"Where the hell have you been, Blake?" asked Krystal.
Blake pulled out a chair and took a seat at their table for two.
"I went off-site today to get some culture," he said, flatly, "Didn't you get my note?"
"No, I did not," she said, slapping her menu down, "You missed a great day at the pool - lots of activities."
"Well I'm sorry, Krystal, if you think the ancient ruins of Tulum don't measure up to the hairiest chest challenge or the belly-flop contest."
Blake snapped his white napkin and laid it on his lap.
"And you slept through the Meet-n-Greet last night!" she added.
"How did that work out?" he asked, perusing the menu, deciding not to mention his surreptitious witness of Bruce's kissing between her hips.
"I'll have the linguine with clam sauce and a glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay," she said to the waiter, and then quickly modified her order.
"On second thought, bring the bottle."
"I'll have the seafood salad and a glass of sparkling water," said Blake.
"Anyway, I met the perfect couple - the Doolittles," said Krystal, leaning in, "They're about our age, second time around for both of them, and they've been swinging since they married twenty years ago. Cassandra is a hoot, and Little Dickie is a doll."
Blake raised an eyebrow.
"Little Dickie?"
"It's his nickname," said Krystal, "I guess he's a little light in the knickers, but who cares? He's handsome, and charming, and funny too. He said it's not the size of the pencil; it's how you sign your name."
She giggled.
The waiter opened the bottle of Chardonnay and poured a quarter-inch in Krystal's glass, prompting her to perform the perfunctory swirling, sniffing, sipping, and accepting. Having consumed a case of it every week for as long as Kendall Jackson was a thing, there was no surprise.
"I showed them your picture," she said, "Told them you were hung like a horse."
Blake frowned.
"Jesus Krystal. That's none of their business."
"None of their business? Are you aware we're at a swinger's resort, and I'm trying to hook us up?!"
"Acutely," he answered, moving the seafood around his salad, which had just arrived, "So, what happened after that?"
"I ran into Bruce," said Krystal, shrugging, and Blake knew by her demeanor she had no intention of disclosing the particulars, "His wife is still sick - poor thing."
Blake put his cutlery down, just so, and placed his palms on the table.
"There is no Mrs. Bruce, Krystal. He's a fucking liar."
Krystal reached across the table and squeezed Blake's forearm.
"Listen, I don't know what's going on with you, Blake, but you need to snap the hell out of it. Now, we're going to finish this lovely dinner, then head to the disco, and if the stars align, we're going to pair up with the Doolittles."
Blake raised his hand and the waiter approached.
"Would you bring me a wine glass, please?"
And whether it was his brewing envy of Bruce, or Krystal's force feeding of full swap, something had crawled under Blake's skin, and for the first time in many years, he was going to scratch the itch with a drink in his hand.
********
Dickie Doolittle perched his spit-shined, size-8, Florsheim shoe on the barstool footrest as he made small talk with Krystal. He was markedly shorter than she was, as many men are when she's wearing her fuck-me stilettos, but he was a hearty, happy-go-lucky guy - a perfectly fine fellow. His wife, Cassandra, was medium in most ways - medium looks, medium build, and medium brown hair, which was medium length, but she was exceedingly confident and entertaining, and that amped her attractiveness quotient. They were, in fact, just as Krystal had described them - the ideal couple to help escort she and Blake through swing territory. As far as the mission at hand went, the Doolittles weren't overly aggressive, but they didn't waste time either.
"May I dance with your wife," asked Dickie, putting his arm around Krystal's waist, and snugging her to him. She put her elbow on his shoulder, and bent the top of his balding head to peck it with her lips.
"Have at it," said Blake, raising his empty glass to send a message to the bartender and to Cassandra, that he was more interested in drinking than dancing, but 2 martinis later, his hands were on her hips and hers were on the floor, as she ground her rhythm section against his groin to the beat of Boogie Nights. Krystal and Dickie had been all in at the outset, glued together in an awkward embrace as they swayed out of step to the music - his head on her breast - his hands under her barely-there dress.
Then all of sudden the filthy stuff got the better of him, and Blake dizzied.
"I need to sit down," he said, stumbling to the bar and dropping his forehead onto it. He was half asleep when the half that wasn't heard a soft sensual voice - her melodious timbre accompanied by a gentle rub-a-dub between his legs.
"Are you going to be OK?"
"Oh Krystal," he moaned, "You... you know... you KNOW I want you."
"Mmmmmmm, show me," she murmured, as her arm wrapped his slumped shoulders, and the palming of his pants intensified.
"Not here, Krysssssstal. You have to ssssssstop," he slurred, attempting to lift his head and open his eyes, "Cuzzzzzzzat's going to make me cum."
"I don't want to stop," she hummed, the vibration tickling his ear, the relentless rolfing rock-hardening him.
"Imeeeenit, Krysssssstal," he said, urgency gripping his groin, "IMEEEENNIT!"
And shortly thereafter...
KABOOM!!!!!!
********
"Ughhhhhhh," he groaned, as the blinding light of day filtered through the uneven curtains, bringing him back from the dead against his will. He fumbled around for his phone, and found himself in selfie mode.
"I look even worse than I feel," he said, pressing his fingers to his face in an attempt to smooth the sleep creases, "Why did you let me drink?"
"I am not the boss of you, Blake," said Krystal, as she brushed her hair up into a ponytail, "and I thought it might lighten your miserable mood. Didn't you have a good time last night?"
"I'll let you know when I remember it?" he said, returning his attention to his phone, "I got a text from Barb," he added, "Nothing earth shattering - just her standard 'I miss you.'"
"I got a text from Ken too," said Krystal, "He wanted to know how my sister and I are getting along, and get this: He wants to pick me up at the airport, take me to a nice dinner, and talk about his plan to go back to work. It's so strange - he always hated his job. On a more exciting note, what did you think?"
"About what?"
"About Cassandra, silly. It looked like you two really connected. First the dirty dancing, and then the handy under the bar. She said she could revive you and boy did she ever."
