Chapter Seven: A Good Old-Fashioned Cock-Size Contest (Part Three)

Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Mar 20, 2007

The boundless energy of the preceding days is slowly fading, radiating into the night sky like the blood-red coals of a dying bonfire. My throat is ragged (I am hoping the Mexican antibiotics will kick in by tomorrow, but for all I know the cure will be worse that the disease). My next hardon, I’m sure, will be accompanied by that familiar dull ache of the erectile tissue. As much as it terrifies me to admit this to myself, I might be all fucked out. Yet even in my diminished condition I still carry a sexual charge, and so I persevere, even at the risk of winding up in traction.

Anne’s magnificent breasts are coated in chocolate sauce. Closing my eyes, I carefully, meticulously lap up the spill with my tongue. I furrow my brow when I finally observe the results of my labor and say to her, “I missed a spot.” The naked woman giggles as I return to my task. This is what I wanted, and though scenes like this might be commonplace here, I am no less awed by fantasy becoming reality. Anne’s shapely posterior sways in my face as we climb the stairs to the passion suites. “I knew you’d come out of your shell,” I say, firmly grasping her buttocks with both hands.

Eight of us squeeze into the hot tub—Tammy, James, Doug and Sheree (the couple that offered us lube and dildos this afternoon), Raj, Anne, Les and I—each one of us sandwiched by two members of the opposite sex. I’m fondling Anne with my submerged left hand and Leslie with my right. Raj is asking us all about our sexual proclivities. “So you’ve all heard of the Kinsey Scale, right?” inquires Raj. People nod. “So, on a scale of zero to six—zero being completely straight and six being completely gay—where would you place yourselves?”

People’s answers are about what I’ve come to expect in swinger circles, the girls clustering around the middle of the range and the boys around the low end. James insists he rates a solid zero. “Aw come on,” I say, chuckling. “All swingers are at least a little bi.”

“No fucking way,” he protests.

“Look if you’re comfortable even being in the same room as another man’s hard cock you’re not exactly what I’d call straight.”

A grinning Raj raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “He does have a point.”

Anne leans out of the tub to grab a champagne bottle for us. I seize this opportunity to run a couple fingers along the smooth furrow between her ass cheeks.

“Was that your leg that just brushed against mine?” Doug asks James.

“Uh oh,” sez Raj. “Looks like James is at least a two!”

James smiles and splashes his own face. “Okay now you guys are just picking on me.”

Tammy giggles and pinches her mate’s cheek. “Poor baby.”

The conversation turns to less controversial subjects, and as we fluff about our lives in the outside world I learn, much to my stupefaction, that both Doug and Sheree are in their fifties. The years have been particularly kind to Sheree, as I’m fairly certain I could bounce a quarter off the lithe brunette’s ass. Sadly, I neglected to bring any change. “What’s your secret, then?” I ask.

“We’re both vegan,” answers Doug, “and we don’t drink or smoke or use hard drugs.”

“I knew there was a catch.”

Shivering a bit in the breeze that’s blowing in from the balcony, I towel myself dry, stealing a glance at the porno playing on the television and chuckling inwardly, thinking to myself: What’s the point? Tammy passes by me with a look of determination on her face and a large banana in her hand. I watch, jaw unhinged, as she carefully unrolls a condom over the phallic fruit, and before I can ask her whether she’s really about to do what I think she’s about to do, the girl eases the banana into her cunt. Standing there with her legs parted, smiling at me, she works her makeshift dildo in and out. There’s a knock at the door and the bartender from the courtyard enters the room bearing a bucket of ice. Tammy continues, unfazed. Everyone laughs.

I decide Tammy is the most remarkable woman I’ve met all week.

Les and I are outdoors with Raj and Anne, lounging on the massive shared balcony that faces the black expanse of the ocean. Lightning crackles on the horizon but the storm is so far away that nothing but the white noise of the gentle surf reaches our ears. The women lie stretched out upon the balcony’s ledge, touching each other and then turning their attention to the men. Something about this scene is both beautiful and apocalyptic. The wind picks up, driving the four of us back indoors, and upon entering the room I note with approval that Doug is on his knees before Tammy, his face pressed between the Cali blonde’s thighs. I’m floating above myself, watching myself drift aimlessly from person to person—watch me kiss my fiancée; watch me fondle Tammy’s left breast; watch me place my hand between Sheree’s legs. When Tammy announces her imminent departure (“We have an early flight,” she says. “I put my contact information in your pants.”) I press my lips to hers for awhile, and I tell her: “It’s going to be awfully dull around here without you.”

The six of us who remain pair off. Over the distant din of the surf I can only hear soft moans, creaking furniture and the electronic synthesizer of a throwaway porn soundtrack. Les and I find it difficult to get properly settled—we try a spot on the couch next to Raj and Anne, then an ottoman next to Doug and Sheree, before finally tumbling onto the large four-poster bed. I smile at the sight of Anne hopping about enthusiastically in her husband’s lap, having correctly surmised that this otherwise-shy woman would be a firecracker in the sack. I am on top of my girl. Les and I are straining, aching, sweating, both of us tired and broken at the end of what feels like the longest week anyone’s ever had. When my orgasm arrives I collapse into Leslie’s arms, panting, my head throbbing and my heart pounding. I always come hardest when I’m in pain.

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