My wife’s breasts stand proud as she sits up, stretching her arms towards the burning midday sun. I feel the familiar warm surge of affection. At 35, she is only a slightly more generous version of the statuesque showgirl I found, sequinned and feathered, in a Vegas chorus line. She is blind now, but I love her no less.
She reaches for the suntan oil, pours a rich stream across her chest, then spreads the coconut-scented liquid over her body. Occasionally a slippery hand strays into her bikini bottom which, in showgirl style, is pulled up high on her hips. The shred of fabric becomes oily, defining, rather than obscuring, what it barely covers. She releases a satisfied sigh and reclines again, her skin shining. She has already turned chestnut brown.
The young beach boy, his eyes hidden behind cheap mirrored sunglasses, leans on his rake, mesmerized. His sole purpose in life seems to be cleaning the soft white sand, to make a small portion of this Mozambique paradise neat for tourists like us. For this simple task he earns two dollars a week. Today, I know he would have worked for free.
Though other guests are scattered along the beach, he has spent most of his time close to us, a moth attracted to the flame of my wife’s almost naked body. Each time she’s performed this ritual with the oil, she has noticed that the rake falls suddenly quiet. I’ve described him to her; his age, his height, the bulge in his tattered shorts.
The sun is vicious, too hot for me. I dart across the powdery sand and wade out into the ocean. The water is tepid, its colour absurdly blue. I break into a gentle breaststroke and taste salt water on my lips. A hundred feet offshore, I stop swimming and tread water, surrounded by silence. I can see my wife. She sits up, and the beach boy walks across to her. I know that she’s called to him. She is propped up on one elbow; he squats beside her, close enough that she could lick the sweat from his ebony skin. Her hand moves reassuringly to rest on his thigh as she speaks to him. Their heads turn towards me, sunlight glinting off their dark glasses. I kick into a fast crawl and swim farther out, excited and horrified at the expectation that tugs in my gut. My reaction is still the same after two years, and over a dozen of these . . . little incidents. We have long lost the logic of whether she does this for me, or if I allow it for her. It doesn’t matter.
When I wade back to the shore, she is gone. The boy is gone, too. I relax in my beach chair, and take a cold beer from the cooler. Third world holidays are wonderful, away from the predictable tourist path. What is luxury, if not this? Beer, burning white sand, an impossibly blue ocean, and people you’ll never see again.
I finish my drink and wander back to our tiny hut. Thick bushes with yellow blooms cluster along the pathway with a sickly, heavy scent. Freshly whitewashed, the hut nestles amid the fat, ridged trunks of towering palm trees. And there are two windows, framed in blue. I move palm fronds aside, and step close to one.
She is bending over the back of a wooden chair, her legs spread. Her perfect rump, with its minute pale vee where the bikini nestled, is pressed to the boy’s crotch. He stands naked behind her, and fucks her.
I light a cigarette.
Her breasts sway and the muscles in her long legs flex beneath the skin. Her fingers clutch the seat of the chair. The boy is teenage skinny. The shaft of his cock appears and disappears with his thrusts. I wonder if it feels different to her, his shaft. Do they all feel different, and like Braille she can recognize them? If all the cocks she has ever known were lined up, and she walked slowly past them grasping and stroking each one, would she put a name to each? I’d have no idea if each woman I’d ever had were slid onto my cock, each breast I’d felt were put in my hand.
Shiny lines of sweat trickle down the boy’s spine. I suck on my cigarette and wait.
Soon her head begins to nod; her drawn-out “Yes” comes clearly through the window as she rises to the tips of her cerise painted toes. For a few seconds, she remains on point, then she sinks down and turns around. Her blank gaze passes over me. She is grinning.
The boy’s cock sticks straight out. Its angry purple-black colour is at odds with the pink condom. His cock is long and thin – probably the thinnest one I’ve ever seen. She reaches out to find him. Her hand connects with his hip and moves down. She tugs off the condom and leans closer. Her pink tongue appears. She licks at the tip a few times, then her mouth slides over this licorice dick.
Am I fascinated or horrified? I’m not sure, but something in this scenario makes my own dick lumber to middle-aged attention. I drop my cigarette and leave the window.
The door is unlatched. I walk into the room with my best reassuring smile in place. The boy jumps back, his eyes widening to saucers. I gave him a thumbs-up, and tell him to relax. Uncertain, torn between pleasure and escape, he glances down at my wife, then back at me, then at the door. I hold up a ten-dollar bill and nod my head vigorously to reinforce my generosity. He stares at the money and remains where he is. I step out of my swim shorts and drag the small table away from the wall.
Lying across the table on her back, legs spread on one side, head hanging on the other, she provides perfect access for the boy and me. His cock, now level with her face, slides neatly into her mouth. She cups a hand around his balls, controlling his thrusts. Each time he withdraws her teeth scrape along the length of him, the way I’ve watched her eat an artichoke. From the other side of the table, I lift her legs onto my shoulders. Her thighs are slick and wet from the boy’s previous efforts. I push into her.
In our normal life, sex is efficient and satisfactory; far better since she became blind, but still merely pleasing. We have eliminated the unnecessary and the frivolous. Like eating, we do it often and sensibly. But occasionally we want something different, a treat, and all treats become boring if one indulges too frequently. So we save this, or variations on this, for vacations. And for lucky strangers.
Like demented lumberjacks, the boy and I saw at her from both sides. His eyes catch mine, and I wink. He frowns. I settle into a rhythm that matches his. Small cries of pleasure seep from her. We are a fucking team, the three of us.
She moves her free hand to a nipple, rolls it between her fingers, and immediately jerks and squirms harder. On my shoulders, her legs squeeze my head and begin to tremble. Trapped and impaled between us, she arches and twists as she comes.
Her body relaxes. I slide out of her. His cock slips from her mouth. But she is still for only a moment before she flips over, grabs for him. Says, “Help me here.” Her expression is serious and wild.
I take her wrist, guiding her hand towards his dick. She strokes him a few times, and then says, “Now you.”
I put my hand on him. Her fingers close over my knuckles, feeling what I’m doing. I check his reaction. His lips slide back to reveal white teeth. I kneel and begin to work at him. His eyes close as I tighten my grip, rubbing him harder. His cock twitches, and her hand squeezes mine. Her head is tilted away from us, hearing and feeling what we cannot, living in a sexual world I’ll never know. I envy her.
Suddenly he squirts two pearly jets of come. I hold tight, point him at her and milk another spurt from him, then another.
Sticky white lines are streaked across her face. She laughs as she sticks out her tongue and licks a lingering drop from her lip. “A flood,” she says.
I stand and pull her up, and tell her that kids always have a lot of spunk. And as I say it I feel him grab my own cock. I take her hand and let her feel this happen.
She pulls me closer. “Let him, please.”
“But . . .”
“Please.”
This is our game, to pretend I am reluctant. That I allow it only for her pleasure. Already hard at work, he has understood nothing of this. His roughened hands are surprisingly adept. She squats next to us, listening, a small smile on her face as her own hand moves between her legs.
Until two years ago, I’d never had a man touch me. At first I was shocked at how much I liked it. I had no idea men did it better, that their careless aggression was so exciting. I have no interest in what label this attaches to me: gay, bisexual, who cares? It gives us pleasure. Life is for living.
My pale shaft swells between his dark fingers. The swollen ruby head disappears and reappears as his fist slides over me. I feel young again. I wish she could see.
As if reading my thoughts she reaches out. Her fingers are wet. “My stud,” she says. “Tell me it feels wonderful.”
I tell her, between groans, and she laughs with delight.
Her pleasure makes me swell even more. The muscles in my thighs harden. Warmth spreads slowly along my spine. The boy feels my reaction and speeds his stroke. The heat moves faster and accelerates, until it burns through me with a rush, and my juice makes a small arc onto his arm. My legs relax, but his hand continues to move on me with no less insistence. I am at that contradictory place where I desperately want the exquisite agony in my cock to end, but never stop. To my surprise, I pump another white stream across his hand and then the pleasure is too much. I pull away from him and sink to the floor exhausted.
My wife leans forwards and kisses me. “Thank you, baby.”
Too spent to reply, I gesture to the boy. It is time for him to go. He pulls on his tattered shorts, takes his money, and turns towards the door.
My wife and I sit together, entwined on the warm cement.