Hedonism II: The Cave Is for Blowjobs

We looked suspicious. Not because we were buck naked, but because we were buck naked and not fitting in. Claire and I obtained day passes to Hedonism II while vacationing in Negril, Jamaica, and as we sank ourselves into the pool bar among a 100-or-less other nude vacationers, we didn't know what to do. I slammed a plastic cup of Red Stripe. Claire nervously downed a rum punch. Her large breasts bobbed above the water line, one nipple pointing at the bartender and the other toward the ocean 25 yards away. My dick floated and tipped at my underwater bar stool. So that we didn't look suspicious, or like a couple of staring and snickering teenagers at a school dance, or like a couple of writers looking for a story, we headed for the nearest group of people -- three guys and a woman in the southwest corner -- all over 45 and guzzling mixed drinks, laughing like cartoon hyenas right before their doom. Claire told them it was our first day. Eyes. Big Smiles. They pushed in closer.

The man on Claire’s left—a plump accountant from Michigan who wore a ball cap and large shiny aviator glasses—immediately offered unsolicited pointers on how things worked out here at the pool bar: The cave at the end of the pool, right past the hot tub, with the water falling over its front at a steady pace, was for oral sex, “But if you want to give everyone a show you can go right up on the grass over there.” Claire nodded as if this didn’t faze her, but underwater her fingernails dug into my wrist. “And if someone asks if you want to do something and you don’t, just say no. No big deal.”

Nudist resorts, in hopes of lifting up sagging tourism numbers, want to bring back the orgies. But when Claire told me that Hedonism II was one of the resorts we’d be touring in Jamaica while she researched the greening efforts of hotels on the island for an airline’s glossy, I wasn’t really expecting orgies. I expected a lot of gray-headed leather jackets lounging on beach chairs and eating nachos. Maybe some naked and floppy volleyball action. But mostly I expected a bunch of old hornballs on the beach all hoping that everyone was looking at their junk.

“No big deal,” I repeated. But I wanted to say: “I’ll give you all one thing—just because you’re a bunch of undesirables it doesn’t mean that your pubic hair isn’t meticulous or inspiring.”

The women were pear-shaped with tiny breasts. The men were CBS men; they were either loud and barrel-stomached, or weird and bookish and skittering around on the concrete hoping to make an impression.

That accountant then leaned in at Claire and mentioned that “Things really get crazy on the beach around two a.m.”

Claire thanked him while I watched the mouth of the cave, waiting for satisfied and bloated drones to emerge to everyone’s applause. A tall man across from me with a sunken gray chest, David, a Brit with a lot of energy and huge, crazy eyes who looked a lot like Creed in The Office, ordered a round of “Purple Mother Fuckers.” Claire and I shot them, and immediately two more were placed in front of us. The men stared at Claire’s much younger chest.

David’s wife joined the conversation, a short woman with a short bob hair cut. Small breasts. Perfect landing strip. David asked if it was really my first time there. “Sure is,” I said. He rounded the table, water up just over his waist, and when he reached me and his wife, he blurted: “Well, let us welcome you then.” And instead of shaking my hand, he grabbed his wife’s hand and pulled it toward me. Somehow the slow reflexes that kept me on the bench in junior high basketball were suddenly cat-like, and I blocked her from my cock. We all laughed, but they more than me.

I guess that’s what I thought was supposed to happen at a place like that, but I found it paralyzing and hardly titillating.

We left shortly after the guy pointed out the blowjob cave. While Claire listened to the stories of Hedonism’s past, I mostly studied the pool of characters, overhearing phrases like “if you go to the piano bar and end up on top of the piano, be prepared to be naked” and “minutes later men were lining up for blowjobs on the grass.” A few feet away there’s a guy sensually rubbing suntan lotion all over some woman’s big floppy chest and there’s another guy floating from pool end to pool end, sitting saddle-wise on a red raft so that its ends stuck straight up into the air. I remember a lot of hugging. Drinks and drinks. And a certain raft that drifted nearby with 50-or-so rubber duckies on it. Claire swam over to it with me, and she flipped them over and they read “Find the biggest dick” and “Lick a nipple” and “Find Gary,” and Claire stopped flipping them over in case someone wanted us to play. Or Gary found us.

Back in our room, I sat on the bed with a towel wrapped around my waist. I felt pretty empty. Pretty disappointed. Pretty drunk. Pretty over the fact that I was just naked with a bunch of rowdy strangers. Above me, hanging flat on the ceiling, was a mirror. I mentioned its location to Claire as she was about to step into the shower, but when I suggested that we might take advantage of this opportunity too, she looked at me with glassy, taxidermied eyes and said, “You must be kidding. I don’t want to see anybody’s ass right now, including yours.” An orgy this was not.

[For more in this “vein,” check out our review and gallery of Naomi Harris’ America Swings.—Ed.]