I had some difficulty getting hotel reservations. This was back in the Dark Ages of the 1980s, in the days before cell phones and the Internet, so I had to do things the old-fashioned way. I went to a AAA office and paid for a membership. In addition to roadside assistance, they provided members with maps and travel guides. So, I grabbed a thick book that contained information on all the major towns and cities of North and South Carolina, including restaurants, hotels, and places of interest.
I located the section on Myrtle Beach. There was a map pinpointing all of the hotels near the Pavillion and up and down the strand. I started calling them one-by-one. Since I wanted to make a good impression on Connie, I insisted on getting an ocean-front room. I was excited about having a view of the ocean and sitting outside to watch the sun come up over the Atlantic. I'd never been in a position financially to afford such a luxury. Unfortunately, none of the hotels near the center of Myrtle Beach had any rooms, let alone ones with a view.
I extended my search in both directions along the coast. Finally, I hit paydirt. The Polynesian Resort at 10th Avenue South had ocean-front rooms at reasonable rates. It sounded fantastic. I mean, after all, it was the Polynesian RESORT, not Polynesian Motel. So, I booked a mini-suite, called a Deluxe Efficiency, that had a full kitchen and a living room. I figured that way we could cook if we wanted to. Best of all, it was on the top floor.
I booked the room to arrive on Tuesday.
I made sure there were adjoining rooms and asked if I could reserve the next door for my roommate. They allowed it but said Mike would have to call within 24-hours to book. If he didn't, they would release the room, and someone else might get it. So, I immediately gave Mike the information.
"Here you go," I told him. "You need to call this number within 24-hours and book your room if you want to have the adjoining suite next to us. If you don't, someone else may get the room."
Mike took my notes and assured me he'd call right away. I then left to take Connie to Crabtree Valley Mall to look for new bikinis and other beach-appropriate clothes. When we arrived back home, Mike was gone.
Connie took the bags of new stuff into my bedroom, and I sat in the living room, sipping on a Bartles and Jaymes. Five minutes later, she came out wearing her new pink bikini, with a matching neon pink Panama Jack muscle shirt on over the top. I had on a matching white one. Muscle shirts were all the rage at the time. They were just t-shirts without sleeves and with slits cut from the armpits down to the hips so your muscles would show through. Allegedly, people wore them at Health Clubs, which I detested only slightly less than singles bars. Wham and Def Leppard had made muscle shirts famous.
She had her long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore a pair of mirror-lense sunglasses we'd picked up at the Sunglasses Hut. Her complexion had a natural tan appearance, but she'd been laying out a lot lately and had a bit of a bronzed tint that made her look super sexy against the pink.
The bottoms of the bikini could be seen beneath the muscle shirt, covering about half of her ass cheeks, and forming a little triangle in front that didn't entirely cover her bush, giving her a distinctive camel-toe. Connie had very thick pussy lips, which only made her camel-toe more pronounced.
"How do I look?" she asked as she spun around tantalizingly.
"Turn around and bend over and let me see your ass," I replied. Connie gave me a funny look, then turned away and bent over at about a 45-degree angle. As she did, her ass spread out wide, and the pink fabric stretched, then slid together into her crack, leaving most of her ass cheeks exposed.
"Well?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder.
"You look hot!" I said.
Connie smiled, straightened up, and faced me. "You have to say that, you're my boyfriend," she said, then looked past me into the kitchen. "What do you think, Mike?"
"I'd fuck you," he said, startling me. I didn't know he'd snuck in. But, there he was, standing at the bar, sipping a Coors Light.
Connie blushed but grinned.
"When did you get home?" I asked, looking perturbed.
"I never left," Mike replied. "I was out on my patio, smoking a doobie. Do you guys want a toke? I can fire it up."
"No, that's ok," I replied, speaking for both of us. I got up and took Connie by the hand and led her back into my room, closing the door.
"You may want to trim your pubes, baby," I told her. "They're sticking out the sides."
"Yeah, I plan on doing that tonight when I shower," she said, blushing. "Do you think Mike noticed?"
"No, I doubt it," I said, reassuring her. "Have you ever thought about shaving it all off?"
"No way!" Connie replied. "Nobody does that!"
"I don't know," I said, "I hear it's trendy in Brazil and Hawaii. I even saw some girls in pornos shaved down there."
"You're kidding, right?" She asked, not believing me. "I can understand trimming it when you wear a bikini, but shaving it all off? Who would want to look like a twelve-year-old?"
"I don't know, it's kind of sexy to be able to see everything," I countered. "Plus, I hate getting your hairs stuck in my throat."
"Then don't put your mouth down there, and you won't have to worry about that," Connie argued.
"No way," I said, pulling her onto the bed. "You know how much I love licking your pussy."
"You're a pervert," she said playfully.
"You don't say that when you're busy grinding your pussy on my mouth and cumming hard," I said, teasing her.
She jumped up from the bed and snapped at me, "I told you not to talk about sex stuff like that! I don't want to hear about it!"
"Oh, come on, Connie," I said. "It's ok to talk about sex. How will we know how to make each other happy if we can't talk about it?"
"I don't want to talk about it!" She snapped.
"So, you don't mind doing it," I replied. "You just don't want to talk about it?"
"If you keep talking about it, I'm not going to let you do it anymore."
"Don't you think that's a little weird?"
"No, you're the weirdo," she said, pointing at me. "You're the one always wanting to be dirty. I told you, I don't want to do nothing until we get married."
"There's nothing wrong with sex," I said, trying to soothe her.
"Sex is a sin!" She snapped. "I have to go to confession and tell my priest what you make me do!"
Her accent was coming out. That happened when she got mad.
"Ok, ok!" I said, giving in. "I won't talk about sex anymore."
"And don't ever ask me to shave down there again! It's disgusting. I'm not a puta! You want a puta, go down to Six Forks Road. They hang out on the corners."
