Chapter Seven: A Good Old-Fashioned Cock-Size Contest (Part Two)
The show ends. Leslie takes a firm grasp of my cock and leads me away from the carnage. On the way back to our room we run into the pre-dinner crowd gathering outside the lobby in all their evening finery. Still dazed from our most recent encounter, Les and I drift toward the bar on automagic pilot, and when Les orders our drinks she backs her fine rump against me, rising to her toes and tempting me with easy entry. The Russian girl approaches. I slip an arm around her waist, flirting with her and laughing. I tell her to grab Leslie’s ass. When she complies I carefully ease my way into my fiancée, and as I begin to thrust the Russian girl squeals with delight. Never has the boundary between sex and socializing appeared so irrelevant to me. When there’s no shame, no fear, no jealousy, no biting envy, it only feels natural to share.
Over dinner, as the Mexican hibachi chef flicks shrimps onto my plate, a wonderful idea strikes me: “Let’s throw a party tonight!”
“Yeah, but where?” calls James from the other end of the table.
“The couple we met last night is staying in one of the deluxe suites. They have the whole floor to themselves and the rooms next to theirs are unlocked.”
“Are there mirrors on the ceiling?” interjects a grinning Tammy.
“I don’t recall,” I say, rising from my seat, “but I like how your mind goes there. I’m gonna take care of this now—be right back.”
It doesn’t take me long to find the Oklahomans. “Have you heard? There’s gonna be a VIP party tonight.”
Anne’s pretty face lights up. “Really? Where?” she asks in that charming Southern drawl.
“In your room, of course.”
Raj laffs. “Sounds good to me.”
Let it never be said that Oklahomans don’t know how to party.
Time passes. Les and I find ourselves outdoors again, luxuriating in the balmy caress of another Mexican night while trading sordid tales with Frank and Lana. “You were supposed to leave, what, five days ago?” asks Frank.
“I’m sorry,” I respond, “I’ve lost all sense of time. What day is it again?”
Frank chuckles. “Listen to you! Who woulda thought you’d still be here after we left?”
“Are you coming to the party tonight?”
“Naw, we’ve got an early flight… and I think we’re all fucked out anyway.” He grabs his wife by the waist. “It’s been a crazy week… I feel like a piece of meat!”
“You wish,” quips Lana. Laughter fills the air.
Every day it’s a little harder to say goodbye. Every day it’s a little harder to lose newfound friends, in pairs, to the quotidian demands of the world beyond the gates, that place I’ve come to think of, in my cynical moments, as God’s Waiting Room. Summer camp has to end. It’s inevitable. And though you may return one day to Lake Fucky-sucky, it will never again feel the way it felt the first time around. As long as there’s still marrow to be suckled out of the bones of this place I’m going to go on suckling.
A peculiar scene unfolds on the disco floor tonight. When Les and I arrive I spy Karen on stage (big surprise there!) with a bespectacled gentleman. She utters an incantation, which the crowd then repeats, after which the gentleman performs his own call-and-response incantation. The MC shouts and the crowd erupts into a frenzy, people tearing off their shirts and throwing them upon the stage in two distinct piles. I hesitate at first, but then Leslie starts undoing my buttons, so I shrug and toss my garment into the ring. Someone starts flinging shirts from one pile to the other and a mildly arousing wrestling match ensues, Les and Karen rolling around on the floor in the middle of the whole mess. Upon asking around I learn tonight’s entertainment is a scavenger hunt—boys versus girls—and my English Rose is up there representing the females.
The incantations begin anew and the MC asks the crowd to produce a pen from the lobby. I laugh as my fiancée scrambles for the exit. The cycle repeats. “Okay,” sez the MC. “Find me the biggest boobs!” Karen drags a zaftig woman in a nightie to the stage. The girls win easily. As the game continues I lean against the bar, sipping my gin and tonic, distractedly scanning the room for familiar faces.
“And finally, ladies and gentleman, I want you to find—”
Only now—too late for me to run screaming—does it strike me what the next item must be in this scavenger hunt. Only now do I appreciate that the woman leading the girls’ team has intimate knowledge of my anatomy. Only now do I realize how perilously close I am to the stage. Dawn breaks on Marblehead, as they used to say in Boston.
“—the biggest COCK!”
Karen’s eyes meet mine. Before I have a chance to take my next breath the petite stripper lunges at me, pulling me to the stage, undoing my belt and yanking down my trousers. I find myself frozen in place, blinking against the lights, still holding my drink in one hand. A woman jumps to the stage, performing enthusiastic fellatio upon the competition. Seconds later I feel a warm mouth wrapped around my dangling appendage. Glancing downward, I see that Karen is on her knees in front of me. Not one to be left out, Leslie takes her place at Karen’s side. I am an anatomical curiosity. A prop. An object. It occurs to me I’ve never really been naked. I’ve never had my sexual power stripped away.
I shuffle from the stage, comically, with my pants around my ankles. “Congratulations, baby!” Leslie says.
“Wha?”
“How did it feel to win the competition for us?”
“Well,” I respond, setting down my drink and hastily pulling up my trousers, “I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of performing in public again.”
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