Posted by Lex Konrad in Dispatches | Mar 31, 2007
I get the news I need on the weather report
Oh, I can gather all the news I need on the weather report
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile
And here I am
The only living boy in New York
-Simon and Garfunkel, “The Only Living Boy in New York”
The morning is bright and beautiful, the sky spattered with benign white clouds. Les and I climb the stairs to the rooftop, where we snap nude portraits of each other. An employee is kind enough to take a few shots of the two of us together. My girl giggles. We won’t be naked again for a long time — at least not like this.
We swim in the ocean and then take our last tour of the grounds, happening upon the Oklahomans by the pool. I tell them I’m surprised they didn’t sleep in after last night’s drunken debauchery. We say our goodbyes. Before turning away, I leave them with a final thought: “It’s up to you to keep things interesting around here.”
***
I step out of the hired car, tossing an empty beer can into the trash and squinting at my surroundings — this is our first contact with the civilian world in eight days. Only now, at the airport, do I appreciate the state of preternatural relaxation that came over me that first night in the jacuzzi and never left. I don’t bother putting my shoes back on after walking through the metal detector. Instead I stand in the terminal and smile as a Mariachi band plays.
I cannot get over the feeling that people must be able to sense there is something different about us. As we meander toward our gate Leslie and I play a little game, picking attractive couples out of the crowd and imagining how they’d fare if they spent a night or two in paradise.
I wonder whether there is such a thing as gaydar for swingers.
***
Overhead, multiple LCD screens unfold, the servomotors emitting a high-pitched mechanical whir. I am strapped in, unable to escape. This is unfair: I’ve felt so much better since I went on a media diet. A music video plays. Porn lite. It is a sad reminder that I am returning to a nation of voyeurs — to a land of people who are obsessed with sex and repulsed by it in equal measure.
***
New York. You can’t come home again — I never thought about what this meant until now. We may as well be returning from Mars, and if that Mexico feeling stays with us I’m quite sure we’ll frighten the natives. Drifting over the Triborough, my eyes fixed upon the gleaming lights of Spaceship Manhattan, I almost feel ashamed, as if I’ve cheated on my first love and the day of reckoning is upon me.
***
No sooner do we step over the threshold than my fiancée asks, “Do you want to get a drink?”
“Mos def,” is my reply.
A yellow cab takes us to Morningside Heights, where we claim a couple of stools at one of our regular bars. We run into a few people we know and regale them with tales of our adventures in paradise. I hear my own words tumble out and I barely believe them. Standing here, in a small watering hole in Manhattan, it is hard for me to believe a place like Desire even exists.
Overhearing us, a comely young woman approaches. When she smiles I see that she has lopsided dimples. The three of us talk for awhile. “Here, let me give you my number,” she insists.
I turn to Leslie. “The more things change the more they stay the same, eh?”
“Yeah. Too bad there’s no jacuzzi here.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Mar 28, 2007
The jacuzzi
Everything is quiet
Everyone’s gone to sleep
I’m wide awake but these memories
These memories can’t wait
-Talking Heads via Living Colour, “Memories Can’t Wait”
We sleep in this morning, and as afternoon approaches it is only with great effort that we manage to open our eyes. Leslie is sore, as am I. My throat, however, is much improved. We lie in bed, cuddling and inspecting the damage. As I prop myself, frowning, over Leslie’s puffy red labia I solemnly inform her she’s going to have to go easy for a few days.
“We should have gotten married,” my fiancée announces as she stares at the ceiling, glassy eyed.
“What, here?”
“Yes.”
“Surely you jest.”
“Surely not. A few days ago I asked them whether they perform ceremonies here. They do.”
“Call me a card-carrying member of the Christian Coalition but don’t you think it would be a little strange to get hitched at a swingers resort? Isn’t that like saying your vows at an orgy?”
“It’s just—I feel like this is a part of who we are now. And why should we deny who we are?”
Like the social smoker or the straight guy who trolls Craigslist in search of cock, perhaps I have been in denial. I cling to convenient fallacies. I am not a swinger, I tell myself, because the orgies always seem to find me. I’d be a one-woman man were it not for the predatory vixens who throw themselves at me. What some might refer to as my lifestyle is simply a series of improbable events. When it comes to non-monogamy I have commitment issues.
I’m soaking in the jacuzzi, sitting hip-to-hip with Tony the Tiger’s girl. She’s telling me about the conditions under which they swing—namely the ideal conditions—and I strongly suspect Tony’s conditions are significantly less stringent than hers. I remember being like her not too long ago. Picky. Apprehensive. I thought I could tame the beast. An inebriated older woman approaches me, placing her hands on my legs, and I reflexively draw my knees to my chest in a defensive posture. She congratulates me on my victory in last night’s cock-size contest. When she withdraws I exhale; I’ve heard stories this week about young men being torn apart by roving packs of wild cougars. “I’m going to need a bodyguard,” I tell Delilah. The skinny girl laughs, then excuses herself for a bathroom break, and as she climbs out of the tub she bends over, affording me a perfect view of her shaven cunt and tiny asshole.
It’s a shame, really, that I’m too damned lazy to do anything about seducing her.
Our friends leave. Soon afterward we are joined by the Latin couples, including the greybeard and his impossibly busty wife (after some time it dawns on me that none of these people appear to be swingers). The busty babe offers to translate bits and pieces of the conversation. “No, you don’t have to,” I tell her. “I understand what she said—they have three children and the eldest is going through a rebellious phase.” She smiles, and when she does so she’s devastatingly pretty. I turn to Les. “How is it that I suddenly understand Spanish?” Time passes. When the sun sets on yet another perfect day Les and I toast to our last night in paradise.
When I return from taking a leak, wading through the bubbling waters of the jacuzzi, I hesitate when I see that the beautiful Latin girl partially blocks the entrance to our cul-de-sac. Her back is to me, and as I admire her cello figure I find myself channeling Tyler Durden: Do I give her the ass or the crotch? On a plane this is an amusing afterthought. At a nude resort, however, it is a question of great significance. She turns her head sharply as I begin to inch past her, her wide brown eyes fixed upon my junk, her glossy lips parted ever so slightly. She catches herself seconds later, returning abruptly to the conversation. I wonder whether she had the same thought. What if?
Flush from a karaoke performance and one too many shots of tequila, Anne greets me in the courtyard with a broad smile. I shift uncomfortably in my shoes and pull at my shirt, my clothes having become a terrible burden. “Are you going to strip tonight?” I ask her.
“But I can’t dance!” she protests, her charming southern lilt drawing out the vowels. This is what she told me yesterday, when she mused about participating in this weekend’s strip contest.
“You can fuck,” I intone, “therefore you can dance. Don’t worry—Leslie is here to help.”
As I shoulder my way through the crowded disco I am surprised to hear the MC call both Anne and Leslie to the stage. Who put their names in? Raj? Doug? I turn to Les, beaming. “You’re going to strip too?”
She laughs. “I guess so.”
My New York doll takes the stage; she is poised, graceful, taking hold of a brass pole and expertly propelling her curvaceous frame around it. She deftly flings her blouse aside, then her skirt, and finally her thong. Oh my. I’d nearly forgotten she’d done this for six months (stripping must be like riding a bicycle). How many hours have I spent gazing upon her naked flesh? How many times have I been inside her? And yet I as watch her undulate under the spotlights—this mysterious seductress—I ache for her like an awkward adolescent. There may be one hundred odd souls in the room. Leslie’s performance is for me alone.
I am a little nervous for Anne; having assured her everything will turn out alright, I feel responsible for the outcome. The slender brunette removes all of her clothing at the start of her song, unceremoniously, as if she’s doing nothing more unusual than hopping into the shower at home. Applause and laughter erupt from the crowd. After shaking her ass and dancing around for a short while she runs to the side of the stage and conferences with Les. My girl then joins Anne, the two of them kissing and pawing at each other before collapsing to the floor in a sixty-nine configuration. I take shallow breaths, afraid to fill my lungs lest I break the tension. Beads of sweat well up from the pores in my forehead. Anne concludes her performance by hopping up and down in the laps of the three male judges sitting in a semicircle at the periphery of the action.
Leslie approaches me, naked, slick, her curly hair disheveled and sexy. “I’m so proud of you baby!” I tell her.
She peers up at me with doleful eyes. “But I didn’t win.”
I take her in my arms. “Apples and oranges dear. You did the best striptease, but you were competing against your own girl-on-girl show—a show I’m quite sure every guy in here will be jerking off to for years to come.”
My fiancée smiles again. “That’s true.”
“And um, well, she was humping the judges.”
The two of us burst out laughing, not only at tonight’s show but at the absurdity of the entire week.
Out in the courtyard, Anne frolics naked in one of the box-shaped fountains, causing a torrent of water to spill over the fountain’s edge and onto the tiles. Raj sits nearby, looking vaguely distressed. I scratch my head and make a funny face at Doug. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Yup.”
A mop-wielding employee emerges from the sliding glass doors of the lobby, waving Anne out of the fountain and then sopping up the spill. The newly-minted stripper curls up in her husband’s lap and falls asleep.
The resort is eerily quiet tonight—the playroom is empty, the beach unpopulated, the courtyard bar devoid of revelers. Even the jacuzzi, that last refuge of the late-night hedonist, has taken on an air of lassitude. Were it not for my recent memories I’d think we were back among the civilians. I suppose I should be grateful; it’s easier to say goodbye this way. As Les and I relax in the jacuzzi I lie back, studying the constellations, pondering the question everyone’s been asking us. Will you come back? Yes? Maybe? I don’t know. There is something to be said for not attempting to relive what happened in paradise. Some time later Les and I return to the courtyard, naked, arm-in-arm, hoping to have a chat with our favorite bartender before turning in. We are happy to spy friends at the bar, namely the Latin couple from Florida. The husband, in his accented but precise English, poses the question that’s been on our minds all night: “Where are the swingers?”
I take a sip of my margarita and run a hand through my hair. I’m grinning—and a little sad the adventure has to end. “I think we’re the last of the Mohicans.”
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.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 09, 2007
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.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Feb 06, 2007
Repose
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.
