He came to me with a margarita. He was brown and tall, with short hair and a very tidy pair of swim trunks that could have doubled for underwear or stripper props. His hips were narrow, the bones cradling the muscles of his walnut-colored stomach. His shoulders were the sort that might carry the carcass of an antelope across the arid grasslands for a week, without complaint. I met him that morning, in the breakfast nook, off the pool. The sun was three fingers above the horizon and we were the first to stir.
“Coffee?” he asked.
I was alone. The morning Wall Street was before me. The air was warm and humid, even at 8:00 a.m. This was, after all, Jamaica.
I reached for the margarita and looked him up and down. “No thanks, this will do.”
I took a sip and slowly licked the salt off my lips, then looked back down at the paper. The Dow Jones had taken a dip due to some bullshit statement from the Fed. Some idiots in some frumpy little third world dive had taken some hostages. A minor internet upstart was overvalued. Some actor I’d never heard of had died at age 99. The humidity was soaking into my skin. My red toenails were glistening, my sarong was lying next to the beach chair. The margarita was almost gone when “cabana boy” walked over to see if I wanted a refresher. Conscientious fellow that he was, he carried a mister filled with cool water.
“Would you enjoy some coolness, miss?” he asked. A bead of sweat was running down his cocao chest. I set the paper to the side and took off my glasses. My feet fell to the sides of the lounger. “Sure, hon,” I replied. I closed my eyes and reveled in the fine mist that my morning slave sprayed all over my naked body. Beads of water coated my breasts and tummy and thighs and delightful labia. When I was coated in sparkling liquid, Mr. Cabana asked if I’d like a refill on the margarita. It took me a moment to regain my grasp on reality. When I opened my eyes, my gaze instinctively fell on the fullness of his trunks. Not daring to look into his eyes, I answered, “Sure, hon.”
The rising sun, the rising heat, the rising desire, the rising fantasies…I lost interest in that damned paper and the rest of the world. I just sighed and sank deeper into the lounge chair, waiting for Adonis to come back with my drink. After all, I was at this place to let go of the rest of my life. Twenty years behind a desk, staring out high rise office windows at life, had left me thirsty for a different and more basic reality. I’d had my shot at men in silk suits and patent leather shoes. I’d actually had a few shoot in and all over me. It was fun, but it wasn’t what I wanted. After all, a hard dick is not always an adventure. I owned my own business, back in the states. Here, I wanted someone to own my business, and I didn’t really care how they did it.
Before my little buddy returned with my second drink of the morning, Cece and her very nice-looking companion padded across the flag stones bordering the pool and settled in next to me. Cece was dark-skinned and small. Her companion was milky white and leggy, with tits that were natural and showing a little use. Still, those nipples stood tall and proud. I had met Cece the evening before, in the piano bar. She was young and adventurous and had booked a flight to Jamaica after her bonehead boyfriend had fucked some high-schooler in a drunken stupor. Cece had a score to settle, and wanted photos to prove it. She apparently found someone to assist her. Her name was Mica and she had an added benefit in her ability to speak French.
“Did ya get any?” she asked, nonchalantly, gazing out across the smooth water of the bay through her oversized sunglasses. Her left hand traced Mica’s right thigh as she spoke. Mica was available.
“Naw,” I replied, but I’m workin’ on it. Just then, Mr. Booty headed my way with the drink I’d ordered. His thighs were remarkable. Long and sinewy, I imagined that they could drive rivets through steel girders. And that stomach…I really didn’t care whether he was making beans and had no health care benefits. That stomach could bounce a cement block dropped from the top of my condo.
“Here you are, miss,” he said, politely, while trying to keep his gaze on my eyes.
I reached for the margarita. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Antoine,” he replied, confidently.
I doubted that he was stupid enough to give me his real name, but I played along. “So, Antoine,” I purred, “where does a woman, like me, find a perfect beast like you?”
If a Jamaican can visibly blush, Antoine did. While he was formulating his young male testosterone answer, I spread my legs and reached over to run my fingernails down Cece’s right shoulder. She giggled.
Antoine regained his confidence and announced, “We have a competition, this afternoon, down on the beach. You should be a part of that.”
“Oh,” I said, “and what sort of competition is that?”
Antoine took a moment before replying. His smile was intoxicating. It took over his whole face. I thought the bulge in his pants looked a bit larger.
“Miss…you will do quite well.” He looked at Cece and Mica and ran his thumbs under the waistband of his trunks. “I think you may win,” he said, glancing back my way. “The competition starts at three.” Then, turning back toward my neighbors, he asked, “Ladies, may I get you something from the bar?”
Mica asked for scotch on the rocks, not a bad call for breakfast. Cece doubled the order. Mr. Hotstuff turned to retrieve the drinks.
“I think you’re meat, baby,” Cece said, looking at me with a Cheshire grin. She spread her legs a bit to allow my roving hand to explore her oiled and warming skin.
I decided to force some issues. “Hey Mica, let’s see who’s meat.” I leaned over and kissed Cece and plunged my hand into her crotch. Mica ran her hands over Cece’s breasts and stomach. Nothin’ like hot sun, warm skin, oil, the smell of the ocean and booze to get a morning off to a great start. By the time the scotch showed up on the scene, Cece was spread wide with her arms thrown up over her head. She gazed through her sunglasses at Antoine and came like a bronco, coating my hand with her juice. Antoine waited, patiently, until she settled into her lounge chair, then offered her scotch. The outlines of his long cock were readily visible and he took evident pleasure in showing them off as he handed Cece and Mica their refreshments.
“You will all do quite well, this afternoon,” he said with a broad ivory smile.
I use photos, sometimes, to help illustrate the sexual emotions I'm trying to evoke in my writing. Sometimes, they add to the artistic expression. Sometimes, they detract. But, when it comes down to it, the pictures really exist inside of each one of us. Eroticism is in the mind, after all. And the photos in our minds are often more vivid and more meaningful and more fulfilling. So, here's a photograph in my mind...
The place is buzzing. It's on a dry and dusty playa. Dance music is blaring. Costumed people, half-costumed people, naked and half-naked people are grinding to the beat. The place is sweaty and dirty. It reeks of horomones and pheromones and herbal smoke. The room of dancers is below us. We watch from a balcony, rubbing our skins together. She wears a short skirt and dusty boots. My hands cup her naked breasts. The beat, the heat, the animal odor, the love...it's as thick as tapioca pudding and as warm as summer honey. When I slide the skirt off, over her gyrating hips, she allows it without a break in the movement of her sensual body. When I press my cock into her, we dance.