Rubies, Emeralds, and Diamonds Oh My! (Part 1)

I love NYC, and I’m a die hard fan. And I’d defend this position to the death, but in the winter my loyalty can be tested.

Knowing winter was almost here, me and my NGBF (Non-Gay Best Friend) decided to book a quick trip to Aruba. We went to a travel agent and told her we just wanted to be warm and drunk. Easy. Simple. Right?

We left out a few important facts, because she booked us at this disgusting hotel. Totally gross. It smelled and looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1975. I knew there was probably gallons of cum on the walls, and when I pulled the blanket off my bed there was hair on it. Potentially pubes.

I immediately checked us out of the hotel and told them it was because of the cum and pubes. Then I called the travel agent. Again the cum and the pubes story. She said she couldn’t do anything. Her boss got on the phone. Again the cum and the pubes story. Most vacations have more cum and pubes action as opposed to talk. This trip sucked so far.

After a ton of phone calls, we were booked into a five star hotel in Aruba, without being charged extra. Things were looking up. Our room wasn’t ready, and it was the middle of the day, so instead of going swimming, we took a cab into town to shop and drink. We needed some stress relief, big time.

Aruba is known for jewelry. So after a few margarita’s, we shopped. We were experiencing drunk vacation shopping therapy. Not good. And once we started, we couldn’t stop. We bought jewelry almost every day. Needless to say, it was a little addictive.

At this time me and my NGBF didn’t make much money. She had just changed careers, and I was at yet another sales job. We probably couldn’t really afford Aruba, which is why we ended up at the 1975 Cum Pubic Hair Hotel. We definitely couldn’t afford the jewelry we bought, but we thought it’d stop in Aruba. You know, as we were flying back wearing 14 bracelets, 4 rings and 10 chains, looking like a couple of ‘80s Guidettes, we figured we had enough new jewelry. But once back in NYC, we realized Aruba had kicked off a jewelry shopping spree unlike any other.

I’d be walking down the street to pick up my dry cleaning and instead buy a diamond bracelet. My NGBF would be in the middle of work, just running out to grab a salad, and then she’d come back to the office with a diamond watch. The flood gates were open. We were out of control. We needed to be stopped. Something. Anything. We were buying jewelry as often as we peed, and something had to give.

And then it happened. I saw THE RING. And the sparkle was amazing. You see, that’s what this was all about. I love the sparkle. I’ve always loved the sparkle, and once I started buying the sparkle, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to be covered in sparkle. The more the better. You know that woman that wears her entire jewelry box every day? I aspired to own her collection. Demented, I know.

Some sparkle over on Fifth Avenue was calling my name, and it was about time I made a purchase. I called my NGBF and she sped over.

TO BE CONTINUED...