Our plane lands in Caticlan, from where we take a trike to the port, as in where the boats be. After a ridiculous exercise in ticket buying involving three different windows, an environmental fee AND a port tax, Jordan and I are ready for Boracay.

The boat does its boat thing transporting us across water to our destination, and we then immediately head to White Beach, where Jordan has a friend waiting for him. First we find a nice guesthouse called La Bella Casa, and I find out that Jordan is a fucking mad dog haggler. He busts out the well-honed tactic of loudly and angrily comparing everything to cheaper rooms in Palawan, and has no problem quickly talking the proprietor down from 1000 pesos to 700. That's for a decent room with a TV, aircon, hot water, and laughable yet existent wifi. Even towels and shampoo! I'm struck by what a novice I've been.

We walk to find his friend, but stop on the way for Jonah's Shakes, which I remember seeing lauded on Wikitravel. You know how new parents are always going on about how having a kid is the greatest thing in the world, and their lives in retrospect now seemed so empty and pointless? Those idiots have never had one of these avocado banana shakes. Move over, miracle of life.

Ubiquitous touts mill about the beach eager to bother you about scuba/snorkel/sail trips, but in a strange twist many of these guys don't even speak English. Still, the island is immediately identifiable as an international vacation destination.

Sure, Boracay has beaches of perfect white sand being gently molested by clear, emerald waters, just as all those business execs are gently molesting their mistresses on top of that lovely, lovely sand. However, what all those tourist photos take great pains to leave out are the hotels and concrete boardwalk that start maybe ten feet away from the surf. In fact, most of the beach we're staying on (the popular one, I'm later told but can instantly surmise) is literally walled off by tents along the boardwalk, housing expensive beach-side bars and restaurants and Filipino cover bands. After all, what better way to enjoy your expensive beach vacation than by seeing the beach through a layer of dark, insect-and-tout-repelling fabric?

We locate Jordan's friend Ian at the Astoria Resort, because Ian has infinite quantities of money and intends to spend it. Staying with him is his girlfriend who has never traveled outside of Australia, and both of them are immensely impressed when they find out that I actually eat street food while traveling. Makes me wish it was 100 years ago, where by virtue of simply having traveled a bit I could get invited to rich peoples' dinner parties as a guest of honor. I could also wear a safari hat unironically, which is somehow desirable to me.

Jordan tells his friend about my less-than-stellar experience in Perth and resulting view of Australia, and Ian is simply appalled. They vow to rectify my view of Aussies and by extension redeem their homeland. Then we eat some bolognese at the Astoria restaurant and drink beer. They both say "Out of control!" a lot, but they really are lovely people.

Ian begins the festivities by buying a bucket of beer on the boardwalk, which seems to be the hip thing to do, and we sit down to watch some live music at a bar called Bom Bom.

Despite my general stance on jam bands and their collective stain on the human experience, I must say the Bom Bom folk are good fun. They even have me on stage to sing and drum a little with them, which I suppose was a cunning way of making me part of the problem. Once we're a good few beers deep, one of us starts chatting up some Russian girls sitting close by. By chance, this is the day I'm wearing my one shirt with a nonsensical joke in Cyrillic on it, which turns out to be a crackerjack icebreaker.

The singer from the band invites us all to to come back tomorrow night to continue jamming, to which everyone seems amenable. Around this point Ian leaves with his girlfriend, and Jordan and I in turn leave with our new Russian friends, Jenny and Anya. Jenny speaks great English and is naturally the more talkative of the two, while Anya's English is about on the same level as my Russian. It's a step up from my French, but not by much. However, I'm more far more taken with Anya, enticed by her big adorably chubby cheeks and enticingly impish smile, whereas Jenny sports more stereotypical hard, Slavic features, and eyes that whisper "If this party were to somehow devolve into a bleak fight for survival, you will lose to me." My shallowness is mightily satisfied that Jordan takes the interest in Jenny, and that Anya actually seems to find me attractive, if not interesting. It's possible she is nodding along and laughing at my jokes in a "pretending you are invested in a conversation in French spoken by French people" kind of way, but Sister, I invented that game. It don't bother me none: see previous sentence, esp. with regards to "attraction", i.e. hers in this guy (author gestures to himself).

After a spell of walking along the beach, we lose track of Jordan and Jenny, which Anya and I use as a convenient excuse to more or less collapse where we're standing onto the sand and make out. I attempt to use my mastery of the Russian language to sweet talk her (sweet talking being a thing I've seen in films and understand to be what a normal man does in these situations), but the words for "beautiful" and "red" are kind of similar, and I have a tendency to mix them up. In hindsight, I almost certainly said "You are red, you are red" over and over while getting sand in her hair. Regardless, she rolls with it, due either to my amazing Russian skills, politeness, or some very specific Cold War fetish.

Unfortunately, I can't remember how to get back to my guesthouse, and Anya says Jenny has her key. By now I've drank approximately one thousand beers, so you may be less shocked and appalled that my response is to mentally shrug and sort of wonder if we can't just do it in the sand. Turns out, the popular beach is still quite popular at nighttime, and accidental perverts keep walking by with flashlights and gawking. After my mouth has sufficiently filled with sand and I'm spitting out grit, I make up my mind to find the goddamn Bella Guesthouse, I can't actually remember the name of the guesthouse at this point, but I refuse to let that deter me. I do remember Jonah's, the shake shack beyond mortal description, and I know it's somewhere close by.

Through some sort of sexy miracle, and because this island just isn't that big, I succeed in finding Bella. I knock, since Jordan has the key, and I'm answered by him in a towel and Jenny further inside, also in a towel. He looks ashamed, and Jenny looks...like a stoic Russian. Visible emotional range isn't a strong aspect of their culture. Oh I totally forgot to mention! Jordan has a girlfriend. That probably has something to do with the shame. Bummer for him. Jenny gives Anya their room key, and we are on our way to Sexylvania, Population: Hopefully Me and This Girl That Is Real.

We settle in on the bed, and she turns on the TV. Awww yeah. It's some international MTV station, and Lady Gaga plays followed by some Korean music videos. Not ideal, but I'll go with it. It's definitely time for business. I begin kissing her on her lips and face, and she responds in kind. Yeahhh, you know what I'm talking 'bout. Without getting too crass and making this blog unsuitable for younger readers, it's lucky she has condoms, and it turns out language barriers are no match for a girl who knows what she wants, doing it-wise. She is as applaudable as she is terrifying. After a couple of turns at bat that get a little darker than I generally prefer my lovemaking, especially when soundtracked by an unending cacophony of way-too-cheerful K-Pop, I'm spent both physically and emotionally. I stay the night. She hogs the only sheet.

The morning is a little awkward, as I try to be a gentleman and invite Anya to breakfast, but she doesn't understand. She does say she'll be at Bom Bom tonight, so I tell her I'll see her then. Once I exit, I feel like the cock of the damn walk, happier than a poor kid with a Lunchables. As I briefly mentioned before, I had read on an awful travel-themed pick-up artist blog that you are virtually guaranteed to get laid in Boracay, so sleazy credit where sleazy credit is due. I'm sorry my blog doesn't have any international pick-up tips that you might find in someone else's travel guide, but I can guarantee far fewer typos.

After half-strutting, half-staggering back to Bella Casa, I'm a little surprised to find that Jenny is still in the room with Jordan, but she leaves while I shower. Jordan informs me that last night she started giving him a blowjob, but he had her stop when he felt too guilty. He really is a lovely guy. He makes me promise not to tell Ian, which hadn't even occurred to me. At least he's broken up about it, which is why I changed everyone's names, although it occurs to me that anyone looking on this blog for cheating clues now knows as well. My bad.

After his wits have been gathered, Jordan and I walk down to Casa del Sol in D*Mall. Not a small island stretch of tiny family-owned shops like you'd think, but a spotless hive of upper-class stores and restaurants criss-crossed with paved cement streets. Picture lots of old bald men sucking on shrimp tails, forever. I enjoy a big hearty American breakfast that does my stomach no favors. We can't find Ian, so we swim in the ocean for a stretch, because I haven't been sunburnt in awhile and am way past overdue.

When Ian still hasn't shown up, we head to the Astoria ourselves, but he isn't in his room and the desk doesn't know anything. We decide to swim in his hotel's pool while we wait. It's the least we can do.

After a break for lunch at a nearby sigis joint, and Ian still yet to appear, Jordan and I exeunt back to our room and have us a little siesta.

I mostly catch up on TV shows on my netbook waiting for Jordan to wake up, before drifting off myself. When I come to, I snatch my watch from the nightstand, hoping it isn't already past 8. Not quite: according to the watch, 2 in the freaking morning. Whoops.

Jordan's still sleeping, and I feel awful about wasting a night and not seeing anyone, so I decide to go out for some drinks. Maybe the girls will still be around, who knows. I walk the length of the beach while enjoying a few beers, and by the time I've strolled back it's now 4 am and everything is closed. Still, those 6.9% Red Horse beers have already done their job, and during my drunken meandering I'm struck with the bitter realization that my trip is almost over. Despite, well, everything that's happened to me, I would like nothing more than to spend another week or two here and get drunk with nice people and even have uncomfortably violent sex with strangers. Stupid finite amount of money. Stupid good friend getting married. Stupid life!

Once I've got back into town I'm immediately propositioned by a multitudinous horde of ladyboy hustlers, which eases the pain of having to leave somewhat. With nothing else to do and no one but pushy hookers to talk to, I lie by the beach and just listen to music. Turns out mosquitoes don't give two shits about existential crises, and my feet end up covered in angry, whine-silencing bites.

Jordan wakes up shortly after I go to bed, close to 6 am. I sleep for about 4 hours, and when I awake I can't see any of his things, and am forced to assume he simply ditched me in the night. So much for that Aussie hospitality. But wait! He comes back at 10:30, whereupon seeing me still in bed gives ME shit about sleeping too much. He tells me that he and Ian will be at Cafe del Sol in an hour, and if anything goes wrong we can still rendezvous there at 1 pm. Relieved that I'm not completely alone in this world, I shower and get to D*Mall at 11:40. I'm only ten minutes late, but neither Jordan nor Ian are there. Still, we have the rendezvous! I wait until 1:30 pm. They never show.

I read Murakami for awhile in a morose funk, drink more than a few rum and cokes at a happy hour somewhere, and generally wonder how the fuck I'm supposed to feel about Australians now.

Sunset hits while I'm nursing a beer and some Travel Lasagna, which is what I've decided to call the Italian cuisine that is everywhere in Southeast Asia and almost never any good, yet you eat it fortnightly because traveling sometimes demands that lizard brain dopamine injection that Italian food dutifully provides. Sunsets here will seriously put a damper on any attempts to feel sorry for yourself. I mean for fuck's sake, I just got laid and here I am pouting like a dummy. Time to go be a dude that is fun-lovin' rather than mope-lovin' again.

On my nighttime stroll back through town, I'm joined by a couple of local coquettes who I assume to be on the clock, as it were. Lucky for them, I popped a couple Xanax with my drinks so I'm feeling loosey-goosey, and much more amenable to answering their questions and participating in this little farce. Yes, I'm American, thank you for thinking that I am a Handsome Man, however I must inform you that I am also a Poor Man, with nary a cent of your land's currency to my name. To which one of the girls curiously replies that it'll be free, whatever "it" is. Interesting.

I say I don't believe her; she insists Really, free. She isn't offended that I brought up money, and I'm pretty sure I didn't misread the situation because what the hell else could this be, so I have to ask..."Why?" After all, I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy. She says that she had an American boyfriend once, and she likes me. She's known me for a couple of minutes now, so it's very possible. Damn my animal charisma. She hands me her cell phone as some sort of collateral, which you don't tend to hear about in love at first sight-type situations. I feel like even with her friend playing backup, she should be more wary of me; after all, prostitutes are like beads- you have to string them along if you want to make jewelry out of their bodies.

Still curious about exactly what the fuck is going on, I follow her down an alley, the other girl behind me. I am getting increasingly ready to fight off a pack of Filipino thieves should they emerge from the darkness, but instead our fearless leader stops to have a conversation with her friend in Tagalog, probably about just how hard it is to get laid these days; you can't even give your pink pita pocket (TM) away to some assholes. Hell, you even give them your cell phone and they still don't trust you!

Her friend breaks off from their huddle to report to me that my paramour's place is very far, but we can get a room at the hotel in this alley. I had previously told them I didn't have a room of my own, which could be why that option isn't brought up. Damn my keen survival instincts. Sensing my hesitation, my would-be lover starts kissing and licking my neck, while I stand there kind of awkwardly and wonder about the possibility of neck-transmitted STDs. Sorry lady, I'm not falling for your game, if indeed there is one oh god I hope I'm not being dumb. I try to leave the alley, but she won't let go of my hand, so I'm forced to drag her behind me like a sexy anchor. I knew it! These two had some friends waiting in that hotel and they were totally going to rob me or worse!

Then I realize that I still have her phone, and that's probably why she's latched on, and instantly feel bad about the whole thing. I sheepishly hand it back, and book it out of there back to Bom Bom and comfortable familiarity.

After watching for a bit and remembering that I still hate tourist-pandering cover bands, I move on, and almost immediately run into the Russians. I apologize for not seeing them last night, but Anya doesn't understand and Jenny doesn't care. The atmosphere has definitely cooled since our separate nights of passion and light adultery.

They're heading back to Bom Bom, and since I don't have any better ideas I figure fuck it, I can suffer through Bob Marley covers for at least a few minutes. The band actually recognizes me and invites me on stage again for a song. I struggle unpracticed through a couple acoustic guitar covers which seem to impress the girls. Once the band's wrapped up, the bassist (who I immediately assume is cool because he plays Mario riffs when bored) suggests we all go somewhere. By now I've had a few more drinks plus a couple Jager bombs with the girls, but I'm not feeling too drunk. That lasagna might have had supernatural properties. Unfortunately, feeling far more sober than everyone else is putting me off my rhythm, or rather confronting me with the fact that I've never had rhythm, and am stepping unrhythmically further away from ever having it.

We go to a club and dance, but the bassist is somehow making a play for both girls, until he's joined by a friend who immediately zeroes in on Anya. Even worse, she's either into him, or beyond the point of discrimination. I've never been the aggressive "that's my woman!" type, so I switch gears and dance for a bit with Jenny. Anya keeps disappearing for reasons which would probably hurt my ego were I to dwell on them too much, and now this damn bassist has cut in between Jenny and me and jumps right into a well-rehearsed move routine. I thought you were cool, man. Mario would never do this to Luigi. He does this oh-so-annoying bit where he takes a looong drag of her cigarette and kisses her, which come to think of it might not be a "bit" so much as just having the confidence of a semi-professional musician and choosing to kiss her. I hate him, and am starting to hate the whole concept of sex and courtship. Still, it's my last night, I'm alone, and I've got nothing else to do. It probably wouldn't hurt for me to practice a little of my own confidence, and roll with some competition. I promise myself that good or bad, I'm going to see this through. I'm really gonna give this pick-up thing a shot.

Jenny starts to legitimately worry about Anya's absence, until we finally find her down at the beach. Elated, Jenny suggests we go swimming, so the five of us strip down to our underwear, leave our shit on the beach, and run into the surf. The water is full of phosphorescence, even more luminous than Maya Bay. The bassist's friend takes off, which provides the bassist himself the opportunity to start intertwining with Anya further out under the waves. Urgh. Still, that leaves me and Jenny by ourselves, floating in this balmy, magically lit current. I probably won't get a better chance than this to try my luck. Seizing the moment, I lean in for the kiss. Round One, FIGHT.

And...Cheek block! FATALITY.

Maybe she didn't notice I was making a move? And turning her head at just the right time was an accident? And then she didn't say or do anything afterwards because despite her white-hot lust, society won't let her express her sexuality? Clearly drunker than I know, I remain embarrassingly optimistic as we get out of the water and march on together to another bar. Anya continues to make out with the bassist, which doesn't make me feel great and inspires unkind thoughts, but then some of us were being lampreyed by a maybe-hooker just a couple hours ago. Stones and glass houses. A pretty Filipina smiles at me from across the bar, but I abstain from changing my course. I told myself I was going to see this thing through, and I am a man of conviction, even when it's for a wrongheaded, inconsequential drunken idea I only shared with myself. Perhaps even moreso in that case. Of course I'm making a mistake, but that seems to be my pick-up style: Foolish and riddled with catastrophe.

As the bar closes Anya leaves with the bassist as was written, while Jenny and I find a spot further down the beach to watch a disappointing, cloudy sunrise. Still, a sunrise is a sunrise, right? After some gentle conversation, I try to kiss her one last time. Once again I receive The Cheek. "Just friends," she says, turning away.

I ask why. She replies, "Because you fuck my friend." Well, I had to ask. I sit there in silence on my cold rock, feeling more uncomfortable than when the tip of your manhood brushes the inside of a toilet bowl. I succeeded in following the night through, and this seems about right for what I could expect. She's right. I fucked her friend, and consequently became insane with power, such that I delusionally thought finishing out the pair would be smooth sailing.

Perhaps to lighten the mood, she starts going on about how she doesn't "normally act like this", and "what happens on vacation stays on vacation"; a sentiment which my typing now seems to heavily disagree with. You might think this would be the time to throw in the towel and call it a night, or hours and hours ago when common sense dictated. Instead, instead!, glutton for punishment that I am and still drunk, I try my luck one last time with a few compliments, and the admission that I'm leaving today, so you know, last chance and all. Though it must have taken stupendous willpower, she remains unfazed and uninterested. Yeah, I don't think I would've convinced me, either.

I walk her back to her place, where we hug goodbye. Once safely in bed at Bella Casa, I treat myself to a moment of reflection. Tonight was not a good look for me, and should time travel become an option I would elect to not repeat it. Once you've tested the waters and found them cold, stop testing the goddamn waters. Especially don't then keep coming on to the waters like the world's saddest sack, unless you're going to write about it later for some weird form of catharsis. End of reflection.