Except I was doing it through threesomes. If I couldn’t explain that to Manuela, how would I talk about the complaint?
I stared out at the pool area. As usual, most of the chairs appeared to be occupied, but weren’t; tourists were “saving” them for when they returned later in the day. The resort had a rule against this practice (it was Rule Number Seven on the painted signboard near the pool) but it was mostly ignored by guests and not enforced by staff. I thought about Malika then, and wished she was nearby.
∆
“It’s scarcity thinking,” Malika grumbled as she searched for a pool lounger. She was one of my old friends from Hamilton, the only one who’d come to visit the previous year. The others had maintained a stony silence.
“Oh come on, Malika. You’re here to enjoy yourself. Don’t take it so seriously,” I scoffed.
“These people are jerks!”
By day three, Malika had frothed herself into an angry self-righteousness, and soon she was campaigning to sabotage the chair hoarders’ efforts. She deliberately chose a “saved” chair, even when another was available, and swept the offending books and towels to the ground. She incited others to join her campaign, but no one seemed very interested.
But we had fun, too. Over the week we drank too many mojitos and lazed on the beach. She asked about my sex life and I shared in fragments, offering an anecdote here and there, while I watched her face for signs of criticism or judgment. The opposite happened; Malika was enthralled by my sexual encounters, and wanted details about swingers.
“Are couples more fun than one person at a time?” Malika’s eyes were big with curiosity.
I pondered my preferences. I realized I hadn’t articulated them much. Before Huatulco, I had zero knowledge of the swinger set. I’d believed non-monogamy was emotionally difficult and bad for long-term relationships. And the furthest I’d ever strayed from what I’d assumed to be my mostly heterosexual nature were a few late-night, drunken party kisses with female friends. I hadn’t exactly been a prude, but I was comfortable with a pretty conventional sex life. Being far from home allowed me to travel outside the borders I’d once drawn for myself.
“It’s kind of like if you have coffee with two people instead of one. The conversation is different, more dynamic. It’s still intimate, but there are more ideas, more energy. ” I frowned at my analogy, which was almost apt, but not quite.
“But are the men creepy? Maybe it’s a stereotype about swingers, but that’s what I’d worry about.”
“I’ve had good luck. No creeps.” I flipped through a mental photo album of my past lovers. One or two borderline creeps came to mind, but I didn’t mention them.
“I’m impressed, girl! You seem happier now. Better than when you were with Gavin.”
I nodded, grateful that she didn’t mention that incident at the bar. Still, I flashed to the alleyway, the back door opening, Tamara’s livid expression, Gavin’s middle finger pulling out of me.
“I can’t manage to get it on with even one person!” She laughed. “How do you hook up with these people, anyway?”
“There aren’t a lot of them, but I kind of keep my eyes open. They seem to spot me as much as I do them. And then I find a way to make contact, flirt a little.” I demonstrated cruising eye contact for Malika, which made her blush and giggle.
“So now you’re biracial and bisexual,” Malika teased, her grin taking over her round face. She, too, was of mixed ancestry, but with a white mother and Jamaican father. It was our lengthy debates about race and identity in undergrad that had cemented our friendship.
“You know I hate labels.” And then, just to goad her I said, “You should try a threesome one day. You might like it.”
“Oh me? I couldn’t do that. I’m not as brave as you,” Malika said, fanning herself.
I have to admit I was glad when it was time for her to go home, because her complaints about Atlantis grew to include food and water wastage, and her general displeasure with the resort’s complete “walled-in-amusement park” experience. I was concerned that my friend might start an all-inclusive riot, given another week at the resort.
∆
“Why don’t you go take a nap and come back in an hour? Nothing’s happening here. If it gets busy I’ll text you,” Manuela offered.
I went for coffee instead. When I passed near the pool, I glimpsed Sebastiano and Serena, sunning themselves, their bronzed skin slick with oil. Sebastiano lay on his stomach, a strip of orange spandex stretching across his almost flat backside. Serena’s bikini top straps were pulled down low. I flashed to a moment from the night before when I’d lain on my side between them, Serena facing me, pressing a nipple into my mouth while Sebastiano entered me from behind. I’d rocked my pelvis back while pulling Serena’s hips forward. With the memory, my body responded, my back arching, my face flushing, warmth spreading between my thighs.
I continued to ogle them from afar. Perhaps they hadn’t planned to go on the crocodile trip in the first place and had spent ninety-five bucks to have me notice them. The thought made me even more aroused; the slightly sneaky and transactional nature of their strategy was kind of indecent.
With anyone else — like with the bodybuilders Marina and Mike — I might have felt manipulated by the fake excursion-buying. I blamed my poor judgment in bedding them on the three-week dry spell that had preceded them. I should’ve walked away when they asked me where I was from, and didn’t accept “Hamilton” as a valid answer. Instead, I’d ordered another Cuba Libre and listened to their detailed account of the trip they’d taken to India four years earlier. Oh, Ameera, you have to see the Taj Mahal. India is such a beautiful place, but oh my god, the poverty is astounding! I swallowed my envy and irritation and let my libido take over. I mean, who wouldn’t want to run their hands over biceps like theirs?
When they’d checked out of Atlantis on Friday morning, they’d left a note with the front desk clerk, thanking me for a “fantabulous” night and suggesting we hook up when I returned to Canada. The day after, a Facebook friend request and e-mail arrived. They’d look into a return trip to Atlantis at the end of April if they could get a sitter for their two bichon frise puppies. I’d discarded their note, deleted the message, and blocked them from my account.
Now at the far end of the pool, I considered stopping to say hello to Serena and Sebastiano, but hesitated. Couples were inconsistent with post-sex socializing. Some shied away from my glances the morning after, their flirtatious, sociable selves restricted to the night. Second dates were rare occurrences and a note like the bodybuilders’ was a first. Of course, I could only guess about my one-night lovers’ reactions and expectations; few made their feelings known directly. I assumed that things were different for swingers who had ongoing relationships. What might it be like to see Sebastiano and Serena again and again, I wondered. I’d read about long-term swinger relationships, or three lovers forming a kind of triad, and the idea appealed to me.
I ambled back from the staff cafeteria, carrying coffee and a plate of the butter cookies I knew Manuela favoured but rarely permitted herself. When I passed the pool again, the Italians had flipped onto their backs. Both wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if they could see me. I waved, but neither waved back.
Azeez
∞
