(Again, I'll call this fiction)
Sandals all day long, beach sand warm on my ankles, the tassels of cut off Levis ticking my legs, a tank top for the tropical heat, and as I walked down the sandy street I could hear the same song playing on the one radio station coming from house after house. New, concrete buildings and Mayan palapas, the music drifted from one after the other. There wasn’t really anywhere to go, but the trick was to go there slowly, Caribe pace, and to look important going there. As long as I avoided the bloated dog that no one wanted to deal with, then walking was good. Until it rained, of course, because then the sketchy Mexican power lines started popping and arching over head, and that always worried me. I guess that was my biggest worry of the day. I was a professional beach bum on the Caribbean, and I did it well.
That day fucking a’ Joe and I were cleaning the hull of his boat, masks pulled over our heads and laying in the eighty degree water while holding onto the side of his panga, scrapping away with putty knifes. I was there because I loved that boat. It was the perfect way to charm women. I’d meet them in town and offer a snorkeling trip around reef, and fucking a’ Joe would fill up the ice chest with wine and beer, and way we’d go. With the water, the booze, and a gentle chatting up of women on vacation who wanted to have a good time, and pretty soon their names all blurred together. It was working like a charm. Spanish women, German, Gringas, hell, we had ‘em all. It was a sport, a challenge, and I was working it like a skilled athlete.
I mean what more could a man ask for? Here on the Caribbean coast of Mexico there was an endless supply of chickies wanting to hookup, and all I had to do was tie the hook. Yep, I was Moses in the land of mild and honey, and my seed was flowing.
I don’t know why I climbed out of the water when I did, but I stood up, cut-offs sagging low, water dripping from my sun-bleached curls. And the three of them were walking toward me along the beach; all decked out in new vacation bikinis. The blonde one carried a sun parasol that caught the wind and folded up at that moment. It was fate, and I was off toward them, never wanting to let an opportunity slip by.
I trotted toward them and made a joke about the sun parasol. We laughed and talked for a bit, and pretty soon I had all three of the college girls in the boat. Fucking a’ Joe had a shit eating grin on his face as he helped each one climb in. I stood on the bow pulling us out to the anchor so I could pull it up. When I climbed over the girls they giggled as they spread sun screen over their legs and arms. When I got back to Joe I whispered: “The ugly one is yours.”
At the town pier we tied off and carried the ice chest to the tin roof market in our bare feet, the asphalt hot and making us hop and run. Byron, the fat owner of the market saw us shoving six packs and wine into the chest, and hurried to the saloon door and looked at the pier. “You have more women? Cabrone!” he said in Spanish. As he moved close he hit me on the shoulder and whispered: “Your pecker is going to fall off.”
“Duty calls, Byron. Someone has to do it.”
Yeah, I was free and young and having so much fun. We spent the day laughing with the girls, snorkeling around coral heads, showing them turtles and rays buried in the sand, and a little nurse shark sleeping in a cave. It felt so good to be out on the water in the open air, covered with salt and the sun warming my shoulders. We didn’t try to chat them up. No, we were just having fun, letting this hand of cards play itself out as it would, letting the day put us together, eye contact while helping them into the boat, or handing one another beer. It was easy and good.
When we got back to shore we all agreed to meet in Mike Black’s restaurant up the road in an hour. Joe and I tied up the boat, and I swam back to visually check the anchor, making sure it was set securely in the sand. After that we each hurried home to shower so we could hurry back and see where the night would take us with the girls.
“Dude, there’s three of them, so one of us might hit two! I like my chances,” laughed Joe.
“I told you,” I answered as I hurried up the road. “The ugly one is yours. The other two want me bad.” I heard him laugh.
The mariachis were strolling around the restaurant when I got there, and the girls were clapping and happy. Joe had not gotten there yet, but I wasn’t complaining. The scent of the Caribbean came in from the terrace, carrying magic with it, possibility. There was the thrill of the moment in the air. We ordered shots of anejo tequila, and sat there telling jokes and recalling things that had happened on their trip.
By the time our food was eaten Joe still had not appeared. And right out of the blue one of the girls invited me back to their room at a near by resort.
I tried to look as though I had to consider my options. I mean three women were inviting me back to their room, so I had to play it cool; I mean, I was a busy man, you know.
At the bar in their resort we bought a bottle of rum and took it up to their room where we did some acrobatics on their bed, each of us taking turns and the other rating our effort. But after that one of them put on some music, and I felt the mood change. We sat on the floor and a couple of them sang along with the music. Inside I was cracking up, thinking of all the possibilities with three women, who would be where, and even better I thought that surely my friends would give me a metal. I would be an elite player for a while, The Dude.
But as I poured everyone another drink, dropping ice cubes into our plastic glasses, I noticed that two of the girls were getting closer to each other, and the other certainly wasn’t getting closer to me. And then it came to me through the haze of rum and my own ego: The girls were together, and didn’t need a man for what they had going.
With that realization I laughed, just threw my head back and roared. The player had been played, and that just cracked me up. Had I been 5 years younger I never would have believed it, that these women would not be better off with the services of …me. But you know, it was all good. I was happy for them. If that made them happy and gave them pleasure, then I hope they rock they shake the world with passion. Of course I’d still love to be in the middle of it, but hey, I’m a dog.
On the way home me and my bottle of rum laughed and thought over what I would tell my friends. After all, the art of the story is all about what you leave in, and what you leave out.