In the quaint village of West Dennis, Massachusetts lives a rowdy bunch. The employees of a classy hotel on the waterfront who drink all night and slave all day. Busting ass for the high class to pay for their binge of elixir. I happen to know the heir to this establishment and he invited me down for a couple weeks of beaching and boozing at whats known as the Crowell Hole.
With only 2,500 residents in West Dennis, word of a party house spreads faster than the Clap in Cabo. Consequently the Crowell Hole serves drinks six nights out of the week.
The house was absorbed by the hotel mongers from the Crowell family decades ago. And ever since it has housed the raunchiest employees on Cape. Before it was the set for teenage orgies and similar debauchery it was a home for the mentally retarded. Housing about five actual employees, theres plenty of room for three or four squatters at any given time.
The house was absorbed by the hotel mongers from the Crowell family decades ago. And ever since it has housed the raunchiest employees on Cape. Before it was the set for teenage orgies and similar debauchery it was a home for the mentally retarded. Housing about five actual employees, theres plenty of room for three or four squatters at any given time.
A typical day at the Crowell Hole would consist of the five people who live there going to work, and the three or four squatters going to the beach to booze. I was on beach duty during my stay in Dennis. With about six beers that I had stashed the night before and the paddle ball gear, I'd hit the surf, covered in head to toe in greasy sun tan oil.
The worst part of the day was always the same. Walking through the house the night after a liquor instigated display of shamelessness. The smell violated my nostrils like the Columbians of the Northern coast violate donkeys. (www.vice.com/the-vice-guide-to-sex/asses-of-the-caribbean) It reeks a mix of stale beer, condom wrappers and bong water all wrapped up in a vomit omelet. So I’d just hold my breath and stroll out the front door avoiding the broken glass and thumbtacks that littered the floor. Then the other squatters and I would hop in the 80's era red Volkswagen convertible and cruise down to Mayflower, one of the most relaxing beaches on Cape. At low tide you can walk for half a mile in waist deep, roman bath house temperature water. Which is uncommon in the North Atlantic. The only worries that plague Mayflower are running out of beer and the beach patrol.
After a day of soaking up rays the squatters and I needed a nap before soaking up alcohol all night. I’d wake up around sunset, just in time for the responsible ones to return from slaving. While they all napped I would begin my solo pre-gaming. Before I knew it 10 o’clock would roll around and I’d be on the verge of a blackout. The festivities usually ramped up around 10:30, but the crazies didn’t show up till around midnight. When the moon is at it’s highest and so are the participants of this nightly liquor fueled ritual. And it only goes down hill from there. An average of two holes are punched in the wall every night, for rage or for fun. Gallons of beer are spilled on the floor to quench the carpet’s thirst. If your lucky enough (or unlucky enough in some cases) to find a drunken mate you have a 75 percent chance of getting walked in on by sex starved alcoholics, stark naked and dicks a swinging. Forcefully trying to apply lotion to your tail hole. The night would usually end around sunrise with the true party animals mimicking a drunken goatdance in the living room until they slumped to the beer soaked floor. This viscous cycle will continue till late August when the fun ends and the employees must return to their respective colleges. Where most will do the same thing they did here until next summer. I recommend that anyone who takes pleasure from drunken blasphemy spend a few days relishing in the filth that is the Crowell Hole.
The worst part of the day was always the same. Walking through the house the night after a liquor instigated display of shamelessness. The smell violated my nostrils like the Columbians of the Northern coast violate donkeys. (www.vice.com/the-vice-guide-to-sex/asses-of-the-caribbean) It reeks a mix of stale beer, condom wrappers and bong water all wrapped up in a vomit omelet. So I’d just hold my breath and stroll out the front door avoiding the broken glass and thumbtacks that littered the floor. Then the other squatters and I would hop in the 80's era red Volkswagen convertible and cruise down to Mayflower, one of the most relaxing beaches on Cape. At low tide you can walk for half a mile in waist deep, roman bath house temperature water. Which is uncommon in the North Atlantic. The only worries that plague Mayflower are running out of beer and the beach patrol.
After a day of soaking up rays the squatters and I needed a nap before soaking up alcohol all night. I’d wake up around sunset, just in time for the responsible ones to return from slaving. While they all napped I would begin my solo pre-gaming. Before I knew it 10 o’clock would roll around and I’d be on the verge of a blackout. The festivities usually ramped up around 10:30, but the crazies didn’t show up till around midnight. When the moon is at it’s highest and so are the participants of this nightly liquor fueled ritual. And it only goes down hill from there. An average of two holes are punched in the wall every night, for rage or for fun. Gallons of beer are spilled on the floor to quench the carpet’s thirst. If your lucky enough (or unlucky enough in some cases) to find a drunken mate you have a 75 percent chance of getting walked in on by sex starved alcoholics, stark naked and dicks a swinging. Forcefully trying to apply lotion to your tail hole. The night would usually end around sunrise with the true party animals mimicking a drunken goatdance in the living room until they slumped to the beer soaked floor. This viscous cycle will continue till late August when the fun ends and the employees must return to their respective colleges. Where most will do the same thing they did here until next summer. I recommend that anyone who takes pleasure from drunken blasphemy spend a few days relishing in the filth that is the Crowell Hole.
The night of burning panties
Corndog the hole punching king
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