Chapter Five: Slut Club (Part Two)
I’ve come to treasure the rare moments I get to myself here, away from the hypersocial and hypersexual environs of the pool or the jacuzzi. It’s not that I’m afraid of venturing back out there—actually I’m a hopeless addict—but each day I need to steal away for at least a few minutes, sitting naked on the balcony, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, listening to music and scribbling down notes. I feel as if I’m filing reports from the Interzone.
I felt like covering up this morning so I decided to wear the hat I picked up this summer in Savannah, GA (aka the hottest place on Earth), a hybrid cowboy/safari number with a ventilated mesh. As I comb the manicured grounds in search of my fiancée I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a plate glass window. And I think: Who the fuck is that guy? I feel dangerous. I’m one of those men mothers warn their daughters about.
I find Leslie sitting with the English couple at the jacuzzi’s swim-up bar. David turns to me, grinning. “Leslie tells me you were riding.”
“Uh no, I was writing.”
He’s still grinning. “So whom were you riding?”
“Uh.” I decide to play along. “I had ‘em send a couple hot girls up to my room.”
Karen tells me I look like Indiana Jones and soon we’re engaged in another innuendo arms race. It’s as good a way as any to pass the time. “I think I have a scratch on my arse,” she announces.
“Then stand up and bend over,” I respond. She obliges, giggling as she exposes her full moon. “I gotta get a closer look, dear.” I’m pawing at her now, spreading her cheeks and gently brushing her labia. Everyone on the roof is watching us. I’m not sure why this is all so interesting to other people. Around these parts a grope is just a friendly greeting.
David proposes a toast, raising his fist high and pointing toward the wristband they give you when you go sailing here. All of us are still wearing them. “To Slut Club,” he says.
The rest of us likewise raise our fists. “Hear hear,” I shout. “To Slut Club.” And then I down the rest of my margarita, grimacing at the crabapple bite of the last gulp.
Tonight Leslie and I dine in the white restaurant, where the cuisine is nouveau-whatever and the tables are separated by gauzy curtains and the lights embedded in the walls cycle slowly though the colors of the rainbow. The place looks like it belongs in South Beach, perhaps as the crown jewel of some celebrity chef’s empire. My girl looks stunning in her sheer black nightie and though I may be tired from last night’s shenanigans, I feel satisfied with the world and everything in it.
“Still here, huh?” jokes Frank in the courtyard.
I laugh. “I don’t think we can leave. I’m serious.”
“Admit it, Lex. You only tell the babes you’re leaving tomorrow so you can get into their panties.”
“That might work if they were wearing panties.”
We run into a smiling Ellen and a sober, chastened Mark. Ellen and Leslie embrace, mashing their faces together in a long and lusty kiss. I recall last night’s conversation. Is she being a great actress now?
Karen secures an easy win in the lingerie contest. “You want to fuck her again, don’t you?” asks Leslie as the young stripper saunters off the stage in some impossibly complex one-piece getup.
I search my woman’s face for any subtle hint of jealousy but she appears genuinely curious. “There’s no way we could recreate the other night. I’d rather remember her that way. And I don’t see much reason to go back for seconds here, unless you have some burning desire—”
“Not really.”
Never fuck the same person twice. It’s not that I’ve grown cavalier, it’s just that whatever force compels me to remain here day after day also compels me to seek new experiences. I’ve found strength and freedom in the rules slowly taking shape in my mind, and the more I make them my reality the closer I come to understanding the Tao of Lex: acting without acting; wanting without wanting; accepting what is rather than worrying about what might have been.
The air is still tonight and a little humid for my liking. The layers of clothing I put on (Socks! Shoes! Trousers!) for the nightly disco ritual feel oppressive against my skin. We’re sitting in the courtyard by a fountain shaped like one of those boxes of sake you get in high-end Japanese restaurants. Karen and David are talking. I’m trying to hold my eyes open.
I’ve seen her before, the bouncy, curvaceous Cali girl with the curly blond locks, but, like everyone else, she’s a different person when she’s naked. She takes an empty seat on the couch next to David and he places a hand between her legs like it’s a perfectly natural thing to do. The girl’s husband, a tall, goateed fellow, settles into a chair, fully clothed, cultivating an air of silent mystery. “I’m Tammy and he’s James,” the girl says brightly. “It’s my birthday!”
We fall into easy conversation. Like the Swiss girl, Tammy has a distinctive laugh that’s already burned into my memory. “So why can’t you guys tell me what happened last night?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Because that was our night of shame.”
“There were, wot, six Mexican guys touching me?” sez Karen.
David grins. “They loved you darling, didn’t they?”
“I thought it was amusing last night but in retrospect it was, um, weird. Guys, why didn’t you rescue us?”
“Hey, Lex kept me out of trouble!” Leslie protests.
“I did as soon as I saw what was going on. I would have rescued you too Karen, but I figured that’s his job.” I nod in David’s direction.
“Wha?” David’s frowning now. “Oh, all of you can fucking sod off!”
I lean toward Tammy and stage whisper, “See why we don’t talk about last night?”
Sean and Sandy—the hot couple—stop by on the way back to their suite. They inform us they’ve recently been up in the play room. Tammy asks whether they were with anyone else. “No, just the two of us,” intones Sean.
“That’s boring,” says our laughing, naked companion as soon as the hot couple is out of earshot. Already I find myself warming up to Tammy; I have a strange weakness for people who don’t let decorum get in the way of stating what’s on everybody’s mind anyway.
Karen, however, is not as enamored with our new friends. As she, Leslie and I stand at the bar ordering drinks my English Rose takes this opportunity to express her discontent. “David may like her but her husband is too quiet for me… he’s just sitting there.”
“Whatever floats your boat,” responds my fiancée. “They seem alright to me.”
Karen and David have their wires crossed. This happens to all of us sometimes so I don’t make too much of it, but all the same I’m hoping they’ll work out their issues in private and leave the rest of us to play. This shall not come to pass. A palpable awkwardness settles over the occasion until Tammy and James eventually rise from their seats and mutter something about going to the jacuzzi. Tammy stands before me, smiling. I compliment her on her large, natural breasts and then it occurs to me to ask whether her sweater puppies can hold a pen in place. Leslie lifts Tammy’s left tit, revealing a semicircle of pale skin that hasn’t yet been kissed by the sun, and places a drinking straw underneath. Tammy’s breast bounces back into place. The straw does not budge, even when I tap it with my index finger.
“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask.
“You know what I want.” Tammy bites her lower lip and spins around. I study her ass and hips as she struts away.
Our English friends decide to leave as well. David lets Karen walk a few paces before he turns to me. “No one’s ever fucked her the way you did the other night.”
I stammer: “Is that a—”
“That’s a good thing.”
As with Ryan’s confession during our first night in paradise, the thought that immediately springs to mind is why is he telling me this?
I hoped Les and I might get a moment alone up there, but as we reach the top of the stairs I spy the English couple and our new friends relaxing at the dark end of the jacuzzi. David sits pressed against Tammy while James and Karen keep their distance. If Karen’s blank expression is any indication, David is roller-skating on jagged rocks. Cleverly avoiding potential drama, I throw my head back, the tub’s rising bubbles tickling my cheeks, and I search the ink-black heavens for my constant companion. I can barely hear the conversation but I know my fiancée is laughing about something, and when I fix my eyes upon those perfect dimples of hers I know I want her. Alone.
Our suite is quiet. The bed is soft enough. I drape my body over hers like a blanket. I knot her wet hair in my fist. I grasp her thigh. I whisper into her ear. I have her. I’ve never fucked anyone else the way I’m fucking her tonight. A man may want a million things—he may want to lay every pretty woman he sees—but this is what keeps him coming back.
I find it ironic that my own rules don’t make the slightest allowance for love.
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