Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Jan 06, 2007
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.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Oct 24, 2006
Swamp monsters
Cold ground was my bed last night
And rock was my pillow too
-Bob Marley & the Wailers, “Talkin’ Blues”
Travel to an exotic locale. Go three days without a decent night’s rest. Drink from morning to noon to night to morning again. Meet interesting people. Fuck the sexy ones. And when you think you’ve had your fill take a solitary walk on the beach at sunrise with music blaring over your headphones. These are the things mystical experiences are made of. I think nothing of wading waist-deep into the ocean with a small fortune worth of electronic equipment. I study a morning bird hovering over the beach in search of prey. I’m entranced at the sight of the gnarled white branches of barren trees—swamp monsters clinging to the world even in death. Walking across the silken sands I’m delighted to find purple flowers at my feet. My head fills with quixotic and contradictory notions: I want to live out the rest of my days on an island off the coast of Madagascar; I want to get lost in a crowd in some strange city; I want to fiddle while Rome burns. At first I don’t even notice the soldiers walking along the beach. The automatic rifles slung over their shoulders are the only reminder that maybe none of this is real.
We’re leaving tomorrow.
Sure.
I mean it this time.
Me too.
I just can’t leave believing this place is perfect.
The mattress sure isn’t perfect: I think I’d be better off sleeping on a concrete slab. I close my eyes and open them two-and-a-half hours later. I toss and turn, trying to force myself to sleep in. No use. My belly is empty and I want to see who might be out by the pool. Morning gives way to afternoon. The day dribbles onward. I’m perched at the jacuzzi’s edge swishing my feet around in little circles while speaking with a couple of early birds, nudists from Godforsaken Place, USA.
“I’ve heard there are wife swappers here,” says the wife, looking shocked.
“I’ve heard people have sex in public too,” adds her husband, looking somewhat less shocked. I’m betting hubby knew the dealio before he signed on for this trip.
I bite my lower lip and grasp my thighs, afraid of letting go lest I erupt into a laughing fit that sends me tumbling into the jacuzzi. Clearing my throat now: “Yeah, I’ve, um, heard those rumors too. Can you believe it?”
Les and I have dinner at the hibachi, after which we join the couples gathering in the courtyard. There’s an edgy vibe to the resort tonight—not as sharp as a razor but certainly sharper than a butter knife. I chalk this up to sleep deprivation and soldier on, falling into a conversation with Karen about travel. “One of the greatest joys in life is exploring new places,” I tell her.
She smiles and winks at me, twirling short blond locks around her index finger. “You explored some new places last night, didn’t you?” We’ve been in an innuendo arms race ever since our beachfront encounter.
“One might say I was in a tight spot last night. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to go around the world in ninety minutes.”
And so on.
The tall, gregarious Russian chick wears glasses and I’m having a hard time figuring out whether I’m attracted to her. It’s an angular trick: at 72 degrees my answer is yes; at 45 degrees my answer is no. Her husband, shorter and more reserved, asks me about Karen.
“Ah, my English rose,” is my answer.
“My English rose—I like zat.”
The disco is less of a draw for us than an obligatory stop on the way to somewhere else. The Bermudan couple—the annoying couple—have Karen and David cornered. I can tell by the body language that they’re submitting our English friends to a high-pressure sales pitch. When Les and I stop by to say hello the Bermudans take up defensive positions. Their awkward kabuki is jarring to me: it’s like living in a commune and waking up one day to discover people believe in private property again. I nudge Les. “They must think we cock-blocked them last night.”
“Haven’t they had a week to work on Karen and David?”
“I think they’re leaving tomorrow. They’re going all out.”
“I hope we never look like that.”
“I don’t think so. You know, it never even occurred to me to quote-unquote go for it. We were just having fun and doing what comes naturally—or doing whomever comes naturally, that is.”
We end up on the opposite side of the room talking to Hop-along and her husband. Hop-along, a sweet young blonde with an hourglass figure, was the runner-up of last Saturday’s striptease contest. She also injured her ankle a couple nights ago and still hops around lamely, hence the nickname that’s caught on around the resort. They’re not here for the extracurriculars but we invite them to the jacuzzi anyway, if only to have people to chat with. Before leaving Les and I pop our heads into the play room. Two couples. Different beds. Girl on top. I am, I realize, completely indifferent to the spectacle of other people fucking.
At night it’s hard to make out who’s who in the jacuzzi, but it appears that Mark and Ellen, the Russian couple and some other mystery couple are enjoying each other’s company immensely. Mark invites us over to the beds but we decline; he’s drunk and I can’t put my finger on it but I have a bad feeling about the situation. He immediately turns his attention to Hop-along and her husband. They both politely wave him off.
Les and I go for a swim in the ocean, gazing upon nature’s planetarium and floating in languid surrender to the cosmos. I open my mouth and words tumble out: “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Ellen sits alone at the bar by the courtyard, her face a mess of tears. The bartender is speaking to her softly in a fruitless attempt to console her. He shrugs when he turns to face us. I scratch my head and put my hand on Leslie’s arm. “I feel like we should say something but I feel weird marching over there with my dick hanging out.”
“I’ll go,” she says.
I speak with the bartender about immigration, all along keeping a watchful eye on the two women and trying to get a read on their body language. The females embrace and then Leslie returns to me with news from the front—namely that Mark and Ellen had a terrible falling out, that it involved a woman, and that Mark’s whereabouts are currently unknown. There’s more, but this is all I care to know. Her spirits lifted somewhat, Ellen wanders over to join us. Feeling less self-conscious about my penis now—after all, what could be more natural than being naked?—I give her a hug. The pretty mom looks up at me and smiles, still teary-eyed. “Everyone thought I was having such a wonderful time,” she laments. “I’m a great actress.”
Shall I offer cold comfort? Do I whisper to her, tenderly, “There, there” like I’m Yossarian and she’s Snowden? Words are useless.
“I’ll probably never see you again but I’ll never forget you guys.” She rests her head upon Leslie’s shoulder. The three of us sit in silence. A while later the lobby doors slide open. People are returning from tonight’s excursion to some big nightclub in Cancun. Among the arriving dignitaries are Frank and Lana, who immediately ask Ellen where her husband is. I take advantage of the awkward moment that ensues to pull Frank aside—our New Yorkah friends are so good natured, however, that soon they manage to coax a smile from Ellen, and then a laugh. They offer to escort Ellen back to her room. “We’ll make sure she gets home safe,” Frank says to me.
This is a place of contradictions: one person cries, another comes. I suppose it’s the machinery of the cosmos keeping everything in balance. It doesn’t surprise me when the English couple stops by for a late night snack, nor does it surprise me when Leslie ends up on the bar having tequila poured down the crack of her ass, giggling as Karen plants her face between those jiggly brown cheeks. Karen climbs up next. Like a good boy doing what he’s told, I taste the stripper’s tequila-soaked cunt, chasing the shot by slobbering chocolate sauce off her delicate tits. When I come up for air I see that several of the resort’s employees have gathered for the show, including, hilariously, a dude in a chef’s hat. Do they have a dispatch center to keep everyone apprised of the kinky goings-on? When the bartender informs us it’s the boys’ turn David and I look at each other and laugh. Surely he jests. But then the friendly fellow smacks the counter and the girls smack our asses.
If you can imagine dipping your balls in liquid nitrogen and then holding them over an open flame, you’ll have a pretty good idea of how it feels to have them doused in 80-proof liquor. The perverse thing is that it feels kind of good once the burning sensation dies down, especially when two girls are slurping away like they’re trying to suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.
The small crowd of gawking men is a bit much, even for us, the self-appointed sluts of the resort. We escape to the beach, then to the relative safety of our respective hotel rooms.
I’m on our balcony again, peering into the dark Yucatan frontier. Leslie saunters out of the room and lights a post-orgasm cigarette. “I guess I should be grateful,” I say, scratching my neck.
“Why?”
“Because I got what I wanted. Now I know this place isn’t perfect.”
“Maybe we knew that already but we were too busy to look for imperfections. This trip has been intense for me and it’s just now starting to sink in.”
“There’s a lot on the line here… emotionally… for everyone. How can you not be affected by it? This morning—on the beach—it was like I was in another world.”
“Yeah. Every time I take a nap I dream about everything we’ve done. Someone told me today—I can’t remember who it was—she told me this place can consume you if you’re not careful.”
“Welcome to the Hotel California.”
“Such a lovely place…”
“But still. That world beyond the gates—all those people stabbing each other in the back over the table scraps of the American dream. The real depravity is out there. It’s purgatory. It’s God’s waiting room. Who wants to go back to that?”
“So we’re staying another night?”
“One last night.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it this time.”
“Me too.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Sep 29, 2006
The gates of paradise
I have to dress different. I have to act different. I have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I need a new bedspread and new curtains. I have to get thick carpeting and weird lighting. I have to get new friends. Orgy friends. I’ve become an orgy guy.
-Lex Konrad
Our room has a view that faces inland, overlooking the garden and the crocodile pond and the rickety covered bridge that guards the entrance to what will become our private paradise. From the balcony I can observe the comings-and-goings of the airport shuttles. The room is luxurious enough. The mini-bar is free. Already I have a feeling we won’t be spending much time in here.
Before we consider stripping out of our travel clothes, Leslie and I take a lightning-quick tour of the resort’s manicured grounds. Signs implore us to keep off the grass. There are naked people everywhere, of all shapes and sizes, their furtive glances hungrier than I’d expected. Suddenly I feel self-conscious in my jeans and long-sleeved shirt. We’re fresh meat.
I change into garish swim trunks. Leslie changes into a little patterned dress, forgoing panties. When we crash into the calm, azure waters of the Caribbean we’re both overcome with laughter. “This is silly,” I say, and I return to the shore to remove my shorts, feeling pleasantly aware of the wind caressing my nether regions. Leslie follows suit, and back in the water I hold her to me, grasping her round bottom and entering her. Here in the ocean the friction isn’t quite right.
We stop by the pool bar for margaritas and meet a very naked couple from Bermuda, the man tall and black and lean, the woman shorter and white and pornish in appearance. They’ve been here ten days. On a lark I ask them whether they know the Bermudan couple we met at our first orgy three years ago. Of course they do. “Bermuda is small and boring,” laments the girl.
The jacuzzi is conveniently situated upon the rooftop of our building. As afternoon fades to early evening in the leisurely way that only seems possible in the tropics, Les and I ascend the stairs, steeling ourselves for whatever madness may await us up there. When we reach the top, a little breathless, we gawk at the sight of the naked vacationers lounging around the large U-shaped tub, we smile at the sight of the swim-up bar, we gasp at the sight of magnificent four-poster beds, their gauzy white canopies blowing in the breeze. Beyond the glass panes that shield the jacuzzi from the wind, the ocean stretches out below us, perfectly still to the horizon. “Pretty classy, huh?” I remark to Les as we stand by the tub stripping naked.
“And to think I hesitated,” she responds.
Going to a swingers resort when you haven’t come in three days is like going to the supermarket on an empty stomach. I feel hypersexual, and only one thought comes to mind as I lower myself, naked, into the jacuzzi, feeling as if everyone’s eyes must be upon me: Don’tgetabonerdon’tgetabonerdon’tgetaboner. It’s an incantation I will find myself repeating many times over the days and nights that follow. I wince as the hot water rises up to lap against my balls. It appears I won’t have to worry about making babies any time soon.
The scene in the jacuzzi is tamer, perhaps, than I’d expected. A lithe young woman sits perched upon the ledge, her legs spread wide, as her man teases her, yet for the most part people are laughing and talking, drinks in hand. In another corner, closer to the swim-up bar, the silver-haired crowd lounges about discussing grandchildren or retirement or whatever it is old folks talk about. They carry on, blissfully unaware of their nudity, and in a way I envy them. “Look at that,” I say, nudging Les. “The early-bird specials over there. Maybe we’ll be like them one day.” My fiancée just smiles.
We meet a couple of forty-somethings from New York, Frank and Lana, married veteran swingers who’ve been here before. “So whaddya think of the place?” asks the lightly bearded Frank in his New Yorkah drawl.
“Well, Frank, I think I’ve already seen enough penises to last me a lifetime.”
We all laugh. Lana’s shapely tits jiggle. As the sun recedes into the great Yucatan frontier we trade swinger war stories. Life is good.
I spy a girl standing on the ocean side of the jacuzzi, her curvaceous form silhouetted against the sky, her body every bit as soft as the cumulonimbus formations in the distance. She’s the kind of pretty, corn-fed creature that can only hail from America’s heartland. She makes eye contact, then smiles and looks away. It may be the booze or the hot water, but I feel a swelling in my breast, a kind of giddiness I haven’t felt since summer camp. There’s something magical about this place.
The girl and her husband swim over to our side of the jacuzzi and strike up a conversation. I learn they’re from Arizona, they’re in their twenties and they’ve been married since eighteen. The boyish looking hubby is named Ryan. The girl’s name is Lafonda. “Are you black?” I ask, staring into the pretty girl’s hazel eyes.
She smiles. “No.”
“Because you have a black girl’s name.”
“Haha. I have a little Cherokee in me.”
Ryan explains that he and Lafonda had their first swinging experience this week at another resort. “We came over here from Blue Bay yesterday but last night was kind of dull.”
They won’t suffer from boredom tonight. Lana returns from the bar with vials of tequila in hand. “Okay guys,” she says. “We’re doing body shots!”
I turn to Frank. “I see why you married this woman. She’s quite the instigator.”
We’ve been here less than three hours and already I’m slobbering tequila off three sets of nipples. As the girls take a turn on my nipples Lana’s breast quite innocently brushes against the head of my cock. The underwater lights have come on. Everything’s clearly visible. I look down. “Where did that come from?”
Lana grabs my penis. “It looks like someone’s happy,” she announces.
“I’ll take care of that,” says Leslie, diving underwater and wrapping her pillowy lips around me. I decide it’s only fair to return the favor, and so I take a deep breath and dive between my girlfriend’s legs. When I come up for air, spitting chlorinated water like a fountain, I notice little corn-fed Lafonda sitting next to us, her legs parted slightly. On automagic pilot now, I let my hands wander the length of her body, from her pert nipples down her soft belly to the landing strip of pubic hair between her creamy thighs. Ryan fingers his wife. I penetrate my fiancée, my toes scraping against the jacuzzi’s tiled bottom in a desperate bid for traction. Everything around us is a blur. People might be watching. I don’t know where Lana and Frank are.
“Your wife is a hot piece of ass,” I hear myself saying to Ryan. Anywhere else this might be considered an off-color remark, but not here in paradise.
“So’s yours,” he responds, and we switch partners. Lafonda’s moaning softly now as I grasp her firm buttocks and delicately probe her with my fingers. She’s slick, even under the hot water. I hold my breath again and treat her to my tongue. The whole time I’m thinking: I love newbies. When I finally emerge from the water Leslie looks at me and smiles, evidently satisfied with the attention she’s getting from Ryan.
And he says, “Shall we go to the beds over there?”
I rise from the tub, shivering, standing erect and, well, erect in the Mexican night, thinking how strange it is that just hours ago I never would have considered doing this, being this. We lay out fresh towels and stretch out on the mattress. Leslie takes me into her mouth. Lafonda bends over, bobbing up and down in her husband’s lap. I tease Lafonda from behind, having completely forgotten myself and where I am. Moments later Ryan’s in the bathroom cleaning up—his wife’s loving attentions evidently having done the trick—and I’m on my knees before Leslie with my arm wrapped around Lafonda’s waist. I recall the last time the breeze felt this good against my balls—in Tulum, not far from here but many years ago. The pretty brunette lies on her side to watch. I offer myself to her and when she parts her lips everything is so soft… so perfectly soft.
I can feel it in my spine, my buttocks, my chest. My cock is electric. This heavenly creature is going to make me come. The machinery of the universe grinds to a halt; I sense the rip in spacetime I first experienced during the recent summer of my discontent. Is this really happening? I’m thinking, and then I’m pondering the cosmological constant and before long it dawns on me that I’m spurting in Lafonda’s mouth. I uncouple from her and finish on the girls’ faces, my orgasmic contractions pulsing in great waves. “You got it in my eye!” Les cries out, laughing.
I haven’t come in three days.
