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.