angle of land.
“Are you kidding? There’s no way we’re going to make it. Let’s just go back down and split up when we get back to the bar.” All I wanted to do now was avoid injury and go to sleep.
Tatjana agreed and we made our way back. She went first. I waited behind a tree in case any of her meathead friends came wildly sprinting up the trail looking for blood. After a few minutes, I made my return and skulked around the bar back to the trail from which I came.
With the exception of some site-seeing, parasailing, and a few more swim stops, the last two days were uneventful. We spent a night at the coastal town of Makarska, and even found an all-Croatian nightclub. Unfortunately, the big-town locals didn’t want anything to do with North American tourists like the villagers back at Trstenik. 0 for 50.
We returned to Split for the last night, but the five hours a night of sleep I’d been getting had finally caught up to me. I was zonked out by nine like Brian.
The following morning I said my goodbyes to the boat crew, took a bus to the airport, and caught my flight back home.
Only I didn’t fly back to California; I flew up north for a couple hours. This shit wasn’t over. Russia awaited.
To be continued…
(Continue reading Russia)