It was a beautiful night in Mexico.
Chapter 34: The Late Show
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER, AND THEN SOME
Contrary to popular opinion, I was developing the impression a woman’s libido was more robust than a man’s. It was common knowledge that men, once sated via a single orgasm, were as useful to a sexually aroused woman as burnt toast, especially to a multi-orgasmic woman. Though not in the same league as Marci, it wasn’t unusual for Susan to have multiple orgasms, with each one of equal degree. As mentioned previously, Marci enjoyed a range of orgasms, from tiny to large with several steps in between.
In evolutionary terms, perhaps it was similar to a harvest. You didn’t go to the orchard to pick a single apple. You brought along a bucket and filled it up. That’s a rather pointless observation unless comparing a woman’s sexual appetite to her evolutionary instinct to harvest a man’s seed—the more the better. Even with billions of avid sperm, one man’s genetic material might not suffice to secure hereditary offspring.
Nature’s remedy was to dial up a woman’s libido by giving her the potential for multiple orgasms. As bargains go, I felt women got the better one, though of course, it was not without penalty. They were the ones who had to endure childbirth and an often ornery monthly visitor.
But this didn’t explain the evening’s unabashed sapphism. Was it merely recreational? Or did it serve a purpose? This erotic plasticity must have a function, but thanks to the evenings liquid nourishment, the wine, bourbon, champagne, and cognac, I was incapable of deducing exactly what that function might be.
Perhaps its sole function was to prime the pumps. I knew I felt erotically supercharged. The evening’s forthright displays of female bisexually made the men abnormally eager to satisfy their other needs, the ones drearily and subconsciously based in the laws of evolutionary science. One sure way for a woman to get a man eager to deliver his seed was to have sex with another woman right in front of him. I knew I was putting my finger on the scale, skewing the argument in my favor, but I could see the logic here. As Marci had said, she was doing it for me.
I realized this didn’t also mean she wasn’t doing it for herself. There was something purer about a woman’s love for another woman. Who else could know themselves better? Along with that knowingness was a sisterhood, a bonding beyond the male’s reach or gaze.
These musings filled my mind as Harold, possessor of a hollow leg, drove Meg, Marci, and me back to the hotel. He also felt secure in the knowledge that anything was legal as long as one could afford it.
As we were not stretching our intellectual boundaries that evening, the subject of Greg’s dick came up for the drive home.
“Like I was telling Ryan,” said Meg. “It was too much for me.”
“If I had a bag of frozen peas I’d be sitting on it,” said Marci. “But it was kind of kinky to hold it.”
“I know,” said Meg. “I’m not saying I didn’t like it. I just knew I didn’t want to have it inside me.”
“That’s how I feel about all dicks,” I said, feeling I should chip in.
Harold nodded his agreement.
We arrived at our hotel. There was a samba band, or rather a quartet, playing in the lobby, and a surprising number of guests milling about for such a late hour. It was near one in the morning. I wasn’t sure if the earlier agenda set forth by Meg was still active.
“Hey!” said Marci. “Let’s order some champagne for the room!” She walked to the lobby desk to put in a request, and I wasn’t sure if she meant it for the four of us or the two of us. When she returned, she said they would send it right up. We proceeded to the stairs and, rather than saying goodnight to Meg and Harold once on the landing, they followed us to our room.
Once there, Marci excused herself and went into the bathroom.
“Poor girl,” said Meg. “I think she’s really hurting.”
“Is there anything I should do?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Meg. “Give her a break from her vacation wife duties. She’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Marci returned wearing a hospitality robe.
“You okay?” asked Meg.
“I’m great! Is the champagne here? I need like a gallon of that stuff.”
“You were only gone a minute,” said Harold. “It’ll be here soon.”
We were standing in the center of the room. I wasn’t sure of the protocol for having guests other than Susan. There were the bed and two occasional chairs for seating. Before I could shift into hosting duties, Marci told Harold to take one of the chairs and sat in the other one.
With that settled, Meg and I sat on the bed facing them.
“This feels like a high school dance,” said Marci.
“How so?” asked Harold.
She laughed. “We’re waiting for Ryan and Meg to make their moves.”
“Oh, thanks for the pressure!” said Meg. She turned to me. “Ryan, we don’t have to do anything.”
I couldn’t think of an appropriate reply and having Harold in the room made me hesitant to say anything. Plus, reorienting to the hotel had interrupted the tempo of the evening.
“I already diddled Harry,” said Marci. “The least you could do, Ryan, is diddle Meg. It’d be rude not to.”
“It’s ‘Harold’,” said Harold. “Not ‘Harry’.”
“Look at you getting bossy,” replied Marci. “See, Meg, you let them fuck you and they think they own you.” Of course, she laughed. Her mention of diddling Harold put the image of her on top of his cock front and center. She knew what she was doing by mentioning it. I felt myself reviving in a way that could be measured.
Knowing it might also help, she opened her robe to reveal she was naked. Harold looked and smiled. This completed
