The F1 Weekend Pt 2

By Saturday, the F1 fever had already died in me. I was no longer thrilled by paddock visits, or nervous about holding an F1 steering wheel. I was instead, contented to sit at a 45 degree tilted angle on the sofa, just so my butt wouldn’t rub together.

Everyone thought it was an injury baked with hilarity and garnished with absurdity, because they could fathom the possibility of having an abrasion between the butt cheeks. And what deflated the credibility of my ludicrous injury, was the fact that I had no idea how I got it.

What I do believe was a culmination of perspiration, boxers, sand, alcohol and lots of dancing. It had to be such, because I swear I do not use sandpaper to wipe my shit.

So it was the morning routine of powdering my ass before I headed to the track. Yes, I might have contributed to the fog situation. And no, it is not fun when powder mixes with perspiration. It felt like having muah chee between your ass.

When the track activities ended, it was off to Zouk for the after party. I was already drained from the day and running on borrow fuel from the 2 cans of Red Bull at the hospitality suites and the lure of Carl Cox. And I needed to ensure that the arrival of the Formula Una girls in their stretch limo went off without a hitch.

And obviously it got almost disastrous because the limo was too big to be allowed entry into the valet lanes and it needed to do a ‘3 point’ turn at the hotel carpark entrance. And let me remind you that this was a stretch limo that you could fit a table tennis table, a jet ski and maybe the whole Olympic pool in there.

It was that huge, it could fit all the 10 girls in there, but it won’t fit a whale. Not that it wasn’t big enough, but fat people really do not deserve to sit in one. They don’t even deserve to get hit by one.

So I stood there watching as it did what seemed like a 24 point turn, to a point that I started making bets with the security guy.

Me: “I say, 5 more turns.”
Guy: “No la, 2 more can already lah.”
Me: “You are one optimistic man. It’s never going to make it.”

The limo took 2 more turns. I obviously know shit about reversing.

When we finally got in, Zouk was so shit house packed that if I stuck my finger in a socket, I would electrocute everyone in the club. It was so hard to just walk anywhere, I would have sliced off my penis just so I wouldn’t have to pee for the night.

The worst thing was that our table was cramped between two other tables and the girls hardly had enough space to sit. Then there was some guy who thrashed talked one of the girls and some guy who nearly got into an argument with me, because he thought I took his table. Then somewhere in the world, 1000 people died from starvation, but I don’t give a shit because all I was concerned about was for the champagne glasses to come.

It all started civilly, with three quarter filled champagne glasses and mandatory toast, one shot vodka and three parts Red Bull and mild cheers. Then somewhere through the 2nd bottle of Dom Perignon, we started drinking off the bottles and licking vodka off our cheeks.

And between all that vile mix of champagne and vodka, I had someone’s tongue in my mouth, then I got pulled out for a smoke, which was really a talk with a moral compass.

P: “Did you just kiss her? She has a boyfriend!”
C: “I know she’s throwing herself at you, but do you have to?!”

At 2 glasses, I’m still open to any moral injection. At 5 glasses, morals are fairytales. At 10 glasses, if you had your tongue in me, I will take you home, even if you are married to my neighbour. At 20 glasses, I will still want to fuck you, but I no longer can. At 30 glasses, I am no longer useful to you. You are better off using my liver to start a campfire.

By the next day, the pain from the abrasion had gone. Except now, the abrasions had dried up and it itched like hell. Not.funny.at.all.

If there was anything that was worse than having your ass raw with abrasions, it was having it itchy. While pain is controllable, itchiness isn’t mind over body. I cannot even resist hitting the snooze button, so obviously I do not have the mental fortitude to survive a butt itch.

I was now faced with a crisis that paled the financial collapse in the US. How was I going to survive the day? Was I going to make short regular bursts to the toilet to relieve the itch? Or should I adopt the one pit stop strategy? Or should I stuff a wet towel in there? Will powder still work? Maybe if I did it discreetly? Then I solved it,

Butt-clenching.

All I needed was to clench my asses tightly together and I could negate a good part of my need to scratch. If you only knew how many butt clenches I did, you will give me an aerobic show to host, and tell Richards Simmons to fuck off. I did so many, I could feel the toning of my ass and I became so good at it, I might be able to crack a walnut with it now.

It was horrible. If God didn’t hook me up with so many women over the weekend, I would have thought he hated me.

Fatigue had finally caught up to me and I surrendered eventually. And this was right in the middle of the actual race where everyone was standing and cheering. Yet, I managed to doze off. I am truly remarkable.

The only noteworthy of the race from where I was, was this group of Ferrari supporters who had banners and flags, and they were boisterous from the get go because Massa had pole. When the pit stop ass fucked him and dropped him to the back, they shouted a lot less. And when Raikkonen crashed, they started rolling up their flags.

By the time it came to the post race party, I was at a point where I was almost capable of saying stupid things like, ‘I’m not going to party for a week’. I was tired, my ass still periodically itched, but I still wanted to drink. It was then that I realized, I am truly incorrigible.

All that, and I survived F1, with an ass problem.


*I'll post pics on Facebook