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.”