Prologue: A Little Hydrogen Peroxide Fixes Everything

Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Sep 26, 2006

I’m going where the sun keeps shining
Through the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes
Banking off of the Northeast winds
Sailing on a summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone

-Harry Nilsson, “Everybody’s Talkin’”

“Are you excited about our trip?” my girl asks.

I pause over my unfolded underwear to ponder the question. I haven’t felt even remotely sexy in weeks. I’ve begun to feel alienated from my body—doubly so from other people’s bodies—and, ironically enough, I, Lex Konrad, have little desire to be naked. “I guess so,” I tell her. “Mexico is always relaxing.”

We’ve skipped tonight’s swinger party (well, it wasn’t officially a swinger party, the young and hip in New York being too self-conscious and calculating to simply describe things as they are) in favor of relaxing before the flight. I’ve decided I lack the patience for downtown Manhattan’s agonistic spectacle: sometimes it feels as if no one gets naked here except to advance an agenda. I’ve long ago burnt out on my own sexual ambition.

***

LaGuardia at 5am. I’m running on no sleep. “My glasses are dirty,” I tell Les, holding the frame and shaking my head.

Overhearing this, a cleaning lady calls us over and sprays my glasses with a mysterious cleaning solution. “A little hydrogen peroxide fixes everyting,” she announces in Jamaican-inflected English. Before we can tear ourselves away the woman launches into a monologue about all the ailments she’s cured with peroxide: sore throats, cuts, broken limbs, gaping chest wounds and so on. Then, nodding at Leslie and leaning in real close, she whispers, “Joo can douche with it.”

Good to know. “Why do people always feel like they can tell us anything?” I ask Leslie later on.

“Probably because we’re the only ones who bother to listen.”

***

The TSA employee at the gate reaches into Leslie’s bag and pulls out a half-empty bottle of KY Silk.

“I told you to check that,” I say.

“But I thought you said we can carry personal lubricant,” Les responds.

“For legitimate medical reasons,” interjects the TSA chick.

“Maybe I have, like, a medical need to get myself off.”

The TSA chick is stifling a laugh now, struggling to maintain that veneer of hardassness that’s so essential to national security. “Were you really planning on using this on the plane, ma’am?”

“I guess not. It’s yours now.”

As we’re waved on toward the jetway I look back at the TSA chick and grin. “Have fun with that.”

***

At 30,000 feet I pop the question again: “Are you gonna get naked?”

Those cute little furrows appear between my fiancée’s brows. “I don’t think so; I just don’t feel sexy right now. Don’t pressure me, okay?”

“Hey, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not exactly sold on the idea myself. Besides, there’ll be nothing but couples at the resort. We’ll just relax for a few days and then get a car and wander around the Yucatan. Just like last time.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

Les and I travel like we party, going wherever the prevailing winds take us. Planning is for boardroom meetings and military expeditions.

***

Cancun. Early afternoon. The forecast called for rain but it seems brighter here than it’s ever been anywhere. The airport is packed with throngs of pudgy American families. “I feel like we’re back in Myrtle Beach,” I tell Les. My single-minded purpose is to hoist an alcoholic beverage to my lips as soon as humanly possible.

We outflank an army of salespeople trying to sell timeshares and whatnot, and then, wilting in the heat, we make our way to a van. As we ride south I relax a bit, comforted by the familiar sight of tattered palm trees and dusty little cafes by the side of the road. “Where y’all headed?” asks the friendly older lady sitting next to me.

“Uh, Desire.”

“Oh, that’s a provocative name. What kind of resort is it?”

I can’t see Leslie in the seat behind me but I know she’s grinning at my predicament. “Yeah Lex. Tell her.”

“A-actually I don’t know too much about it yet,” I stammer, “but I know it’s couples only. Hey Les, why don’t you tell everyone about what happened to your personal lubricant?”

Now I’m the one grinning evilly.

***

As soon as we sit down at the reception desk someone brings us a couple glasses of champagne. Already I feel the stress of the flight—of Nueva York—melting away. In the courtyard, through the sliding glass doors, I spy a few surprisingly attractive couples. Every time the doors open a fresh ocean breeze blows through the lobby, carrying with it the heady promise of fun and sun.

Leslie’s speaking Spanish to the girl behind the desk. This turns me on a little. Les then translates, telling me it’s pimp & ho night at the disco, that we can drink and eat all we want, that the hot tub is open late, and so on. The good news just keeps on coming. By the time she’s done translating we’re beaming at each other.

“Baby,” I tell her, “I think I might like this place.”

More: The Mexico Diaries | Travel | Mexico | Swingers

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