Girlfriend, You’ve Got Game

Part Two of my 2008 “Vacation Adventure” with Verna in Cabo San Lucas, where we relaxed and, um, drank the night away one special and wild evening.

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Next Johnny brought up the six or seven men who’d bet on the women and had them sit at tables in front of the ladies. Verna still had no sponsor and didn’t want one.

Johnny paired the final six women into three groups. Verna was in the first duo with a woman who had on a loose-fitting gray tank top, her breasts spilling out the sides.

Each woman had to dance and then the judges chose one from the pair. Verna went second and danced up a sultry, sexy storm. The crowd, led by a certain skinny-framed American, hooted and hollered. When she finished, her face flushed and sweaty, Johnny proudly exclaimed, “Girlfriend, you’ve got game. You can really move.”

Verna was clearly the oldest of the competitors, most of who were in their 20s. Her “partner” had muddled her way through her dance, slightly reminiscent of Elaine on Seinfeld. But the “judges” voted for only one contestant. In an extremely close vote, Verna was booted off the tequila-soaked island, but not before Johnny ordered a round of tequila for our group, because she was such an excellent dancer.

“I lost out because I don’t have any breasts,” Verna said matter-of-factly when she returned to the table.

“You were by far the better dancer,” I said. “I think the judges were going for the slutty look as well. You just aren’t slutty.”

When she saw what the three remaining women had to do, though, she felt a bit better about losing. Each couple had 30 seconds to get into as many sex positions as possible. The last couple, with a guy who had a serious paunch, gyrated and hefted themselves into 11 positions before an adoring crowd and snared the $150, which probably made up for the mild public humiliation.

Before another bar-wide conga line in which everyone gulped a shot of tequila, I paid $10 to be hoisted upside down by my ankles. My reward? Three shots of juice and tequila. I downed one and shared the other two with the sisters.

We took our partying and penchant for zany contests to the sand and surf of Medano Beach the next morning. We walked from our hotel under partly cloudy skies and parked ourselves on the sand chairs outside Billigan’s, located literally on the beach, for a series of alcohol-fueled competitions.

I entered a Karaoke contest without words to sing by. We had to sing along with Los Lobos doing La Bamba. The first entrant, a woman from Mexico City, knew all the words in her native tongue―Spanish. I figured she had it won hands down.

The second contestant never actually sang. She just mouthed the words. The guy before me, another American, was rather boring. I certainly didn’t know all the words but I figured, even though it was only 11:30 in the morning, I could shake and sizzle like Elvis on Ed Sullivan.

The winner was chosen by audience response. I clapped the loudest for the woman from Mexico City. But we’d made friends with a couple from Texas and there were several Americans clustered around them, so when my name was called, the crowd erupted. And I was the winner. The putative favorite, her national pride wounded, audibly complained that the MC had cheated.

A waiter came over and delivered my prize, four frozen margaritas, two of which we shared with the couple from Texas.