Chapter Six: Let's All Come (Part Two)
Late afternoon finds us at the pool again with Tammy and James. Two fresh arrivals wade nearby, a young couple, the man olive-skinned and muscular, the woman skinny-assed and blond. The man floats over to us and I wave at him. “Hello there. We’re the official welcoming committee.”
We make introductions. The guy, Tony the Tiger, gestures in Tammy’s direction and asks me, “Is she your girlfriend?”
“She was a couple of hours ago.” I cast a twinkling eye in Tammy’s direction and we both erupt in a fit of laughter. It’s the sort of bawdy joke you can only make in a place where sexual propriety is an alien concept.
My “girlfriend” is popular with the boys, and Tony proves no exception. They circle each other, drawing closer, and yet Tony’s girl, Delilah, looks on with obvious unease. “Do you mind if I kiss him?” Tammy asks her.
“Actually, yes I do.”
“Aw, she’s no fun!” I protest.
Delilah’s eyes are an impossibly deep shade of blue. Only later on, in the jacuzzi, do I realize the impossible coloring of her pupils derives from a set of tinted contact lenses. I tell her I’m good at reading people. “So what was your first impression of me then?” asks the young Texas lawyer.
My grin takes a turn for the wicked. “Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“I thought you were a control freak, and too, uh, precious to really have a good time in a place like this. I’m just guessing here, but that one time you guys soft-swapped with another couple you were too worried about Tony and the other girl to enjoy yourself.”
She smiles coyly and waits for me to continue.
“Deep down you’re a pervert though. And you obviously have a sense of humor. Who knows? A few years from now you’ll probably be wondering why you didn’t dive in sooner.”
As much as I used to enjoy teasing a woman out of her shell, I’ve found that here, in paradise, the notion has lost some of its shine; the babes tend to come around on their own. Sandra certainly has—the Latin beauty sits upon the bar with her legs spread wide as Sean looks on in utter stupefaction. “Okay guys, get in line,” she shouts. “We’re doing body shots!”
“Twist my arm,” I say as the girl pours the first White Russian over her taut abdomen. You’re supposed to start at the navel and then—oops—work your way downward to lap up the overspill. This is the conceit anyway, the misdirection that makes asking for a body shot more polite than simply demanding oral sex. I, however, immediately bury my face between Sandra’s thighs, my tongue and lips mouthing a prayer over her pretty, booze-soaked cunt.
More body shots follow and everything is just, well, groovy until some random fool creeps up next to Leslie and grabs her breast. He gets an earful from me, Les and his own wife, then slinks away, making dagger eyes at us.
“Just let it go,” Sean’s telling me, sounding a familiar refrain. “It’s not worth it.”
“Yeah I know. But idiots like that guy make it impossible for people like us to relax and have a good time.”
Some people mistake our hedonistic doings for a free-for-all, but in our time here we’ve formed a tribe of sorts—not an exclusive clique but an ever-shifting, ever-growing collection of like-minded couples. There’s a certain mutual respect, a certain delicate social code that enables all this free love. The sexual anthropologist in me wonders how it works—how all the females in the group can be available, in some sense, to all the males, and vice versa; how some people assimilate into the tribe so easily while others fall away. The hedonist in me doesn’t really give a damn.
Our tribe goes to dinner—the hot couple, Frank and Lana, Mark and Ellen, Tony and Delilah, the Brits, the Russians—and while I stand in the buffet line, in front of a tray of enormous uncooked sausages, I watch Ellen and then Sandra molest my fiancée. I grab Ellen by the waist and pull her to me. She’s wearing a ridiculously sexy black dress that reveals the side of her torso and her midriff. “It’s too bad you don’t fuck other guys,” I’m telling her. “As talented as you are with your mouth, I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to have my way with you.”
Ellen smiles and forces a torrid kiss upon me.
The disco is lame but I don’t care enough to complain about it—I’ve already had my fun for the day. Les and I retire to the bar in the courtyard and shoot the shit with our favorite bartender. I tell him he’s crazy to want to move to New York, that I’d gladly serve drinks to naked people all day and return to my hovel to write dirty stories. Tammy emerges from the lobby, all by her lonesome self, and walks past the fountains, flopping down onto one of the beds that line the courtyard. We look over in her direction but we don’t make a move. Eventually she joins us at the bar.
“Where’s your man?” I ask her.
“I left him in the room; he’s not feeling well. Why didn’t you guys come over and say hello when I was sitting over there?”
“We thought you wanted to be alone,” says Les.
“It’s my birthday and no one’s paying attention to me,” laments the Cali blonde. I decide Tammy looks cute when she pouts.
I chuckle. “A week in paradise may have affected my memory, but I’m pretty damned sure I gave you a nice birthday present today.”
The girl spends a few minutes with us and then wanders off to check on James, promising to return. After a long while it seems as if she’s not coming back, and so we undertake an expedition to her room. James has retired for the night, but Tammy is happy to join us in the jacuzzi, where we soak and talk about nothing in particular.
“Are you sure you weren’t making fun of what I said this afternoon?” Tammy asks me.
“What? Let’s all come? That one’s going in my memoirs.”
Everyone’s been asking me what I plan to say about them, even the resort staff. With a couple of painfully obvious exceptions, I’ve genuinely liked everyone I’ve met. A trip to paradise is defined not by ancient ruins and breathtaking scenery but by the people one encounters, and I find myself wondering whether I would have enjoyed myself as much had I come a week earlier or a week later. The thought is almost terrifying—what would our time here have been without Frank and Lana, or the newbies from that magical first night, or Ellen, or Tammy, or my English Rose?
An hour passes and Tammy leaves to attend to her husband. Les and I cannot bring ourselves to quit the giant tub—aside from wanting to soak a while longer before bed we’re both interested in seeing who might be out and about at this late hour. We have a collective nose for trouble; it hasn’t led us astray thus far.
The woman sitting quietly at our end of the jacuzzi looks like Anne Hathaway, pretty and dark-haired and mysterious. My eyes settle upon the bubbling waterline and travel upward, drinking her in. Her breasts, large and ski-sloped and proudly erect, threaten to poke my eyes out even at this distance, and when I peer into her eyes she smiles as if to say ‘go ahead and look.’ Her mate, a dark-skinned and bespectacled man, is, by my best guess, Indian. He seems good-natured enough. Glances are stolen yet no one speaks. Feeling the ache of a full bladder, I hoist myself out of the tub and run to the bathroom (it seems redundant to wash your hands when you’re naked and dripping wet, but I perform the ritual anyway). When I return I lock eyes with the lovely young woman and whisper in my fiancée’s ear: “She’s pretty.”
Les breaks the silence and for what seems like the millionth time this week we introduce ourselves to naked people. We learn Anne and Raj are a married couple from Oklahoma (upon hearing this I’m sorely tempted to break out into song). Anne speaks with a twang that’s one part Midwestern and one part Southern. I’m afraid she’s a little daft though—at one point I’m talking about television and she says, “I don’t watch teevee,” and I say, “Oh, you like reading then?” and she sez, “Not really.” Her husband is an engineer of some sort with a penchant for engaging people in silly yet entertaining thought exercises. Naturally, Raj and Anne are newbies. I’m beginning to believe Leslie and I were put on this Earth to introduce people to group sex.
Our new friends depart after a half hour of mildly entertaining conversation. Les and I linger momentarily. “Wanna head to the bar before we turn in?” I ask my girl.
“Sure, why not.” This is becoming Leslie’s favorite phrase.
Much to my surprise, we run into the Oklahomans in the courtyard. Raj tells us they’re staying in one of the Passion Suites, deluxe rooms conveniently equipped with their very own jacuzzis. “Want to have a look?” he offers. “We have a bottle of champagne upstairs.”
Like I said, we have a nose for trouble.
It takes some doing to get the jacuzzi going. Ironically enough, Raj and I, the two technical people in the room, are completely clueless when it comes to operating the tub, and so we lie back and watch the girls contorting their bodies and mashing buttons to get the jets working. Soon the girls are mashing their faces together, then exploring with tongues and hands. Pressed against each other, they look every bit as lovely as I’d imagined they would. The four of us clink glasses and toast to the good life.
Only after I rise from the tub does it dawn on me that I’m drunk and exhausted. Raj corners me, practically begging us to stay and fool around with his wife. The offer is tempting but I’ve reached that admittedly rare point when sleep is more dear to me than sex.
It’s been a long fucking day, after all.
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