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I Was There...Being Paris Hilton's Manslave

Here's an unexpected submission. One of the young men selected to carry Paris Hilton during MTV's Cancun Spring Break shitshow emailed his experience and, I must say, it is something else.


Not for the reasons you'd think, though. Yes, this email detailing how much of a "fuckin' beauty" of a Spring Break the "Untameable Beast" had in Cancun in 2005 does have somewhat of an interesting story: a young 19-year-old man plucked from the greasy hordes by MTV production assistants to carry the hotel heiress on a bed into a 50 Cent concert just because "she thought he was hot" could possibly stand on its own. But I'm certain you'll enjoy the Tucker Maxian brahsomeness of how this young strap relayed the events to his friends via email, which he's generously shared with us today. The author admits that it's "absurdly narcissistic" but that he is, in fact, a huge "prick and an asshole" in real life, too. You be the judge.

I've formatted this quasi-"What I've Learned"-style, too, (sorry) but shifted the paragraphs around to better accentuate some of the Beast's more elegant phrases.

As a bright eyed 19-year-old making his spring break debut, this Untameable Beast hailing from New York had little foresight into the booze and broad-laden bender which he was about to embark. Day 1 had passed without any incidents that could be characterized as extraordinary or unusual, especially not in Cancun…especially not during spring break. Suffice to say that the first day/night consisted of a basic, standard regiment of getting drunk off my ass at the beach with my frat buddies which escalated to the level of ripshit blackout at some of the most aggressive clubs in the western hemisphere, while scheming on girls and taking liberties with their navels and Jose Cuervo on top of night club bars. However, on day 2 the tide would turn for this Untameable Beast in the most fortunate, albeit life-shortening, manner which he, nor his buddies could have foreseen.

Upon awakening at 10am in some hole-in-the-wall high-rise on the strip next to Daddy'Opolous, the Untameable Beast decided to commence his morning in Mexico as most others would: inhaling a 2lb burrito in 30 seconds and then banging out 4 consecutive sets of 100 set pushups.


The sculpts were prime and the sun was shining. Today was going to be a good day.

Maybe it was the 4 pack of red bulls I smashed before noon…maybe it was the residual 100grams of Rx study aids in my system from the night before at CoCo Bongo's…maybe it was the burrito that was spiked with some of Mexico's finest imported Bolivian marching fuel which I unknowingly ingested…but regardless I was excited and fired up to seize the day. As I entered the rough surf and rocky shore of Cancun with my "yard" whilst double-fisting "yards" of pina coladas I procured from a shady native at Senor Frog's, I encountered a crushing setback on the trip. Already well on my way to Krunkville, and being that I was more concerned with mainlining these dangerously potent, and possibly toxic, beverages, I was sent flying into a jagged rock and nearly severed and broke my index toe.


Upon medical examination (and by medical examination I mean having my drunk frat brothers stand over me on the beach, laughing at me and pouring Corona on my wound), I realized that no further medical attention was needed other than cracking my toe back into place and wrapping it a strand of 1 of my 20 wife beaters which I brought down with me. I mean, if you thought I was gonna go to a Mexican hospital and get injections with needles that they use on rabid dogs, you had to be outta your fuckin mind.

I anesthetized myself with 3 more yards of booze, which also served as the antibiotics, and returned back to aquabronzing on the finest, though dangerous, beaches on the Yucatan Peninsula. I was down, but certainly not out. But I digress. After recovering from an injury which almost left with the nickname "9-Toed Douchebag" I decided it was a good idea to engulf two more burritos the size of small children at a nearby shop on the strip.


Being the great friends that they are, my frat buddies opted to remain on the beach while courting a pod of beached whales who washed ashore from some Carolina school, while I made the solo mission to said Burrito shop. Along the way, my toe was barely functional and had major balancing issues, compounded by the fact that I had purchased five one-way tickets to boomtown in the form of a half first down's worth of pina coladas.

Regardless, I soldiered on in my mission for burritos, even though it would surely decimate what remaining abdominal definition I had left.


Then it happened. As I was walking by MTV's monstrosity of compound, rivaling the most fortified embassies, I was immediately accosted by several young, gorgeous lass's with MTV credentials plastered all over their t-shirts and hanging by lanyards from their necks.

Due to the fact that all 3 MTV reps had strong-to-quite-strong racks, and the fact that I was rockin' obnoxiously large aviators (aka stunner shades, aka hater blockers, aka the silver bullets) which allowed me to shamelessly peek at said racks without them knowing, I decided to entertain their solicitations. The one with perfect C's, immediately complimented me and sweet-talked me by saying, "Wow you're really hot and you have a great body. What are you doing right now. Do you want to be on MTV?" Despite that I was profusely bleeding from the foot, could barely stand up straight, and looked like I needed to be on Dr. Drew's "Celebrity Rehab" (or at least enrolled in a structured 12-step program).


The Untameable Beast's physique still retained the sculpts he forged from an aggressive 8 week pre-spring break powerlifting regiment and Muscle Milk diet. I responded like any deliriously drunk, arrogant NY asshole would and said I did not want to be stuck in some crowd with hundreds of college kids who screamed in unison whenever MTV gave the signal that they were going live. The young dame with strong cans clarified the situation and said, "No, no — you have it all wrong. Paris Hilton just radio'd down to us from her hidden perch that she wants you to carry her on stage during a 50 Cent and Lloyd Banks concert on TRL. She specifically requested you because she thinks you're hot. Would you really disappoint Paris?" Being that I was in such a hammered and charitable mood, I quickly changed my mind and accepted their offer. I mean, why not?

Because I was the first manslave there, I decided to indulge in a lethal amount of Patron and Corona while mingling with some MTV reps and Corona models who knew instantly that I was a ballaholic. The cast of characters that proceeded into this VIP area epitomized the absurdity and absolute shitstorm that is Cancun. Paris' #2 guy strolled in, a 5"8 brolic dude donning a Denver Nuggets hat and stunner shades equally obnoxious as mine. I knew this kid would make an excellent accomplice in the VIP area.


He immediately rolled up to me and delivered a crushing bro-fist pound that almost sent me flying back over the ropes. Coming in at 6"2 200lb brick, my stature was nothing to scoff at, though this savage clearly had experience barreling over whiteboys like me. In the course of killing half a bottle of Patron and hitting on every piece of ass inside the plush VIP area, this dude showed me his Tennessee football bowl rings and told me about his upcoming tryout with the Detroit Lions next month. My ego swelled, being that I was chosen first over a future NFL player. The next 4 Paris manslaves that came into VIP could be described as Spartan-eque warriors on a year-long steroid binge.

In Cancun, bigger is better and Paris wouldn't have it any other way. As the 5 other manslaves and I commandeered the VIP area's bottles and models, we almost didn't notice Paris Hilton, 50 Cent, Lloyd Banks, Fat Joe, and Nick Canon appear in our dojo of destruction. At this point, I had balls of steel and no ability to restrain myself from mingling with celebs even though I was only 19.


Now I had Paris one on one. I introduced myself, lying about my age, net worth, and hotel accommodations with every breath I could muster. She looked great, wearing trendy white glasses that probably cost more than my car and a revealing yellow sundress that was a cross between rich princess and morally casual elegance. To this day, I still don't remember what I told her about myself but it must have been effective. She laughed and flirted with me and said that I was her first choice for manslave and I said I was honored to be deemed worthy of the heiress. Then we talked about some of the nightclubs in Cancun that she and I had went to and her ridiculous penthouse hotel room she was staying in with her name on it (literally). She told me she was going to "The City" that night. Omitting the fact that I was there under a spring break party package with Student City for fear of being viewed as a peasant, I told her that I was also going to "The City" that night as well and planned on getting a table. She told me that I should stop by her table in VIP for a drink and say hello. "Under one condition," the heiress said, "Don't drop me when you carry me!"

I assured her that she was in good hands and that my pythons could withstand her perfectly proportioned body, as she grabbed and caressed my rippling left bicep for enough time for me to draw wood.


While the wrecked manslaves commenced pushups and bicep curls with t-shirts restrained by spotters (which I did the same,unleashing my inner meathead), the #2 future NFL-er told me that the guys were planning to flip the bed that we were about to carrying her on stage with, by making it look like an accident.. We would have made front page gossip news the following week and this tale would echo for years to come. However, I couldn't let this happen to Paris. She was so nice to me and gave me a sincere invitation to her table at The City nightclub. I couldn't let this happen. The sinister plot was practically set in stone until I reconvened the manslaves. Being the youngest in the crew, I made a plea for Paris' life and began to yell at them saying we'd all be going to a Mexican prison if we did this. The guys finally came around and swore to me that they would not flip her. I caught a lot of shit from them — how I sold out and that she got in my head. Regardless, I made them all give me handshake and promise me not to do that or I would personally kick their ass.

The balls on me! These five dudes could rip me limb from limb, but I guess they saw the passion.


Paris emerged from makeup and got on the bed. Still woozy from the Patron I was barely able to stand up straight. She gave one last "Don't drop me guys!" The guys all smirked and looked at each other which had me worried, but I shot them all a look. Right before we got into our carrying positions, this assclown from Shitbob State U or wherever the fuck he was from tried to cut me and take my spot. An MTV rep quickly swooped in and ushered him back to the back row sayin "No, Paris wants him here, you're back there." Simply put: pwned. She was carried safely to the stage and everything went off without a hitch. The Untamable Beast and the other manslaves got enough publicity through USWeekly, People and MTV without having to jeopardize an heiress's life. Paris, if you're reading this: you're welcome.

Fast forward to the night: after another Student City prison-grade meal, the Untameable Beast and his frat buddies got ready to hit "The City." I didn't play up the fact that Paris had told me to stop by her table because I still didn't know if it was legit or bullshit. I hoped for good karma. After tanking a criminal amount of pharmaceutical drinking vitamins and washing them down with Cuervo, we headed to The City. "The City" was more like a sovereign nation with its own zip code. It was BIG. 8 LEGS-BIG, BITCH!


We set up shop and went to town on a tray (more like a forklift rack) of screwdrivers and whiskey. I don't think I had every sobered up at any point throughout the whole trip, but from today's premature intoxication and blood loss, I was especially blackout on this night.

I immediately commenced a hostile dance floor takeover and initiated a sequence that was repeated every ten minutes: find girl, grind with girl, make out with girl, leave girl. It was dark and Johnnie Walker judgment isn't always reliable when it comes to targeting girls, but I'd say more than half the portfolio of girls that night were cute.


A few hours later, I saw Paris and she was almost as bombed out of her mind as I was. I probably could've said I was the President of Mexico and she would've let me in. But she actually had some faint recollection of me, or perhaps the details I had told her bodyguards, and she waved me in. I couldn't believe it. In the U.S. I wouldn't even be able to legally get into a club like this and in Mexico I'm now VIP status with the Hiltons.

Ahhh to be to be 19 again!

Paris and Nikki are sequestered away surrounded by models and other people trying to act important. I'd say I'm probably the most wasted and youngest person in the section, with Paris coming in at a close second, although Nikki had her shit together somewhat. I quickly notice the abundance of Bolivian marching fuel around the tables and up people's noses in VIP, confirming that this is about as exclusive as it gets in The City. I make myself a cocktail at one of the tables who assume I'm supposed to be there. They don't notice me pouring thousands of dollars worth of liquor.


Ball til I fall right?

I get a little too comfortable and start an aggressive dance party around a group of people, who probably realize how young and drunk I am and start dancing too. Definitely loosened up the VIPs a bit. I must say, I was kind of a hit. No one knew me, but fuck it, it's Cancun. No one really knows anyone.


Paris and her entourage eventually migrate over to our area and join the dance party. I shoot her a Vince Vaughn Wedding Crashers-esque deathray stare and on cue she looks back. I'm grinning ear to ear like a drunken buffoon, but so is she and everyone is getting down. Maybe it was the 200 yr old scotch or $1,000/bottle Cris, but my balls got even bigger as I made my way closer to the heiress. I got her attention and she actually remembered me from earlier that day, although 5 years later I doubt she could even point me out in a lineup. I drunkenly tried to explain that I thwarted a plan by the other manslaves to flip her princess platform. I soon made an aggressive play as the night progressed and saw Paris isolated, alone, just bobbin her head to trendy beats. I said I had to leave, but I leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. As I pulled away, she pulled me back in and initiated an aggressive, 5-10second, dance floor makeout (DFMO). I decided to cash out ahead and leave VIP a winner. I departed VIP never to see Paris ever again.

I somehow found my boys in the 5,000 person madhouse at some ungodly hour where the sun must have been rising outside.


The Untameable Beast told the ones that weren't making out with slam pieces and receiving over-the-pants hand jobs (OTPHJ's) what happened, but it clearly did not register. All I hope is that I got there before the grimy rocker defiled her later that week.

What a great way to kick off Spring Break, a fuckin beauty..

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