We Begin With Talk Of Drink and Debauchery – Hazy Memories of Desire

Disclaimer: In the best tradition of Gonzo journalism, drink and overstimulation have made these events hazy, and they may or may not have happened at all, happened in a different order, or were simply witnessed. There’s really no way to be sure. But my heart is full of joy.

By the fifth Melon Ball, I held onto the sides of the bar for dear life, wondering perhaps to myself but likely aloud if anyone could tell I was really drunk. I darted my eyes between my companions, of course they could tell, we’ve known them for days here now, and never had I been known to swing my arms wildly through the air, cutting broad swaths with every ill-conceived point I felt I absolutely had to present to as many people as would listen at that moment. Still I felt for some absurd reason I could maintain, keep my cool, and raised my hand.

“Another Melon Ball, Miguel…” I made it a statement, and Luis, the bartender, was kind enough to not signify my drunkenness by mentioning that he was not, in fact, Miguel. As my drink was being prepared, I found myself distracted by the OTHER drink Luis was preparing. “Miguel,” I asked, but he couldn’t hear me over the sound of his blender, and because he didn’t respond with his customary “Si, Señor” I began to wonder to myself if he wasn’t Miguel, who I’d ordered these very same Melon Balls from all evening.

In fact, looking closer, I found myself overtaken by the fear that I’d mistaken him for someone else. Was I some kind of racist? A man who would assign the same generic Hispanic name to anyone under the employ of Desire Resort and Spa? Then the horror hit me deeper, was the earlier bartender named Miguel at all? Had that name been conjured from the ether? I raised my hand, prepared to address this situation with the good man, eyeing his name tag with eyes that wouldn’t focus.

“Melon Ball, Señor.” He set my pastel green drink in front of me and was gone down to the far end if the bar before I could explain myself about the incidental racism.

Another two Melon Balls had passed through my lips, and I was discussing horrible things, politics and religion; these are not topics one should attempt while a firm sight beyond drunk, naked and exposed, balls rubbing against the stools with imitation wicker seats at the bar. Before long the racism was forgotten, as were my companions, who’d moved on to wondering how our women were getting along on the couch behind us.

But this is the way one plays things, right? When you go to an “all-inclusive” the staff perhaps is disappointed if you are NOT drunk, aren’t they? Or perhaps at this resort they’re simply wondering why those who remain clothed choose to do so. After all, when given permission to let it all hang out, one really ought to throw caution to the wind and do just that. There is little so free as a flaccid cock dangling between your legs and flopping against your thigh…save perhaps an erection that a Brazillian with the tits and ass and eyes and mouth of…well, a Brazillian, looks at you and gives that little half smile to show her appreciate of your peacockesque display.

After all, I sat at the epicenter of the American dream on a small stretch of beach on a peninsula in Mexico. Ironic that we in The States forgot to chase the dream when it went south of the border. A place where hedonism reigns; pursuit of pleasure over all else, debauchery and passion. A place where people do look twice at you, lying on a bed with a woman who’s most definitiely not your wife straddling your face while you consume the juiciest portions of her beautiful anatomy, but instead of clucking their tongues, or drawing back with the shriek of a dowager, they nuzzle with one another and smile, watching what is often quite a sexy show. Then they look over and watch your wife on the next bed, performing fantastic acts of fellatio on a massive uncircumcised phallus.

There would be none of that tonight, however. Not if the Melon Balls kept arriving at my seat at the bar. The frequency has even been increasing, one arriving before 2/3rds of the previous is gone. Perhaps this is the modus operandi, chock me full of drink and point me in the way of the ocean to stumble into the surf and then on to commune with Baccus in eternity. Dark thought out of nowhere. Though I wonder if any concept of Heaven throughout history has ever contained the things I’ve seen in just the last three days. And if not, I want to come here when I die. And for the rest of my life.

I found my eyes blurred with tears I tried to explain myself to a nude blonde next to me. The raving about the American dream and some concept of heaven must have moved her, because she leaned in and left a kiss on the corner of my mouth, then leaned back and raised her eyebrows at me. She wrapped her crimson lips around her straw and I was aware that some would call these gestures signals. My descent has been all encompassing however, and I smiled, raised my glass to her and said something about the beauty of the ages.

“You’re with the redhead, right?” she gestured with her drink to my wife and the collection of girls on the couch who’d moved beyond talking and onto the dance of tongues that has caused more than one onlooker to slow their gait as they made their way across the open-air lounge, perhaps on their way to dinner. Such a lovely pre-meal sight, three women enjoying the sapphic pleasures of one another’s mouths.

The question struck me as odd, “with the redhead,” but before I could philosophize about the absurdity of being with someone, and mention that just now I was with the very woman who asked the question, something deep in my subconscious took over, bypassing my mouth, and threw my head forward with a nod.

“We’ve been watching you two.” She again punctuated with a suck on the straw. Another kiss on the corner of my lips, her fingers find my hair and this mystery woman stands from the bar and disappears into the evening. I mourned not getting her number for a moment, then realized the absurdity of that desire. Our phones have been in solitary confinement in the room safe since the moment we set foot inside, and there they would stay. But Desire is a village, a collective of like-minded sinners, and she’ll find the hottub soon enough, and in a resort that only houses 200 people, we all see each other again. And those special few again and again.

But what did that mean, that she’d been watching us? I began to reflect on the two kisses, the straw sucking, the hair tussle, and surely there were signs there, signs that anyone who hadn’t sucked down (good god) twelve Melon Balls could’ve picked up on. All I could think of were The Police, and Sting being his best stalker self.

I stood before I realized that my brain wanted to stand, and perhaps it was due to this disconnect that I began to sway.

“How’re you doing, Coop?” asked Violet, who’d also been watching me, when her extremely talented tongue wasn’t in my wife’s mouth.

“I don’t wish to alarm anyone…” I proclaimed in such dramatic a fashion as surely frightened the other lovely hedonists at the bar, perhaps wondering if the man in a baseball cap and chuck taylor low tops was going to announce he had a bomb…could happen even here in paradise, as one could never get far enough from reality and the real world. “…But I may in fact be drunk.”

“Doesn’t seem to be effecting you TOO negatively,” Violet lobbed back, indicating my lap, and what I found to be a rather large erection, pointing out like the gnomon on a sundial. I felt if I lie myself down, we might find it to be playtime o’clock. I shared my joke that would’ve been funnier if Alan Alda had said it, and the group concurred.

Thank Baccus for the pharmacological assistance, with the finest bootleg erection drugs coursing through my veins, coming from miscellaneous red pills that almost surely are taking time off my life. But that’s the time at the end, when I’m senile and can’t get an erection anyway. I’ll take the time just now, the time that included going back to our room with two other couples, throwing our Liberator Throe blanket down on the bed, providing at least one of the girls with a sillicone cock and harness, and becoming a sea of bodies on a bed thats size made it impossible to be anything but a sea of flesh writhing together, rising and falling like the tides and experiencing joys that many of even the most powerful people in the world never get around to.

Pure and unadulterated hedonism, beauteous sex triumphing over the forces of old that would cast us out in a heartbeat. Proclaiming our acts to be an affront to their god. Then in the dark when perhaps that god can no longer see them, crying and masturbating and cumming into the darkness, visions of debauchery in their head that they can only imagine or catch on the Internet late at night after their frigid and pious wives have retired to experience their own sobbing mediocre climaxes.

For us in that room, and those on the sacred acres around us, our acts were our own prayers, our worship at the temples of each other, each moan an amen and each climax a hallelujah. And in our afterglow we all drifted to the same thoughts of some sort of bargain with an underworld character (Hades perhaps) that would allow us to never leave this corner of the world.

This place and time of utter perfection.

This bliss.