Chapter Two: Fucking Machines (Part Two)

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.

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

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