Key Issues

Framed!

A Panama City Beach tale, in which "girl code" was nonexistent.

It was my senior year of high school (1992), and the girls and I had decided it being our senior year, we would not be denied our spring breakage from our conservative homes.

My parents were the last to cave, a problem, since I had been chosen the designated driver. But I broke character long enough to inform them that they could let me go, meaning I'd leave at a decent hour and check in frequently, or they could refuse, meaning I'd sneak out and be back in a week.

To this day I can't believe that worked. (Of course, three months later our happy home would fall apart and I'd be out on the street anyway, but they did not know this at the time...)

Shrek (Mr. Key) and I had been dating for 5 months. And although I enjoyed the first three months sans exclusivity agreement, he was at this point onto me and had humbly requested that I discontinue my fave sport, that of picking up guys.

So off I go to Panama City Beach with the girls, where the odds of guys to gals this particular week would be something like 4 to 1.

Losing battle from day 1, yet I persevered. I was lifted off of my cooler at the Drivin n Cryin beach concert, swung in circles and thrown into the sand by quite the hunkster.

Yet when he moved in for a kiss, I flattened my hand over his face and turned my head. These were difficult days.

This pattern of drunken frustration continued until eventually, maybe three nights into partying heartily, I opted for a night of rest.

The heavily intoxicated girlfriends, still soaked from their impromptu jump in the pool, opted for a night out on the town, shouting their creed, "If you can dive, you can drive..."

Of course, I refused to give up the keys, so they reluctantly settled for the party going on on the beach outside the hotel, disgusted with me and my boring committed self. Meanwhile, I stripped down to a mini-tee and undies for a night of rest.

I must have slept two hours tops before I heard them stumble into the door and fumble with the room key. I rolled over; they'd figure it out eventually.

And they did. All seven of them. My three girlfriends brought back four guys. "We brought you a guy," they sang.

Bitches.

As graciously as my annoyed ass could convey, I communicated that I wanted these fellas to go back to their room. And, as graciously as their drunken asses could convey, they let me know that that was tough shit.

Now I may have been laughing at their goofy drunken asses, but it was a frustrating moment as my modesty prevented me from jumping out of bed and showing those fools the door. So I fortified myself under the covers, and hoped reason would return to my girls.

It didn't.

The most animated of the girlfriends grabbed the arm of one tall, blonde asshole and said, "She's the one I was telling you about. She wants you..."

"NO I..." Too late. He pounced. I wrestled. He got the hint, but not before a flash went off sometime during my struggle.

My "girlfriend" holding the camera cackled with laughter. "Gotcha!" she crowed.

The picture was everything she had hoped it would be. Me in bed, he reaching over me, my outstretched arms....to STOP him, to keep him at arm's length, but the camera didn't know that.

And so, girlfriend got the last laugh as I attempted to convey the humorous story to my then boyfriend, who was less than amused.

But I initially kept the picture to go with the tale. It was after all, part of the trip.

Post it? Can't. Husband finally bought the story, but he hated the pic. Heh.

It's long gone.