Red light district
I saw the dude on the street
And the bitch
Is workin’ his shit
Can you tell me
What is wrong? What is wrong?
It’s the money
That keep the bitch goin’ on

-Anthony Rother, “Red Light District”

“Looks like we’ll be here for the duration,” I say as I toss my credit card onto the counter for the last time. We’re not supposed to be naked in the lobby but no one seems to mind—perhaps management made an exception for the Couple Who Cannot Leave. The fresh arrivals, still in their street clothes, sip champagne and smile at us and chatter excitedly. Already I miss being a newbie.

As has become our custom, we hold court by the pool, dining with the Oklahomans and then, when they leave, sipping margaritas with a Latin couple from Florida. The activities director barks into his bullhorn, announcing a wet t-shirt contest, and the busty Latina at our table is pressed into the competition. I enjoy the unhurried way in which people get to know each other here—you talk and you admire each other’s bodies and if the wind tickles your nether regions in just the right way you might end up rolling around on a soft white bed somewhere. People seduce each other effortlessly, guilelessly. When I lay my head down every night I wonder whether I’ll be able to take even the thinnest slice of paradise back home with me.

I go for a swim in the ocean and I’m a surprised at how easily I slice through the waves—the hours I’ve spent in the water this week have given me a swimmer’s instincts. I stand up and throw my head back, relieving myself into the ocean. Looking up at the clouds, I mumble to myself, “Rain’s coming.” It’s not long before the first frigid raindrops splash against my cheeks, sending me scrambling out of the water and sprinting across the beach in search of a towel.

The storm gathers strength, tossing beach umbrellas about and driving people underneath the large palapa that covers the buffet. I spy Mark and Ellen, who are lounging beside their packed bags and reminiscing about their week at the resort. Shivering, I pull a towel over my shoulders, then lower my head and take a look between my legs. “Look, you don’t understand,” I cry out in a sloppy imitation of George Costanza. “There was shrinkage!” People laugh. I kiss the pretty, dirty blond MILF goodbye and she lingers for a moment, studying my face.

I’m in the jacuzzi, watching the raindrops form little impact craters against the water’s surface. I’m cradling Tammy from behind, my left hand exploring the terrain between her thighs as my right hand hoists a drink. “Now he’s touching my clit,” she’s telling James. “And now he’s touching my anus.” Tony the Tiger’s girl, Delilah, is only inches away from us, and she’s droning on about something mundane. Tammy exhales against my neck, her wet hair matted against my cheek, and when Delilah steals a nervous glance at us I smile. Tammy’s orgasm is close but the friction isn’t quite right.

“Why don’t you come to our room in half an hour?” she asks.

“Uh-uh.”

“What, you’ve already had a piece of my ass so now you’re done with me?”

“It’s not like that. If you come up with something interesting, and preferably outdoors, I’ll do it.”

The skies clear. A young fellow delivers a long-winded, vaguely condescending monologue about how he and his wife are nudists, not swingers, and they have—of course—only the purest of intentions. I crack my usual joke (I’ve heard there are wife-swappers here) and back away slowly. It’s not that I have a problem with an honest voyeur; it’s the hypocritical closet-cases that annoy me. Predictably enough, as Les, Tammy, James and I prepare to exit the tub, the young guy turns to me and says, “Don’t leave. Have sex here!”

Grinning, I tell him, “Look, this isn’t a goddamned zoo. We only have sex in front of swingers.” His face falls as I hoist myself out of the jacuzzi.

We linger upstairs for a moment, drying ourselves with oversized towels. Les and I strike up a conversation with the Latin couple we met over brunch. They introduce us to a greybeard and his young cinnamon-skinned wife (I saw her earlier in the day, after I stumbled out of my room coughing up the beer I’d inadvertently attempted to inhale; to her credit, she seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being). To call this woman busty would be an insult—her round, upright breasts are of some exotic caliber rarely found outside certain fetish magazines. She either visited the finest plastic surgeon in the Western hemisphere or she grew them herself; I cannot decide which possibility is more frightening. She charms me with a schoolgirl smile and extends her dainty hand. Upon kissing her slender digits I say, “We’ve met before. Remember? I saw you in the hallway and you were really hot?”

Beaming now, the girl lifts her free hand to her chest and gasps, “Oh my.”

Tammy laughs. “Oh Lex, you always know just what to say to the ladies.”

Twenty minutes later Les and I are strolling hand-in-hand toward our rendezvous with Tammy and James. “I don’t think I want to have sex,” my girl tells me.

“I’m not expecting you to put on a show. Frankly, I’m a little worn out myself… I need to save some energy for tonight.”

Tammy and James await us in a secluded outdoor nook cut into the corner of a building. “This is nice,” I remark, settling onto a comfortable cushion. I stroke Tammy’s blond hair. “We’re both a little tired, but I’ll gladly finish what I started in the jacuzzi.”

“Okay,” she says, reclining and parting her thighs. My hands begin to roam as James and Leslie curl up on their end of the couch, watching us in reverent silence. Across the courtyard a clothed couple emerges from their suite. They wave at us, and when we respond in kind they approach us—first the man, his hair tinged with grey, and then his svelte, smiling partner.

“Do you guys need any lube?” asks the friendly-looking gentleman. “We have a dildo too,” he continues when our laughter subsides.

“Ooh, I’ve never used a dildo before,” sez Tammy.

The gentleman disappears into his room and returns moments later with two bottles of lubricant and a ribbed latex dildo, handing the loot to me. “This is what I love about this place,” I tell him. “There’s always someone around to lend a helping hand.” Soon I’m holding an upended bottle over Tammy and watching the lube dribble over her pretty cunt like maple syrup over pancakes. She shivers. I grin and ease the dildo into her, working up to a steady in and out rhythm while flicking my thumb across her clitoris. She lets out a sigh.

Meanwhile I’m having a friendly chat with the new couple. And then Tony drops by to make dinner plans with us. I find none of this absurd.

Tammy wants me to press my hand against her belly in addition to everything else I’m doing, but this maneuver proves to be beyond my capabilities. “Guys,” I say, looking at Tony and then the older gentleman, “I need some fucking help here.” Tony—and I can tell he’s been waiting for this—immediately lowers his mouth to Tammy’s as the older gent buries his face in Tammy’s midsection.

The Cali girl’s back arches. Her anguished moans grow louder, echoing throughout the courtyard. I hear doors open as people pop their heads out to see what’s causing such a commotion. “I don’t know whose name to call out!” Tammy cries. She’s an animal when she comes. It’s almost frightening… the writhing and twisting and screaming of her animal self.

Maybe this is a zoo after all. Perhaps we’re only here for the amusement of those who wouldn’t dare do what we do. All I am certain of is that I’d rather be doing than watching.