Breakfast was clothed and pleasant, but I cringed as the resort MC announced the days' activities over the loudspeaker: "Pimps Vs. Hos Nude Pool Olympics," "Pimp and Bride Find Your Mate," and "Human Sundae/Body Shots and Chants." My mom suggested something seemingly innocuous instead: snorkeling. But this was Hedonism, after all, so snorkeling was encouraged au naturale. As we sped toward the reef, my mom mouthed "No" to Harry, but, like a horny prom date, he kept pleading, "C'mon, Sue, do it. C'mon." The motor cut and the boat drifted to a stop. Everyone stood, flung off their life preservers and stripped nude. Harry stood up. "Don't look, Hadley!" my mom warned, but it was too late: with one clean motion, Harry unpackaged the package. He stood for a moment before jumping into the water, proud and almost posing. My mom, laughing, apologized to Hadley before jumping in, following Harry's pink, thin body swimming in circles near the boat. The captain watched us after everyone else had jumped in, breathing into our masks and staring at our flippers until we finally followed. The reefs were spectacular, but every few minutes, Harry floated across my view like the Nevermind baby.
Finally, we worked out a compromise honoring my mom's need to spend time with me: half of each day together and half separate. The hours spent with her were pretty agonizing. Harry flirted lewdly with everything that moved, and I responded with a steady diet of drinking and quiet rage. We'd meet on the prude side to play ping-pong or pool, but then Harry would interrupt to join a nude conga line or whistle up at the Sun Coast Swingers soliciting from a nearby balcony.
It had all become a little clearer to me: my mom had invited me here because she wanted to carry on our tradition of yearly vacations; time with me was more precious than ever, now that I'd left home — and her. But she also wanted to please Harry, a man she actually liked. This was her way of trying to make everyone happy, but I wondered whether she was happy. At the first convenient moment (when Harry zipped off to the men's), I asked if all his flirtation didn't bother her, if she didn't find it insulting.
"Not really," she replied. "This place gives him a chance to feel free and not get scared, relationship-wise."
Did I detect a hint of misery in her voice?
Did I detect a hint of misery in her voice? I contemplated digging deeper ("Don't you think he's been spending a little too much time with the nipple-ring woman?" or "Is he really here for you or for the lesbians with the inflatable dildo?"). But then I noticed her eyes: rested and clear and bright. They'd always been marked by dark, sulking rims that grew with each man's relapses and confessions. But this time she had found something that worked. How could I stand in her way? On the other hand, was I obliged to witness her way?
Either way — and despite Harry and his happy hot dog — the resort still managed to ignite my sex life with Hadley. When we were alone, I came to be fully comfortable and enjoyed everything. Pre-dinner hot-tub orgies below my window? Kind of wonderful. Poolside, blind-folded, identify your wife's pussy contest? A once-in-a-lifetime sight. The woman getting creative with sausages at breakfast? Ditto. We'd always enjoyed certain risks, and late night hot-tub misbehavior and half-naked raft foreplay sparked excitement. There was also an undeniable appeal to being the constant object of desire. Sans-strawberries, we were making it work, and even participated in Fetish Night. That night, we collapsed into post-coital sleep, still connected at the wrists by our Fetish Night handcuffs.
When it was finally time to leave this erotic Eden, I filled up a large water bottle with a mudslide and drank it in the shuttle bus bound for the airport. As we stood in line for the flight, my handcuffs suddenly slipped out of my suitcase. As I scrambled to scoop them up, my mom blurted to everyone in line, "They were just for a costume party!" and then whispered to me, "People might think those were for sex."
I choked down my laughter; she had the same aversion as me. There are just some boundaries that neither parent nor child wants infringed. In the year since the trip, I've been able to accept my mom's semi-swinger lifestyle. I want her to be happy, and thirty years from now, given the choice, I'd rather be booking tickets for Hedonism XLII than stagnating in a sexless marriage. But as my finely crafted beer-gut shields my genitals from that Caribbean sun, I'll make sure to have left the kids at home. n°
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Joe Lazauskas is the former corrupter and editor of his college newspaper who's recently taken to the vagabond life studying abroad. He enjoys writing essays exploring the heart of vintage baseball reenactments, prose poetry, and seeing what happens when you drink way too much gin at a nudist resort. He finds no greater pleasure than drinking outdoors and calling the cops on himself.
