I woke first, for some reason I'm an early riser these days. The slight lightening through the window curtains told me it was around 6:00 in the morning, coming up on sunrise. Paula was snoring beside me, blowing little snot bubbles, a slight crust running from her nose to her cheek.
She looked beautiful.
I slowly eased out of bed, wanting to let her sleep. I peed, made some coffee, put Fox and Friends First on the television, and sat. I was mostly thinking. Oh hell, I was all thinking. I have no idea what Steve and Brian and Ashleigh had to say on the television.
I was asking myself the same question I had asked Paula last night - - "should we stop?"
I knew things had gotten out of hand last night but, then, when we were together alone again, it had been good. I smiled and said to myself, actually saying the words aloud, "hell no we shouldn't stop."
Satisfied with my answer, and feeling a stirring in my groin, I started making breakfast.
As I knew it would, the smell of bacon and coffee drew her from the bedroom.
She walked in, naked, rubbing her ass and her belly, walking in stiff little steps.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She smiled, closed the distance between us, threw her arms around my neck, kissed me, and said, "my ass is sore, my pussy is sore, my stomach feels like I threw up stuff from last week, and I had a cramp in my back when I woke up. I'm just ducky."
I laughed and kissed her again.
"Sit, baby," I said, "breakfast is almost done."
I put a cup of coffee, half-and-half, and sugar in front of her and turned to finish before the damn bacon burned.
She ate with gusto. Well, hardly surprising since she had burned a lot of energy last night.
Finally, done, she pushed her chair back, let out a nice ladylike belch, and said, "thank you."
"Let's go back," she said, "I'll take that damn baseball bat between his legs and you can have that mountain of fat."
The look on her face was challenging.
"Paula," I said, "you don't have to prove anything to me."
"I know," she said, "I want to prove it to ME! I freaked out last night, that's all."
"Baby," I said, covering her hands with mine, "are you sure?"
"Hell," she said, and her grin was not a smile of amusement, it was a grin of challenge, "after last night I have a MUCH better idea of what I can take up the ass."
"Slut," I said, grinning.
"Trying," she said, matching me tooth for tooth in the grin.
"Well then," I said, "you'd better shower. You're looking a little sketchy right now."
So I did the dishes as she showered.
When she came out she looked bright and cheerful and ready for anything. She was in bright primary colors, a very bright blue top tight enough that her irritated nipples showed up clearly and short silk shorts in a yellow so bright that if you stared at it things had a bit of a green halo around them when you looked away from her. She had her platform sandals on that tied around her ankles and big hoop earrings, a jangly bracelet, and her big gold dragonfly necklace. If you saw her on the street you'd assume she was a hooker.
Well, I suppose, given the way we were living these days, you'd be mostly right.
I showered quickly too, threw on a pair of cutoffs, a T-Shirt advertising a restaurant we had frequented for our few days on the Gulf Coast, flip flops, and I was ready to go.
And the fancy Class A was gone.
We stood there, surprised, looking foolish I suppose.
"They pulled out late last night," a man called. I looked over and saw him standing beside a travel trailer much like ours. A woman, his wife I supposed, was next to him and I wished I had seen a flamingo on display. She should have been modeling some "mature" products on television.
"Thanks," I said, with a wave.
So we made a tour of it. And again, I was surprised at how many flamingos we saw, either small ones like you see in front yards all over, bigger ones much more elaborate, and some subtle art, obviously the work of a talented airbrush artist.
We spotted the pool and spent a couple of hours splashing around. She was in a more modest two-piece this time but still looking god DAMN good.
And then back to the trailer where I let my fingers dry out while I took a nap in my hammock. Paula sat in her little rocker reading her latest chick-lit book.
I stretched and rolled out of the hammock and went inside to uncase the guitar.
The music had worked before we found the Flamingo Life, but now the makeup of the group was different. It was interesting to see how people interacted. As I worked my way through our repertoire, Paula and me singing, doing, for example, a pretty passable version of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald's version of "Summertime," her doing most of the singing but me with my own favorites, mostly odd little bluesy pieces I had picked up, heavy on Tom Waits and Tom Petty and Kris Kristofferson.
I was surprised, very pleasantly surprised, when the couple that had told us the Class A was gone showed up.
"Jenny," she said, hopping up to sit next to me. "Do you happen to know 'Saint Louis Blues'?" she asked.
"Now that's insulting," I said, and started into one of the most iconic riffs in blues guitar.
Her singing voice was gravelly and deep, much different than her soft speaking voice, and she did justice to the song in sort of a Janice Joplin way.
It turned out her husband was Rick and he and Paula got busy on the grill. The impromptu pot luck party included hamburgers, hot dogs, brauts, pork steak, beef steak, and, of all things, Halibut steak. There was a variety of chips, dips, pretzels, cookies, and brownies. The gummies were THC infused, the beer was cold, and someone had found our blender and was making margaritas as fast as he could pour in the makings.
It was an enjoyable evening.
It was about 8:30 when I noticed Paula head off with Rick. I had figured out, not being completely stupid, that when couples paired off they tended to go to the man's trailer.
By 9:00 the party broke up leaving Jenny and me with a mess. She was a good sport and helped me gather up paper plates and used paper towels and plastic cups and the rest of the detritus of a party well played.
It was fun, just the two of us, talking and necking. They had been in the Flamingo Life for over a decade, pretty much for the same reasons Paula and I had entered it. Sex was getting stale and they were exploring.
We drank another two beers and had a couple of more hits on a joint, and it was like we were in high school or something, flirting and hinting at things to come.
Finally, I took her hand and led her into the trailer.
We fit together very nicely. She was big enough to be substantial in my arms, but not what anyone would call fat. Pleasantly plump would cover it nicely.
And the woman could kiss. Jesus, it was like our mouths didn't just fit, they matched. And her tongue, warm and wet and long explored inside my mouth, making my breath catch.
It was natural to lift my arms when she started tugging on the hem of my T-shirt. She held my shirt in that position, and when her tongue ran down the inside of my upper arm to my armpit and when she sucked, leaving a hickey I was sure, I couldn't breathe. She traced up, her tongue a living thing, until it found my mouth. She held me in that position, her mouth giving me waves of pleasure. I managed, between gasps, to say something like, "you're very good at this," making her giggle before finding my nipple and nipping, making me yelp.
Finally, she pulled the T-shirt completely off and tossed it on the couch.
She was looking up at me and what she wanted was obvious so I did the same thing to her. First I pulled her T-shirt up, capturing her arms in that straight-up-over-her-head position. I liked her bra. It was a sexy thing, mostly lace with wide padded straps. She was heavy-chested and needed the padding. I reached around and undid the six hooks one-handed, holding her in that position.
Her breasts were gorgeous. I had known they were big and when I peeked at the tag on her bra I saw that she was a 42D. But it wasn't just the size. There were full and firm too. Oh, she would never pass the pencil test. I doubted if she had since the sixth grade. But they were full and round. Large areolas, pale and the size of a coffee cup tightened as I watched, love bumps growing and her nipples, small in comparison, hardened too, hard little projections on the top of bumpy cones.
I nuzzled her neck and did the tongue down the inside of her upper arm like she had, leaving a hickey in the center of her armpit.
Her gasp was pure pleasure when I latched onto her nipple, and the sudden wash of her womanscent filled the room.
I finished pulling the T-shirt free and let her arms relax.
She smiled as she reached down and undid the button of my shorts. Her fingers were light as she traced the line where the cutoffs were a bit too tight, leaving a red line around my waist. And still, there were those kisses, those excellent kisses.
Damn, she was good.
She unzipped me and pushed the cutoffs down, my boxers with them. Her fingers were gentle as she cupped my balls, squeezing just the right amount to feel good while wondering if she would give pain as well. She gave the glans a little pinch, smiling up at me.
Obviously, she thought it was my turn, so I reached down to the button of the madras shorts she wore. There was just a hint of a muffin top where the material was tight, but the button was easy to undo, as was the zipper.
I pushed them down and looked.
And stared.
I eased to my knees to get a better look.
She had no labia and no clitoral hood. The labia majora, the big, thick outer lips of a woman's vagina, just weren't there. She stood still as I looked, obviously waiting for my reaction.
When I looked more closely, I could see very faint lines of scars. The phrase "genital mutilation" ran through my mind, but this was clearly careful and professional work.
Between her legs, there was no hint of the fullness you expect to see. Her labia minora, the delicate inner lips, so much like a rose you could understand why people compared a woman's inner-self to a rose, were exposed. There was no clitoral hood and her little vestigial penis, her clitoris, was pink and hard and beautiful.
There was no hint of hair. It was perfect too. There had been no razor or wax involved. This had to be the result of lasers and chemicals delivered over several appointments.
