Chapter One: Fresh Meat (Part Two)

Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 02, 2006

There are rules, even in paradise. For example, one must dress for dinner. It sounds reasonable enough to me. We’re hedonists, after all, not animals. Leslie and I debrief over ersatz Japanese cuisine. “Are you okay?” I ask. “I mean—with everything?”

When my babe looks at me she charms me all over again with those gorgeous almond eyes. “You’re joking, right? I’ve had more fun in the last five hours than I’ve had all year.”

“I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t the only one who thinks this is the most amazing place ever.”

Les suggests a nap. I’ve been up nearly 36 hours. At this moment sleep doesn’t seem terribly far from death. “If my head hits the pillow now I’m down for the count,” I tell her.

The courtyard outside the lobby is packed with couples gathering for the night’s festivities. Pimp and ho costumes abound. When we run into Frank and Lana—nearly unrecognizable sans birthday suits—I thank them for their invaluable assistance back at the hot tub. “I love Mexico,” I’m telling Frank. “It’s like nothing here goes on your permanent record. You could probably kill a man and get away with it.”

“And no one owes anyone anything,” adds Lana. I don’t know it yet, but Lana’s just named one of the commandments we’ll come to live by during our time here. “You’re always bouncing into new people,” she continues, “feeding off their energy.”

Our companions from the jacuzzi session arrive in conservative dress. “We’re probably going to bed soon,” explains Lafonda. “We’re leaving tomorrow and Ryan’s worried about work.”

I pull Ryan aside. “You have plenty of time to worry about all that bullshit when you get home. This is your last night in paradise.” As innocent as it all might sound, what I’m really saying is: Stick around because I might want to reacquaint myself with your wife.

Like any good fantasy setting, this place requires a certain suspension of disbelief. If you conveniently forget you once spent a month touring the Far East, you can let yourself believe there’s such a thing as “Oriental” food; if you flip your drug dealer shades over your eyes and squint real hard, you can pretend you’re not standing in a cheesy disco but in Twilo, circa 1999. It helps when there’s an amateur striptease contest to keep your mind off things.

Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hawt like me? The song is either wildly inappropriate or right on the mark. The girlfriends and wives who take the stage, alone or in pairs, are surprisingly attractive, their physiques rivaling anything I’ve seen at Scores or New York Dolls. Perhaps it’s just that the dancers here are suffused with erotic energy, their lovely, kinetic bodies seeming to project a cinematic soft-focus glow. A twenty-four year old stripper from England takes the prize. The mere sight of the dancer’s ample round posterior will probably torment me for years to come. Her pussy is, I’m sure, made of sunshine and rainbows.

“That’s hot.” Leslie speaks as if she’s just awoken from a dream.

“I imagine her dance card is full,” I respond, all wise-eyed like Yoda.

An attractive black couple walks by, the woman tall and big-titted and slender, her hair tucked away under a du-rag. She reminds me of Natalia. When I smile at her I think of what Lana said—how you bounce into new people, feeding off their energy. The night is dripping with possibilities and I’m trembling with lust, unsure of what to do with myself. What’s happening to me?

Ryan and Lafonda return, suitably attired, the bottom of Lafonda’s ass cheeks peeking out below what would be an inappropriately tiny black dress in the civilian world. “I’m glad you convinced me to stay out,” says Ryan. Before long his wife’s buttocks are in my hands and I’m whispering dirty nothings against the nape of her neck.

The play room adjacent to the dance floor is shaped like a slice of orange; it’s cool and bright and well-appointed with fresh sheets and towels. I waste no time stripping Lafonda down to her bare essentials.

And… it’s strange. Usually I’m thinking about how much better it would be if the other guy weren’t around, but not tonight. I want Leslie to feel what I’m feeling; I want her to fully experience someone else. I want the whole goddamned world to drop everything and fuck—and maybe, just maybe, in our collective post-orgasmic haze we’ll finally realize how much of our lives we squander on bullshit. Here in this strange room, in this strange place, I part Lafonda’s legs, admiring her pink center—her glorious cunt—and we touch and tease and play and laugh. I fill her and she grips me. When I flip Lafonda she’s so wet that her glorious little cunt is queefing and this strikes me as funny and hot all at once. She cries out, not because she’s putting on a show but because this shy, curvaceous, corn-fed creature from Arizona cannot help herself. I press a thumb against her asshole. Off in the distance I hear my fiancée’s moans and I smile. People wander into the playroom and I feel utterly relaxed in their presence, thinking idly: Well, I hope they enjoy the show. We’re facing each other now, my partner’s eyes open and intense and searching. Unable to take any more, I spasm inside this beautiful stranger.

“You came?” asks doe-eyed Lafonda.

“Oh baby,” I respond, feeling oddly protective, “I’m not done with you yet.” I want to service her selflessly, endlessly. The greasy latex residue numbs the tip of my tongue but I don’t mind. Lafonda lifts her hips and presses against me. She calls out to her maker and for a brief moment they meet, the girl’s hips crashing down upon the mattress, her hands pushing my face away.

When I turn around, still delirious from our session, I see Ryan poised limply between Leslie’s legs and I think: Oh fuck. Doubly oh fuck, actually, because he’s managed to come without ever getting fully hard. He offers his profound apologies. I tell him not to worry about it—really, what else can I say after I’ve just fucked his wife’s brains out? I feel a painful confession coming on and he says: “We’ve probably only had sex ten times in the last eight years.”

Lafonda casts her eyes downward. “Oh, honey, that’s not true—a-and why did you even have to bring it up?”

I squeeze Leslie’s hand, more grateful for what we have than I’ve ever been, and I fix my gaze upon Ryan’s boyish face. He wants me to say something so I play the sex therapist: “You are married to the most beautiful woman in the world. Take this beautiful woman home and think about everything that’s happened this week and… fuck her silly. Forget about your job, or the laundry, or whatever it is you spend most of your time worrying about and give it to her. Every day. Because she wants you.”

We gather our things and begin to say our goodbyes. “We’ll probably never see you two again,” Lafonda says quietly. These strike me as the saddest words anyone’s ever uttered. It’s terrifying and exhilarating to hear them.

For the second time today Leslie and I visit the jacuzzi, the place now empty save for a handful of resort employees. Leslie speaks Spanish and I lie there soaking, observing her in appreciative silence. “You have no idea how much I love you,” I tell her during a lull in the chatter. The Milky Way lies splashed across night’s canopy like a massive wet spot. When I throw my head back I can see Orion, my constant companion, and then I remember a snippet of that famous Blade Runner monologue: I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe...

Time to sleep.

More: The Mexico Diaries | Travel | Mexico | Cancun | Desire Resort | Swingers | Foursome | Voyeurism

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