Paul Parillo The cottage trip: Hard Nipples edition

It was my first time seeing the cottage laden with snowy hills backing onto the frozen lake. I had gotten used to the warm winds grazing my skin, so to feel the biting cold in this usually comfortable setting made me a bit uncomfortable at first – but then again, I was also naked. We all went into this cottage trip with best intentions but ended up leaving with barely enough brain cells and dignity to justify life afterwards – or simply put: the perfect weekend.

 

Friday began quietly, not everyone had arrived yet so the morning and afternoon was spent lazily relaxing and talking amongst each other. Our eyes gobbled up the endless elegance of a pristine wilderness shrouded in the cool but immaculate blanket of winter. The clock, as if on some new objective timeline, appeared to be slowed down for our benefit and as we instinctually sipped our beers we could all sense the impending doom just around the corner.

 

Several hours later, the cottage was filled with familiar faces, alcohol and most importantly, purpose. Amidst the obscene pyramids of empty beer cans and the bottomless pit of dirty shot glasses, I would look up to see people flying through the air, people laughing like hyenas and people laying on the ground unconscious. It was a tame night or better yet – practice.

 

Hungover but not defeated, Saturday looked upon our pale faces with its usual challenge. By lunchtime, people were saddening their livers with more of the same. As practiced warriors we prepared ourselves for another night of mayhem and set our watches to “Fuck Time”. By dinner, we had mostly passed the annoying sensation of our bodies trying to heal themselves, and knew it would only be a couple more hours until our speech was slurred, our eyes went wonky, and our inhibitions became non-existent.

 

We played the usual drinking games and laughed at the usual predicaments brought upon by such games; everything started going really well, that is, until, someone found the bottle of tequila.

 

“Ay, caramba!” we exclaimed, without any racist intent. Tequila is a game changer, we all knew it, but we were ready. With the stereo raping our ears with a carefully catalogued dance mix, we set our sights on getting as inebriated as possible.

 

“I’m so drunk my clothes are falling off!” said everyone still awake. And after being joined for a nude jog on the frozen lake, we took our birthday suits and spent the rest of the night dancing to the Marilyn Manson’s remake of “This is Halloween”. We slapped each other’s asses, watched the girls’ breasts touch each other and tried our hardest not to get erections while every so often hear someone yell “Hey, that’s a penis!” We worked our darnedest that night to have as much fun as we could, and I think we pulled it off.

 

Staggering up the stairs Sunday morning was less difficult than we thought it would be. The main floor was a warm embrace of the moments we all shared together as friends and its encouraging glow was still ever so present. It was our last day in this winter wonderland, and it couldn’t have been more perfect. We ended it the way we began with the calm and appreciative retrospect for the strong ties of friendship – and it’ll be that same bond that brings us up again.

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