Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 24, 2006
Swamp monsters
Cold ground was my bed last night
And rock was my pillow too
-Bob Marley & the Wailers, “Talkin’ Blues”
Travel to an exotic locale. Go three days without a decent night’s rest. Drink from morning to noon to night to morning again. Meet interesting people. Fuck the sexy ones. And when you think you’ve had your fill take a solitary walk on the beach at sunrise with music blaring over your headphones. These are the things mystical experiences are made of. I think nothing of wading waist-deep into the ocean with a small fortune worth of electronic equipment. I study a morning bird hovering over the beach in search of prey. I’m entranced at the sight of the gnarled white branches of barren trees—swamp monsters clinging to the world even in death. Walking across the silken sands I’m delighted to find purple flowers at my feet. My head fills with quixotic and contradictory notions: I want to live out the rest of my days on an island off the coast of Madagascar; I want to get lost in a crowd in some strange city; I want to fiddle while Rome burns. At first I don’t even notice the soldiers walking along the beach. The automatic rifles slung over their shoulders are the only reminder that maybe none of this is real.
We’re leaving tomorrow.
Sure.
I mean it this time.
Me too.
I just can’t leave believing this place is perfect.
The mattress sure isn’t perfect: I think I’d be better off sleeping on a concrete slab. I close my eyes and open them two-and-a-half hours later. I toss and turn, trying to force myself to sleep in. No use. My belly is empty and I want to see who might be out by the pool. Morning gives way to afternoon. The day dribbles onward. I’m perched at the jacuzzi’s edge swishing my feet around in little circles while speaking with a couple of early birds, nudists from Godforsaken Place, USA.
“I’ve heard there are wife swappers here,” says the wife, looking shocked.
“I’ve heard people have sex in public too,” adds her husband, looking somewhat less shocked. I’m betting hubby knew the dealio before he signed on for this trip.
I bite my lower lip and grasp my thighs, afraid of letting go lest I erupt into a laughing fit that sends me tumbling into the jacuzzi. Clearing my throat now: “Yeah, I’ve, um, heard those rumors too. Can you believe it?”
Les and I have dinner at the hibachi, after which we join the couples gathering in the courtyard. There’s an edgy vibe to the resort tonight—not as sharp as a razor but certainly sharper than a butter knife. I chalk this up to sleep deprivation and soldier on, falling into a conversation with Karen about travel. “One of the greatest joys in life is exploring new places,” I tell her.
She smiles and winks at me, twirling short blond locks around her index finger. “You explored some new places last night, didn’t you?” We’ve been in an innuendo arms race ever since our beachfront encounter.
“One might say I was in a tight spot last night. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to go around the world in ninety minutes.”
And so on.
The tall, gregarious Russian chick wears glasses and I’m having a hard time figuring out whether I’m attracted to her. It’s an angular trick: at 72 degrees my answer is yes; at 45 degrees my answer is no. Her husband, shorter and more reserved, asks me about Karen.
“Ah, my English rose,” is my answer.
“My English rose—I like zat.”
The disco is less of a draw for us than an obligatory stop on the way to somewhere else. The Bermudan couple—the annoying couple—have Karen and David cornered. I can tell by the body language that they’re submitting our English friends to a high-pressure sales pitch. When Les and I stop by to say hello the Bermudans take up defensive positions. Their awkward kabuki is jarring to me: it’s like living in a commune and waking up one day to discover people believe in private property again. I nudge Les. “They must think we cock-blocked them last night.”
“Haven’t they had a week to work on Karen and David?”
“I think they’re leaving tomorrow. They’re going all out.”
“I hope we never look like that.”
“I don’t think so. You know, it never even occurred to me to quote-unquote go for it. We were just having fun and doing what comes naturally—or doing whomever comes naturally, that is.”
We end up on the opposite side of the room talking to Hop-along and her husband. Hop-along, a sweet young blonde with an hourglass figure, was the runner-up of last Saturday’s striptease contest. She also injured her ankle a couple nights ago and still hops around lamely, hence the nickname that’s caught on around the resort. They’re not here for the extracurriculars but we invite them to the jacuzzi anyway, if only to have people to chat with. Before leaving Les and I pop our heads into the play room. Two couples. Different beds. Girl on top. I am, I realize, completely indifferent to the spectacle of other people fucking.
At night it’s hard to make out who’s who in the jacuzzi, but it appears that Mark and Ellen, the Russian couple and some other mystery couple are enjoying each other’s company immensely. Mark invites us over to the beds but we decline; he’s drunk and I can’t put my finger on it but I have a bad feeling about the situation. He immediately turns his attention to Hop-along and her husband. They both politely wave him off.
Les and I go for a swim in the ocean, gazing upon nature’s planetarium and floating in languid surrender to the cosmos. I open my mouth and words tumble out: “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Ellen sits alone at the bar by the courtyard, her face a mess of tears. The bartender is speaking to her softly in a fruitless attempt to console her. He shrugs when he turns to face us. I scratch my head and put my hand on Leslie’s arm. “I feel like we should say something but I feel weird marching over there with my dick hanging out.”
“I’ll go,” she says.
I speak with the bartender about immigration, all along keeping a watchful eye on the two women and trying to get a read on their body language. The females embrace and then Leslie returns to me with news from the front—namely that Mark and Ellen had a terrible falling out, that it involved a woman, and that Mark’s whereabouts are currently unknown. There’s more, but this is all I care to know. Her spirits lifted somewhat, Ellen wanders over to join us. Feeling less self-conscious about my penis now—after all, what could be more natural than being naked?—I give her a hug. The pretty mom looks up at me and smiles, still teary-eyed. “Everyone thought I was having such a wonderful time,” she laments. “I’m a great actress.”
Shall I offer cold comfort? Do I whisper to her, tenderly, “There, there” like I’m Yossarian and she’s Snowden? Words are useless.
“I’ll probably never see you again but I’ll never forget you guys.” She rests her head upon Leslie’s shoulder. The three of us sit in silence. A while later the lobby doors slide open. People are returning from tonight’s excursion to some big nightclub in Cancun. Among the arriving dignitaries are Frank and Lana, who immediately ask Ellen where her husband is. I take advantage of the awkward moment that ensues to pull Frank aside—our New Yorkah friends are so good natured, however, that soon they manage to coax a smile from Ellen, and then a laugh. They offer to escort Ellen back to her room. “We’ll make sure she gets home safe,” Frank says to me.
This is a place of contradictions: one person cries, another comes. I suppose it’s the machinery of the cosmos keeping everything in balance. It doesn’t surprise me when the English couple stops by for a late night snack, nor does it surprise me when Leslie ends up on the bar having tequila poured down the crack of her ass, giggling as Karen plants her face between those jiggly brown cheeks. Karen climbs up next. Like a good boy doing what he’s told, I taste the stripper’s tequila-soaked cunt, chasing the shot by slobbering chocolate sauce off her delicate tits. When I come up for air I see that several of the resort’s employees have gathered for the show, including, hilariously, a dude in a chef’s hat. Do they have a dispatch center to keep everyone apprised of the kinky goings-on? When the bartender informs us it’s the boys’ turn David and I look at each other and laugh. Surely he jests. But then the friendly fellow smacks the counter and the girls smack our asses.
If you can imagine dipping your balls in liquid nitrogen and then holding them over an open flame, you’ll have a pretty good idea of how it feels to have them doused in 80-proof liquor. The perverse thing is that it feels kind of good once the burning sensation dies down, especially when two girls are slurping away like they’re trying to suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.
The small crowd of gawking men is a bit much, even for us, the self-appointed sluts of the resort. We escape to the beach, then to the relative safety of our respective hotel rooms.
I’m on our balcony again, peering into the dark Yucatan frontier. Leslie saunters out of the room and lights a post-orgasm cigarette. “I guess I should be grateful,” I say, scratching my neck.
“Why?”
“Because I got what I wanted. Now I know this place isn’t perfect.”
“Maybe we knew that already but we were too busy to look for imperfections. This trip has been intense for me and it’s just now starting to sink in.”
“There’s a lot on the line here… emotionally… for everyone. How can you not be affected by it? This morning—on the beach—it was like I was in another world.”
“Yeah. Every time I take a nap I dream about everything we’ve done. Someone told me today—I can’t remember who it was—she told me this place can consume you if you’re not careful.”
“Welcome to the Hotel California.”
“Such a lovely place…”
“But still. That world beyond the gates—all those people stabbing each other in the back over the table scraps of the American dream. The real depravity is out there. It’s purgatory. It’s God’s waiting room. Who wants to go back to that?”
“So we’re staying another night?”
“One last night.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it this time.”
“Me too.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 18, 2006
Les and I amble to the disco’s bar with that relaxed gait people only seem to have after getting thoroughly laid. Leslie’s magnificent hips sway even more that usual; with me it’s all ‘howdy pardner’ and imaginary six-shooters. I order a drink and then, pivoting against the bar, I catch an eyeful of the English girl’s backside. Her white dress, designed for either a midget or a toddler, exposes a blinding three-quarter moon. I cannot help but point. “Hey Les,” I stage whisper, “it’s the girl with the ass.”
Leslie pushes past me and moments later the women are locked in each other’s arms. I sidle up to them and take the English girl’s hand, kissing her dainty fingers while maintaining eye contact. “I never caught your name, dear.”
“I’m Karen.” She nods toward the friendly looking young man standing nearby. “And he’s David”
David looks at me and shrugs. It’s the gesture of a man who’s hopelessly in love with a sexually adventurous woman—and it’s a gesture I know all too well. He and I laugh and fall into an easy rapport. I’m surprised to learn he’s two years older than I am.
The two Bermudans, who have been speaking with our new friends, are now standing around with their proverbial dicks in their hands. They soon drift away and I decide it’s just as well: I’ve begun to get the feeling they’re competing with us and I’d just as soon leave that shit back in New York where it belongs. The thumping music is beginning to annoy me. “Shall we blow this joint and have a seat downstairs?”
No one objects. Shortly thereafter the four of us lie ensconced upon the couches directly opposite the sliding glass doors to the lobby. Leslie and Karen lock lips while David holds forth on the varieties and vicissitudes of dogging, the swinging phenomenon that’s swept the UK in recent years. “Ever heard of it?” he asks me.
“Sure. But, um, you just go to a car park and watch other people doing it?”
“Some people take it farther than that. They’ll be doin’ it in their car, yeah? And some bloke’ll come up and stick his cock through the open window.”
“Like this?” I stand up and walk over to Les, whipping my cock out. Leslie laffs and takes me into her yap. Karen watches and purrs.
“Yeah Lex,” says David, “like that.”
I’m hot in my shoes and socks and pants so I tell everyone I’m leaving to “change into something more comfortable.” In the room I remove everything below the waist and pull on my grey thong. I unbutton my white dress shirt but decide to leave it on. It turns out to be a smooth move. When I return the petite blonde is all smiles. “Oh that’s hot Lex!” she says, lightly raking her fingertips over my banana holster.
The Texas couple comes by and sits with us. He’s a ruggedly handsome older gentleman who speaks in a pleasing baritone and looks as if he ought to be out raising money for the Republicans. She’s a tall, striking redhead who has a small chain running from her clitoris to her navel (sadly, her body jewelry is hidden away now beneath a cocktail dress). A former stripper and dominatrix, the redhead radiates a devastating confidence. The six of us shoot the shit for awhile but it’s understood that Les and I will be pairing off with the English couple—in paradise I’ve gained a newfound appreciation for how much can be said without saying anything.
When the Texas twosome bid us good night Leslie and Karen remove their clothes and jump into a torrid soixante-neuf, my fiancée assuming the dominant position. The girls’ contrasting skin tones are lovely in the muted light of the courtyard. The little couch is ill-suited to the task yet somehow this only makes the whole scenario seem naughtier to me. David, who’s more thoughtful than I, proposes a change of venue.
The nymphs disentangle. Karen lights a fag, lifting it to her lips, taking a puff and then exhaling pensively. “I think the men should decide where we go next, right Leslie?”
“Right,” Les responds, nuzzling up to Karen and smiling at me.
“Shall we go to the beach, then?” suggests David.
I nod enthusiastically, taking Karen’s hand. “Sounds good to me. Haven’t done it there yet.”
I stop by the bar and order everyone a round of drinks for the road, then walk by the bed we were on just a couple hours ago, finding a narrow stone path and pressing forward into the darkness toward the palapa beds that line the beachfront. My shirt becomes a sail billowing in the refreshing sea breeze. The sky is messy with stars and even the faintest of the constellations are plainly visible. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more comfortable in my own skin.
There’s enough light here for me to see what I’m doing, but to anyone walking along the beach the four of us are probably just a single writhing mass. The English stripper lies upon the mattress with her legs apart and when I kneel before her my knees sink into the cool sand. Her skin smells of baby powder. When I pitch forward between her thighs I learn the observation I made at the striptease contest was right on: Karen’s pretty, fleshy cunt is indeed made of sunshine and rainbows. “I want to lick you everywhere,” I growl.
“I want to be licked everywhere,” she responds.
I clamber atop the mattress and straddle Karen’s face, the thing between my legs twitching above her smiling mouth. I shudder when she extends her tongue, teasing me a bit before finally engulfing me. I dive between her legs once more; this time, however, I suck at her pink folds and then employ my tongue as a dildo. Her gentle hands caress my ass and balls and I close my eyes, trying to empty my mind. When I finally snap out of my dissociative state I have to tear myself away from Karen’s creamy center, rising from the mattress and popping the question: “Shall I get the condoms?”
David’s cock exits Leslie’s mouth with a wet pop. “Why not?” she says cheerily.
I’m sure no one’s ever run so fast with a hardon. When I get back to the room, breathless, I realize I have no idea where I stowed the rubbers, so I begin to ransack the place in a blind panic. Normal people call upon divine assistance when, for example, their lives are in jeopardy, but not me: the few times I’ve thought it might be lights out for me I’ve faced the possibility of my impending death with equanimity. This, however, is serious business. I’m yelling now as my panic escalates: “Oh. Fuck. OH! FUCK! WHERE ARE THE FUCKING CONDOMS? OH GOD JUST LEMME FIND THE CONDOMS I’LL NEVER ASK YOU FOR ANYTHING EVER AGAIN EXCEPT FOR MAYBE WORLD PEACE I FUCKIN’ PINKIE SWEAR!” Anyone overhearing this must think I’ve gone quite mad.
Just as I’m about to run door-to-door asking for condoms—and I’d do it too, for there is no such thing as shame in the Garden of Eden—I remember to check my trouser pockets. Of course the rubbers are in there, waiting for me (dare I say mocking me?). I grab ‘em and rush back to the beach, laughing at my folly. Little blonde Karen greets me with a hungry look in her eyes. I toss a couple condoms in Leslie and David’s direction while Karen fluffs me, looking into my face and grinning like a good porn star. I absentmindedly brush some hair away from her temple. “Just in case it’s not already obvious,” I whisper, “I’m having a great time with you.”
Karen pushes me to the mattress and forces her tongue into my mouth as I roll the latex over my erection. “I can’t wait to have you inside me,” she says. I rise and stand beside the palapa bed, my toes dug into the sand for leverage, and lay the girl upon her back with her knees up by her shoulders. Her pristine, shaven little cunt is so tight that I have to pull out for a moment and slather her with saliva before sliding into her again. She won’t stop beaming at me. I kiss the soles of her small feet, one by one, and she giggles. I flip Karen over and have a go at her from behind. I stroke her back. I grasp her beautiful ass cheeks. I reach around and cup her breasts. I uncouple now and then to reprise the tongue fucking. “How are you doing?” I ask her.
“How do you think I’m doing?”
“Because I could probably do this all night.”
“You’re not the only one.”
I push deeper into Karen, my left hand pressed against the small of her back, my right smacking her shapely buttocks, leaving behind rosy eruptions where the fingers impact her supple flesh. She blindly reaches for my thighs, pressing my legs against hers, urging me to go deeper, faster, harder. When I steal a glance to my right I notice David propped above Leslie, who’s moaning in her usual cat-like way. I reach out and squeeze my fiancée’s hand.
Karen lies pinned beneath me. She throws her head back over the edge of the mattress and I cup her neck in my palm so she can gaze up at the stars in comfort. The white noise of the surf, the barely spoken oh’s escaping Karen’s mouth, the feel of her porcelain body writhing against mine, the warmth of her insides, the distant sounds of my fiancée’s coupling—these sensations are my universe and for the time being I’ll let myself believe I can be lost in them forever. We change positions when inspiration strikes either one of us, and each time we do so I take a peek at Les and David. An odd question comes to mind: “Do you think I look cool in this shirt?”
Karen looks up at me and laughs as her pussy capitulates to me over and over again. “You’d look cool in anything.”
When I come I’m having her the way I prefer: with her pale ass in the air, bucking against me, her legs quivering and her quim clenching. I call out to my maker (giving thanks for the condoms, perhaps) and rise to my toes, my spine straightening against the inner tide, and only reluctantly do I let out shuddering breaths and settle into the sand again, the last of Karen’s spasms finally pushing me out of her. “Wow,” is all Karen says. Leslie and David, who I now realize finished some minutes ago, have been watching us in silence.
The four of us walk to the water’s edge. Karen holds my waist and asks me whether I know any constellations, so I point toward the night sky and show her the stars that constitute Orion. Down here the dim arc of the hunter’s bow is as clear as a Hubble telescope image.
As I gather my things I notice I’ve lost my spent rubber in the sand. “That’s okay,” Les assures me. “Just leave it for the Mexicans.”
“That was a terrible thing to say,” I respond earnestly, but then the subtext of her joke hits me and I can’t stop laughing.
We bury the night at the courtyard bar, sipping margaritas until the palest light begins to creep in from the East. “I thought you and Leslie were hot,” Karen’s telling me, “but you were always surrounded by people so I just thought—”
“—we had better things to do than talk to you.”
“Right.”
“God, isn’t that funny? After the striptease contest I was thinking the same thing about you.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 14, 2006
The first day of the rest of my life
In my dreams I’m jealous all the time
As I wake I’m going out of my mind
-Moby, “Porcelain”
You don’t get much sleep in paradise and when you do sleep you don’t dream—dreams being the opiate of civilian life. At quarter past ten I reach into the fridge and pull out a beer, walking out to the balcony and plopping down, naked, onto a plastic chair. “Guess we’re staying another night then,” I tell Les when she pokes her head out. A couple years ago they stopped manufacturing the classic Beetles down here; I’m not that excited about driving anymore. There are, of course, other good reasons to stick around.
Leslie and I have come up with nicknames for couples, conversational shorthand that emerged from one too many confusing and disjointed exchanges over the preceding days (Me: “Know what Jack told me the other night?” Les: “Jack who?” Me: “Jack from Jack and Jill.” “Les: Huh?” Me: “The slutty couple.” Les: “Ah.”). Now our dialogue is laced with references to the cool couple, the annoying couple, the crazy couple, and so on. Mother is the necessity of invention.
We have brunch with the hot couple, named so for what I hope are rather obvious reasons. Les tells me the husband, Sean, bears a striking resemblance to the young Mel Gibson, that lover of the Jewish peoples. Sean’s wife, Sandy, has a voluptuous figure that might as well have been carved out of fine marble. They live in Hawaii (what is it about the 50th state, I wonder?) but Sandy hails from Panama. The two Latin beauties chatter in Spanish while Sean and I discuss whatever yearnings brought us to this place. The hot couple is softcore, preferring to watch and be watched. We have a few days to corrupt them.
Over our lazy howls of protest, the entertainment coordinators rope Leslie and me into a game of volleyball in the pool. It’s not so bad though—what with the bouncing breasts—and Frank keeps me entertained with his snide commentary. After much splashing about my team loses, one game to two, Leslie scoring the winning point against us. “You’re not getting any sex tonight!” I yell across the net.
“That’s okay. I’ll just get it from someone else!” comes her immediate reply. Anywhere else this might be considered an idle threat, but not here in Swingeritaville.
On the first night Lafonda taught me everything there is to know about jacuzzi mating rituals. For example, when someone takes a seat next to you it’s never an accident. I’m reclining against the tiling, studying my fiancée’s dimples as she reacts to someone’s funny remark, and when I look the other way I notice a young woman with close-cropped blond hair sitting next to me. She’s close, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. I grin at her and she starts a conversation.
“We’re from England,” she says, her accent crisp and solidly middle class. “And you?”
“New York.”
“Oh really?” Her face brightens as she pivots toward me, her small and pleasingly upright breasts just inches away. Yes, I look at them. No, it’s not a big deal in paradise.
Granted, I’m a little slow from the resort’s non-stop sensory overload but it dawns on me that I’m speaking with the winner of the first night’s striptease contest. I don’t let on that I remember. Before she and her beau exit the tub I promise to say hello later on at the disco.
Another beautiful sunset comes and goes. The jacuzzi’s underwater lights provide the rooftop’s only illumination, and their soft glow, filtered through the churning water, dances over people’s faces. I’ve got a mortal case of dishpan hands; I begin to worry that I’m going to sprout fins and gills. It’s Jose and Crystal’s last night here. “I hope you don’t mind that we were watching you the other night,” Jose’s telling me as the two of us lean against bar stools.
“No way man. I mean, that just comes with the territory.”
“Cause I tried to get Crystal to fool around with me—I didn’t wanna be one of those guys—but she didn’t wanna get naked.”
“Have you two ever—”
“I fucked a girl in front of her. The women in Dubai are crazy. You walk up in the club and they’re like ‘I want some of that right now’.”
“Tell me why I live in New York again?”
Jose laughs.
“Don’t get me wrong—we’ve been involved in some crazy shit—but people there have serious issues when it comes to sex. It’s more about appearing liberated and sex-positive than it is about actually being that way. This place has really opened my eyes.”
Leslie and I go to dinner, just the two of us, and between my expanding gut and the lack of activity I find myself struggling to keep my eyes open. Ordinarily I spend my vacations fantasizing about the next meal, but here food is just fuel for the real action so I tend to plow through dinners as quickly as possible. On our way out we bump into Ellen, the MILF to end all MILFs, and her husband Mark, one of those laid-back dudely dudes. I wrap my arm around Ellen’s small waist. “I wanna get out of these clothes,” I tell her.
“I bet you’ll be naked soon enough.” Ellen bites her lower lip and peers into my eyes. God she’s pretty.
In the courtyard I spy Frank and Lana and chat with them for a bit before heading to the bar. Ellen sidles up to me moments later. “So I heard you have a big cock, Lex.”
I raise an eyebrow; she has my undivided attention now. “Didn’t you see it last night in the jacuzzi?”
“I didn’t get a good look; I think you should let me see it again.” Already she’s reaching for my fly but the girl has such a sweet smile I’m helpless to resist.
“Um, I don’t know. Right at the bar?”
“C’mon dear,” Les chimes in, her hand reaching for Mark’s waistband, “let her have a look.”
Mark and I just look at each other, dumbfounded. Ellen reaches into my underwear and frees my trouser snake, squeezing it and cooing like we’re at a petting zoo. “Oh, that’s very nice.” Then she looks at her husband. “Can I lick it honey?”
Mark nods, grinning from ear to ear.
Ellen drops to her knees, opening her mouth wide and cramming my love pump down her throat until her nose flattens against my abdomen. Her oral technique feels good, certainly, but mostly I’m just staring at the top of Ellen’s blond head in wide-eyed amazement: deepthroating is less about getting a guy off than it is about a woman demonstrating her true passion for cock. This woman should be doing seminars around the country. Leslie, squatting before Mark, has joined the deepthroating fun, brown curls spilling over her shoulders as she gets to work. I hear the Swiss girl’s crazy laugh and when I summon the nerve to look up I notice she’s smiling at me, as are several other people, including the bartender. For an awkward moment I wonder whether Mark and I are expected to high-five like one of those crime-fighting duos from Eighties television. Had we put on a show earlier in the evening we might have attracted quite a crowd but most of the resort’s couples are up in the disco now—ironically enough, hoping to catch a glimpse of something like this.
The beds that line the courtyard are similar to the beds up by the jacuzzi, white and pristine and inviting. We choose a hanging model which proves a bit tricky as a mating platform until you get your sea legs. I strip naked, fulfilling Ellen’s prophecy. As she lies supine upon the mattress, her head dangling over the side so as to service Mark, I dip my tongue into her tender folds. And then I service Leslie, then Ellen, then Leslie again, and so on, smiling every time I switch off. Beyond this I’m aware of nothing but the sea breeze and the muffled thumpity-thump of the music from upstairs.
Les and I are fucking now, Ellen’s head cradled in a protected nook between our torsos. Mark is propped above his wife. The bed is swaying. Ellen beams at me. I reach over and grab one of her full, round breasts, gently tweaking the nipple. We’re all laughing. Everything is so easy here. So warm. So playful. I’m coming endlessly and kissing my fiancée and even then I’m still aroused. I’m a horny sixteen-year-old again and I’m on the ultimate summer vacation.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 10, 2006
She has such an innocent face, the Mexican girl does, her doll-like features framed by a smooth mane of jet-black hair. Somehow this innocence is not marred by the presence of my penis in her mouth. Her hungry slobbering takes me by surprise. It might have something to do with my dawning appreciation that Jasmin is, after all, somebody’s mom. Then again, it might also have something to do with our having exchanged all of three words since we’ve met. Leslie sits nearby, her torso rocking back and forth like a metronome as she treats the husband to her oral affections. I wonder what’s going on in her mind.
During life’s surreal moments I sometimes like to play a little game. I pretend I built a time machine ten years ago and used it to jump into my present skin. Then I ask myself a simple question: Would the man I used to be freak the fuck out? I’ve never come up with a satisfying answer.
Going down on a woman is meditation. I’m between Jasmin’s legs now, kissing her thighs, teasing her, tasting her. I listen for changes in her breathing, wait for her to cry out, to squirm beneath my tongue. I like doing this, which is to say I enjoy the act itself apart from any favors I might receive in return. I rise to my feet. Jasmin fixes her dark eyes upon mine. “Con-dom?” she says. Soon the girls clamber atop the bed in a perpendicular formation, their asses in the air. There’s something familiar about Jasmin’s hips, her waist, the furrow between her buttocks, her supple brown skin. She’s the bizarro Leslie.
I flip Jasmin onto her back and instantly regret changing positions—the added pressure of missionary being too much for my already-full bladder. There’s no faking it. I go soft. When I pull out my playmate looks confused. I run to the bathroom, thoughtfully washing off the latex grease when I’m finished. Standing before Jasmin again, I want to say ‘suck it’ but instead I subtly flick my cock toward her face, upon which she fluffs me as I fiddle with a condom wrapper. We may not be able to communicate in the conventional sense but we’re making do.
“Si. Si.” she sez, breathless, as I take her from behind again, and for a moment it strikes me as absurd that people fuck in different languages. I want to laugh but I’m trying to avoid an international incident.
I press my fingers into her waist and thrust harder. “You like that?”
“Si!”
This goes on for a little while and I start thinking about getting down to the business of having an orgasm. Jasmin’s husband, however, is still relentlessly pumping away behind Leslie like he’s trying to drive in a nail. My fiancée looks me in the eye. She wants to say something. I shrug. Finally she says, “I want you to come over here and fuck me.” I’m happy to ditch the con-dom, to mount my girl and peer into her brown eyes, to prop myself above her and luxuriate in the silky confines of her hot little cunt. We don’t last long. She announces her orgasm and her ecstasy triggers mine.
More fucking machine than man, Jasmin’s husband thrusts into his wife, still trying to pound in that nail. I suppose she’s used to it by now. Against my better judgement, I let him talk me into offering my limp dong to his wife’s mouth. I’m still hypersensitive from coming, and I shudder as she sucks me dry, finally pulling away when I cannot bear any more.
I want a margarita on the rocks with a little salt around the rim.
I want to feel the balmy breeze against my balls again.
I want out.
After what seems like an eternity, Jasmin’s husband finishes with a groan. They want us to hang around. Leslie and I want to bounce: pillow talk is for lazy Sunday mornings with our girlfriends. Before we leave I tell Jasmin she’s a MILF and sit there, chuckling, as Leslie translates this concept into Spanish.
“I feel slutty,” I tell Les as we prance naked toward the courtyard bar, “and I think I like it.”
“They want to drive us to lunch tomorrow.”
“Eh. I don’t think so. Dating is for civilians.”
The bartender knows my drink. When he slides it toward me, smiling, he informs me for the millionth time that Leslie is beautiful. I wrap the striped towel I nicked from the jacuzzi around my shoulders and pitch forward, sucking that sweet-n-sour nectar through the straw. Moments later Jasmin and her hubby join us at the bar. As they yammer away in Spanish with my fiancée I engage other people in conversation.
There’s a Swiss couple at the bar—well, they’re presently residents of Hawaii. I’ve seen them at the disco. She looks like Julia Roberts, tall and lanky and facially distinct. Rumor has it she’s a model. She’s excited to hear about my background: “You speak German? That’s so sexy!” She has this crazy laugh that I’d probably be able to hear from half a mile away.
There’s a doughy guy sitting across from me. He’s loud and uncouth and middle-American. The bartender leans toward me and says the gentleman’s on his fifteenth shot of tequila. “I’m trying to get wasted,” the fat guy sez. It looks to me as if he’s already there.
Ordinarily I’d back away slowly but I feel like I don’t yet know this place. I’m curious about what the experience is like for other people. “Trouble in paradise?”
He explains that he and his wife spent the entire day with another couple only to be passed up for the proverbial bigger better deal. “My wife’s in the room crying. She lost weight and everything—she’s a hunnit-thirdy-five now—an’ it was a big step for her to even come here an’ now the trip’s ruined.” Hell hath no fury like a couple scorned. The Swiss couple offers gentle words of encouragement and then they slip away into the night.
I offer my own words of encouragement, well aware that in his current state they probably won’t make any difference. “You can’t take any of this too seriously. If you’re not having fun then dust yourself off and go do somebody else.”
A naked couple sidles up to the bar and sits nearby. In his glasses he looks like a horny insurance claims adjuster. His wife, a fetching brunette, has perky ski-slope breasts accented with equally perky eraser-tip nipples. I can’t help but take in an eyeful. “Do you think my wife’s are real?” asks the bespectacled man.
“Um…”
He backs away from his stool. “Go ahead and touch ‘em.”
She looks at me and smiles, saying nothing. I creep up to her the way one might approach a machine gun nest or an electrified fence, and then press my palms against her tits, squeezing ever so slightly. “Oh these are wonderful—and definitely real.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the guy’s hand slipping downward below his waistline and I’m thinking, Oh sweet Jesus is this guy really touching himself?
“I like to watch,” he intones.
The fat guy sits there watching us in disbelief. He lurches forward in a drunken stupor and orders his sixteenth tequila. I don’t blame him.
