The beach

After striking out at the bar, you decide to go to the beach and take in the sights. After waking up the next morning with nothing but a hangover and embarrassed disappointment, you change into your swimsuit and walk to the beach, where you find a beach bar for an eye-opener to help put aside your pounding headache (it's not alcoholism if you're on vacation, right?), and to decide on your next move.

"Look at them out there," your friend Will says, "walking around in their thong bikinis for all the world to see. Do we even need to go and make fools of ourselves?"

"With big tan-lined asses like that," answers Ross, "you can fuck them with your eyes, but I prefer doggystyle."

After some back-and-forth about how to proceed, you decide to work together and find a group of girls who you can join and have some fun with, then hopefully talk back to the apartment. Leaving the bar, you walk out onto the sand, and Ross spies a target: a group of three girls together, laying face-down to sunbathe topless, covered only by the thin triangle of fabric swallowed by their asses.

You walk up to them together, but before anyone can say a word, one of them looks up at the three of you and says in English "what do you want, creeps?"

Unable to respond, you all walk away, trying to avoid a scene. Apparently the cold approach isn't working any better here. You come up with the idea of buying a ball to throw around, giving you an excuse to go and ask for it back after it gets loose.

You leave the others at the beach, leering shamelessly at the beautiful women who keep an increasingly-large distance from them. If they're going to embarrass themselves then maybe it's better to be elsewhere. Not that you plan to be any better, but hopefully a bit more subtle.

Walking back to the street, you eventually find a shop full of beach stuff. You go in and see a neoprene soccer ball sitting on the shelf, which you grab before going to pay. As the salesman sees you walking to the counter, he calls out to you.

"You speak English, yes?" he says. "You should buy a new swimsuit, more Brazilian-style. You look like you're dressed for the south pole!"

You think back to your last encounter and decide that maybe it's better to fit in a bit better, since the tourist look hasn't been working so far. He leads you to the men's section, which is full of very short swimsuits, almost like speedos. It shouldn't be a surprise after seeing the locals at the beach, but the thought of wearing one yourself seems a little scary.

"These will make you look much cooler," the salesman says. "Maybe the girls will like what they see."

This is all the convincing you need, and you take one with a loud zebra-pattern that will hopefully provide a bit of camouflage in case you start to get an erection when you're out there, surrounded by beautiful women without much to cover your junk.

You pay for your purchases, then go into the changing room where you squeeze into the tight scrap of spandex that's barely covering your bulge. You then walk back to the beach in search of your friends.