The Curse of the Mexican Erection

We were in Ensenada on a tourist trip. I was wearing the first pair of boardshorts I had ever owned, and they were not agreeing with my penis.

As it turned out, my poor spoiled penis had never been in the real world without a pair of boxer briefs to protect it from life’s cruel punishments. I was hot, I was in travel shock, and I was disconcerted. 

When me and Korban left the gang at the taco stand to find a bottle Tequila, I led him through the streets. That was because the front seam of my Hurley boardies were swishing back and forth across the head of my wiener. The problem wasn’t that the swishing was erotic, but that it was fucking chaffing. The once flaccid wang was quickly turning into a mega stark boner. It wanted to escape the prison of the crotch seam. It demanded freedom. 

I aimed strategically at the Mexican citizens who I knew I would never see again in this life and avoided the direction of my colleague with all that I had. An old man gave me a look as if to say “you are scum” and cursed me with his witch eyes. 

Luckily, with some deep breathing, the boner subsided while we were looking at some ponchos and Korban and I found our booze. The trip finished without a single other pitched tent. I never wore the board shorts again.