What Happens In Mexico

A/N: Hey - look who's back. Back again. Wait - sorry - musical moment. Anyway, to those of you who are anxiously awaiting another chapter in Stripped, I promise it's coming. I'm not sure when, because I'm having a pretty hard time with it right now, but I haven't given up. Never fear - I'll do my best to get it up and moving again shortly. In the meantime, I've got a couple fluffy ficlets for you. This one and a couple others that have been flowing through my mind as of late. I hope you enjoy them, and find them a fitting substitute.

I wrote this story in response to a challenge at Britney's site - Double Reality. If you've never been there, and you want to read some seriously great fiction, check it out. I know she'd love it, and I think it'd be pretty cool, too.

So, without further ado - I don't own any of the divas or wrestlers mentioned herein. That has not changed over the last few weeks. Enjoy!

Let me take you back to the start of the Week from Hell and try to set the stage for what would eventually become my greatest "indiscretion." Life as a WWE diva is hectic, to say the least, especially in February and March. From the moment the Royal Rumble ends, we are on the Road to Wrestlemania, and our flawless faces are trekkin' all over the country for appearances and promotions. So, it has become our tradition to travel, as a group, to Cancun the week before the Rumble, just to relax and gear up for the madness that will consume us for the next eight to ten weeks.

Now, for the last three years, Molly Holly has always been in charge of the flight plans and the hotel arrangements. But, due to some, er, creative differences, Molly is no longer a diva. So this year's itinerary fell into the capable hands of Stacy Keibler. Stacy, God love her, is one of the sweetest girls I know. She also couldn't find her ass with a flashlight and both hands. I'm really trying to be nice, because I love all the other girls like they were my own sisters, but spending nearly thirteen hours in the air makes my disposition a little less than pleasant. We left LAX at 6:00 in the morning and, for reasons known only to Stacy, flew to Portland, Oregon. From Portland, we boarded our first puddle jumper for a second connecting flight to Des Moines, Iowa. Now, I'm not geography scholar, but by that time, I was pretty sure we were headed in the wrong direction.

We connected again in Denver, and then Austin. Trust me on this, I don't know the first thing about flying a plane. I couldn't do it, even if my life depended on it. So certified, licensed pilots are probably the last people I should be criticizing. However, the fact that only a couple girls landed in Cancun without a full "air sickness bag," should tell you something about the guys behind the wheel. Or the joystick, or whatever they use to fly those things. The point is, we performed maneuvers in those little planes that I don't even think the Blue Angels would have attempted. And I pray that you don't know how long it takes to get imitation macaroni and cheese out of your hair, but thanks to our Voyage Across America, Melina would be happy to tell give you a full explanation the exact process.

Though you might not know it from the character I play on television, I am a fairly optimistic person. I mean, I didn't earn the nickname "Sunshine Stratus" by lookin' on the half-empty side of life. So by the time the bus dropped us off in front of our hotel for the week, I was doing my damnedest to convince the others that the trip down was just a minor setback, and that this was definitely going to be the best week EVER. And then I got out of the van.

You all know Maria, right? Cute little thing with big eyes and an, um, naive spirit? Well, when Stacy told me she was stressing over making all of our travel plans, and I suggested that she have someone help her, the RAW reporter was not who I had in mind. I mean, she's funny as hell and I love having her around. But let's face it, kids - unless she's wearing yellow, she's not exactly what you could call "bright." Asking the girl who doesn't know the difference between "masterpiece" and "masturbate" to book our hotel was, quite possibly, the dumbest thing Stacy has ever done - this from the girl who trusted Randy Orton.

So, Maria "I-thought-"hostel"-was-"Mexicoan"-for-"hotel" Kallenis proudly booked us a room for the week, which we would have shared with about ten other travelers, all under the age of twenty-one. I'm not a high-maintenance chick, I swear to God I'm not. I'm a diva in the WWE sense, not otherwise. I don't need a suite with a jacuzzi, a balcony, a kitchenette, and a spectacular view to be happy. I only ask that my bed not look like the former site of some cheap-ass amateur porn shoot, and that my shower be a single. I'm fine with strutting around in a bathing suit for a photo shoot - but showering with a strange boys who ogle me like their wet dream come true is not my idea of "fun in the sun."

By the time we found an affordable hotel with vacancies, we were thirteen women sharing three rooms. You don't have to be a math major to know that those are not comfortable odds. Melina, Torrie, Candace, and Jillian heaved more luggage than I have ever owned in my life into one room. And ya know, as a side note, I really don't get that. I mean, I never saw any of them wear more than what appeared to be a handkerchief the entire week. Hmm, anyway. Maria, Stacy, Christy, Ashley, and Sharmell offered to be the group of five, since two of them had fucked us into this position in the first place.

I can honestly say that I was not disappointed with the idea of sharing a room with Victoria, Lita, and Lillian. With the exception of Torrie and Stacy, the four of us had been around the track and down the road together longer than any of the others. And since I've shared hotels rooms with all of them, in some combination or another, over the last five years, I was looking forward to my roommates for the week. Until we got settled in.

I don't like to exaggerate - I wouldn't make up a story just to entertain you. So believe me when I say that the minute we chose our beds, three cell phones appeared out of nowhere. Three grown women morphed, literally before my very eyes, into high school drama queens. There were tears and everything, as they each told their boyfriends how much they missed them and how badly they wanted to be home in their arms again. Pardon me, I just swallowed a little throw up.

You're probably thinking I sound a little jealous right now, aren't you? I mean, with everyone else having someone to call and miss like that, and me being the only single girl of the bunch. My break up with John Cena was hard, and my friends know that. But I wouldn't have left him if it wasn't the best thing for both of us. I would be lying if I said that part of my excitement over this weekend was the idea of escaping the relationship drama in favor of hanging with my girls. Of course, I know them better than most people know their own families, and I must have suffered some severe head injury that I don't remember if I really thought they weren't even going to mention the guys for an entire week.

Things did settle down a little bit after that first chaotic day. We all went out for drinks that night, danced in a crazy techno club until three in the morning, and then enjoyed sleeping in until noon the next day. We were thirteen well-rested, sexy young women in Cancun, so you can guess what the agenda for most of our days consisted of, right? We hit the beach with a renewed vigor, determined to make this the best Divas Getaway in history. That lasted all of three hours.

Now, again, I don't want to be rude. But let me ask you this - if you were a fair-skinned beauty who spent the better part of twenty-some-odd years playing in the sun, you would know that burning is a very good possibility, right? Sunscreen would probably be a good idea, huh? Could you, then, explain that to Stacy, Christy, Torrie, and Jillian? Because by the time the sun went down on our first full day in Mexico, they all four had the worst cases of sun poisoning I have ever seen in my life. I guess God must have changed the bulbs right before we ran out into his tanning bed, because they were redder than that awful get-up Kane used to wear in the ring.

So, with four women down, we went about trying to salvage our trip any way we could. But the term "dropping like flies" makes perfect sense to me now, as one-by-one, the girls fell prey to disasters Jerry Bruckheimer couldn't even dream up. On Tuesday night, our room was invaded by what appeared to be a million tiny fire ants. Lita and Lillian spent that night, and most of the next day, in a quaint little hospital after trying to exterminate the critters by stomping on them – barefoot.

Oh, and did you know that Sharmell is allergic to shellfish? It's okay, she didn't either, until Wednesday, when we went to a seafood restaurant and insisted she try the lobster bisque. And just when we thought nothing else could possibly go awry, Ashley and Melina decided to take surf lessons. In their defense, the instructors were super-hot, so I'm not blamin' them for this one. Anyway, what we now called the "jellyfish incident" sent them to the hospital just as Lita and Lillian were coming back to the hotel.

By the time Victoria, Maria, Candace, and I sat down for drinks on Thursday, since we were the only four capable of leaving our hotel rooms, I was pretty convinced that this was, indeed, the worst vacation ever. It even trumped the time eight of us received our monthly visits from Aunt Flow on the day we arrived in the city. Eight bitchy women in four rooms, whining and crying about how bloated we were? That was not fun. And this? It was worse.

"Twenty bucks says you can get that guy to buy you a drink just by lookin' over your shoulder and flippin' your hair," Victoria pointed a hot pink fingernail at me.

I was about to take the bait when my eyes rested on the door of the bar and my lips twitched into a devious smile, seemingly without my permission. "Fifty says it takes you less than a minute to get the guy who just walked in to take you back to his room."

Alright - here's the fuckin' problem with betting when Candace is present. God love her, she can't keep her mouth shut for shit. I could have been fifty dollars richer, because there is no way Victoria would have even thought twice about trying to take a guy home - and then fuckin' Candace whips her fuckin' fake-ass hair around and lets out the biggest fuckin' screech I have ever heard. If you thought Melina had a set of pipes - well, you've never heard Candace when her boyfriend walks into a room. Like nobody in a Mexican bar would notice a 6'4" white man with long, blonde curls if she didn't alert them to Edge's arrival.

By then, Victoria had noticed Christian, right around the same time Maria noticed John. Of course, they weren't alone. They brought just enough friends for everyone. Friends like Randy Orton, Johnny Nitro, Joey Mercury, Matt Hardy, Booker T, Chris Jericho, Dave Batista, Shelton Benjamin, Hunter, and Carlito. Thirteen boys for thirteen girls, and I was not pleased. The others could shove our "Diva Vacation" to the side in favor of sex with muscley men, but it was still a girls' week away, dammit. And I was going to enjoy it, even if I had to do it alone.

Within what seemed like a matter of minutes, the bar cleared out. The three couples took off, and the men who had come specifically to visit their ailing girlfriends weren't far behind. I only hoped those boys had their own rooms. Because the orgies that were about to take place otherwise? Eww. Good luck gettin' rid of that thought - it still creeps up on me sometimes.

Try this - a stiff shot of straight tequila and the beaming smile of Dave Batista. That seemed to work for me, at least that night it did. When he lowered his huge frame into the chair across from mine and slid the shot glass across the weathered, wooden table, I forgot everything. If you thought he looked good in Armani, or in wrestling trunks? Baby, you should see him in khaki cargo shorts and a Washington Nationals tee shirt. And those sunglasses look hot resting on the bridge of his nose, no doubt – but pushed up on top of his head while he reclines in a chair and focuses his eyes on the television above the bar? Can you say "wet"? I can, and I was.

Usually, I am not the girl who has a hard time talking to men. Quite the opposite, actually, in that I find them a lot more interesting than most of the women I know. We can talk sports or business or whatever, and I'm just fine. Dave, however, is not the normal man. And, as his scent drifted through the balmy night, I turned into a blubbering mess.

"So," I tried to think of something to say. The only thought in my head was how come you're here instead of home with your wife? But it didn't seem like the right thing, or the right moment. Instead, I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head. "Were you guys just in the neighborhood or what?" Apparently, thinking on my feet is not what you'd call my "specialty."

With an easy laugh, he slammed back his shot and waited for me to do likewise. What was I going to do? Refuse? Squeezing my eyes shut, I let the smooth liquid burn my throat and then looked back at him, only to find another glass awaiting my immediate attention. Oh, he was good. "Thanks," I smiled, and slammed the second one back.

Now's probably a good time to point out that I had already consumed three beers with the girls, before he and "the fellas" had shown up. So those two shots, and the three that followed, were probably not the smartest drinking moves I've ever made. And I don't know if it was the alcohol, or if he is really the funniest person on the face of the planet, but after an hour, my face hurt from laughing at the stories he was relaying.

By the time he ordered shot number five, I was barely sitting up straight in my chair. I'm a small girl, and as much as I'd like to think I hold my liquor well, I'm not quite a 6'5" hulking monster of a man. "I think you're trying to get me drunk," I accused as I sucked the last of the tequila back and then sat my glass down on the table. I didn't even notice when it tipped on its side and rolled onto the floor, shattering on impact.

For the better part of the evening, he had been leaning back in his chair, enjoying his drinks, and watching me with amusement. His beautiful eyes were twinkling and the mood was light. But in that instant, he leaned forward, smiled a wicked smile, and his dark expression clouded with a lust that turned me to mush. "How else you think I'm gonna get the beautiful Trish Stratus back to my room?"

"Ask," I blurted before I could stop myself. I tried to shrug it off, like I was bein' all cool and collected. But I was fuckin' drunk, and gravity became my worst enemy. Fortunately, he has pretty quick reflexes, and I was saved a gi-normous bruise on my ass when he caught me from falling on the floor. Tucked safely into his arms, I couldn't say much of anything. So instead, I smiled like the drunken idiot that I was at that moment.

He stopped just outside the door of the bar and I could feel his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. "It's beautiful here, isn't it?" I nodded, but only because he was looking at me like he'd just asked a question. To be honest, the words coming out of his mouth weren't making a hell of a lot of sense. "You should see the view from my room."

Ah – lest you should think he meant the ocean, or the mountains, or something equally nature-like, let me be quick to correct you. Because the only view I got that night was his bronzed body hovering over mine, or laid out flat against the stark, white sheets of his bed. I couldn't tell you what the moon looked like glimmering over the ocean. But I would be happy to tell you how that dragon on his back looks glinting under the moisture of my attentive licking. I also don't have a clue what the miles and miles of sandy beaches looked like from his balcony. But I'll be happy to tell you how his face twists into this thing of painful beauty when he's being ridden like a dime-store pony. Are you tingly yet, or should I keep going?

I fell asleep that night – wait. Who the hell am I trying to fool? I passed out that night to the sound of his heart racing and the warm feeling of his hand on my back. It would have been sweet, if we had been two crazy kids on the verge of falling in love.

When I stepped out of the shower the next morning, Dave was on the phone with his wife, laughing about something one of his daughters had done. I wish that I could tell you that it broke my heart, and that I was filled with a million guilty thoughts about fucking someone else's husband. I wish that I could tell you that I got all maudlin, and felt like everything good in my life was coming to an end. I wish I could, but I can't. I'm just not that girl.

I roll with the punches pretty easily, you see. If something bad happens, I may be disappointed, but I don't get distraught. And if I mistake, especially concerning a man, I chalk it up to experience and I move on. Maybe that makes me a bitch, I don't know. Maybe you're sitting there right now, and you're thinking that I'm the worst kind of home wrecker – the kind who just can't feel bad for sleeping with someone else's spouse. Maybe you're right. But I can't seem to muster the tears that everyone seems to be waiting for.

Look, I know how it feels to be cheated on, okay? I know what it feels like to walk in and see my man in someone else's arms. It's not a good feeling, and I don't wish it on anyone. But if you're single and available, I defy you to put yourself in my shoes and change the outcome of the entire situation.

Come on – think about it. Put yourself in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in a towel, watching him. He's naked as the day he was born, covered only by a thin white sheet that does nothing to hide his, um, "little animal." He's smiling warmly at the woman on the other end of the phone, asking her about her plans for the day, but he's raising his eyebrow and looking you over like you're the only thing on his agenda. When he licks his lips and hooks his finger, motioning for you to join him on that bed? Can you shake your head and walk away? Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't even consider moving toward him, throwing that towel off, and sucking him dry while he pledges his love to someone else?

If you can, then you are, far and away, a better woman than I will ever be. Because one look from those deep brown eyes, and I was ready to go again. And again. For the next two days, we didn't leave the hotel room. In the airport, while the others bitched about their awful week, we found a storage closet, and I let my judgment get fucked one last time. It had been a horrible week, the worst vacation of my life. But he had been the silver lining in the storm cloud from hell.

Sometimes, when his wife and kids come to visit him on the road, I feel a little something in my gut. Maybe it's regret, but it's usually gone as soon as they're out of sight. Sometimes, when I see him alone in the halls of the arena or the hotel, I want to talk to him about our weekend of wild abandon. But the words he spoke in that closet, as we dressed to return to our normal lives, keep coming back to me: What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico. I think he's right – at least, I hope he is.

Now, if you'll excuse me – I have some packing to do. I'm meeting Dave in Cabo for the weekend.