WATAMU NIGHTS
It was one of those sultry, Kenyan tropical nights, hot, but not too humid. We were in Watamu on a kind of a second honeymoon, a long awaited trip without the kids. Watamu was just the kind of escape we had been looking for, unencumbered, here in this resort village with its reputation for wild, swinging parties and sultry nights.
We went for a walk on the beach, aching and wanting to fuck right there and then. As we walked, I had my hand on your arse, and I could feel your wetness. Every now and then you would turn and kiss me hard, my cock pressing into you, feeling your wetness. It was open night at the hotel, and we decided to eat a light meal of Swahili coconut prawns and then sit back and observe.
We sat back in the shadows on the big, deep couch, watching the dancers on the floor. It was a hot, sweaty night in Watamu at one of those hotels whose name is long forgotten. Most of the people there were European tourists out to have a good time. The air reeked of sex. This particular hotel had a reputation for wild, swinging parties.
I watched you out of the corner of my eye: you were wearing a silk Thai shirt with no bra, and a long silky Hip Hop dress, sexy boy pants underneath. Earlier in the evening, you posed for my camera with our friend Katie, who was in a bungalow next door to our camp, just for fun. The two of you were in a teasing mood, but Katie had to leave, she had a date in town. But the picture remains ...
It was a bizarre scene inside the hotel's club: these Europeans seemed to have no inhibitions. There were two women in fishnet stockings quite openly fucking in a booth in the corner.
In another darkly lit corner, another two women were naked, and kissing and fucking and nobody seemed to notice, or care.
There was one woman there who seemed out of place, a gorgeous Italian woman in her late 30s, an impish red head, tall, with firm, full, but not overly big, breasts. Her hips were wider than her legs, peasant hips, her nipples shifted against her thin top, swelling. The music changed to salsa, and you asked me if I wanted to dance.
I said no, I'll watch, you go ahead. Just then the Italian woman drifted over and in halting English, said "I am alone here and would like to dance. Will you join me?"
She was looking at me, but the question was directed at you. I inclined my head, and smiled. You rose, ever gracefully to your feet and the two of you began to move together. You found your rhythm fast, as you always do, and soon the two of you were engaged in a wonderful, sensual whirl of hands and hips and breasts and legs. You touched without seeming to touch, seduced without seducing, and I was bewitched.
The music gathered in tempo, climaxed, and stopped. As it stopped, the two of you were touching fingertips, and you did not separate hands, but began to talk, heads inclined towards each other.
The next song started, a slow, sensual Latino piece, full of tropical rhythm. You moved closer, and your hand drifted down to her hip, and hers to yours. Every now and then, I could see that your breasts touched each other, almost as if by mistake, and you moved closer together. She linked her hands behind your head, and you danced cheek to cheek, your hips moving together, your bodies closing in.
Then the music came to an abrupt end as the DJ tried to find a new CD. The two of you looked confused, then moved slowly across to sit on the couch. "Tony, this is Francesca, from Napoli," you said. "She was here with her friend, but they had a fight and he has left for Nairobi. Won't you get us some dry white wine."
Finding a good dry white wine in Watamu is like finding water in the Sahara, but I wandered across to the bar and asked the barman if he had, by chance, any good South African wine. He smiled, and said that he had been hiding a couple of bottles of Durbanville Hills sauvignon blanc under the counter. I could take the lot if I had fifty dollars to spare. "Asante sana, rafiki," I said. "Lete barafu tafadhali," and he passed across the three bottles and a jug of ice.
I poured out the first bottle and we all drank, savouring the crisp dryness in the tropical heat. Then the DJ returned, and the music changed to a thumping disco beat, a mood destroyer. Francesca grimaced and said "I want to dance salsa, not this rubbish. Let's go to my suite and drink wine and dance."
We exchanged glances and nodded. We were camped down the road in our Land Rover, and had merely dropped in for a snack and a drink. Why refuse an invite to a suite with a rich Italian?
We walked through the indigenous forest across the lush lawns, the sea murmuring in the distance, and all three of us stopped dead as we turned the corner and saw two women in their shower, wrapped together, kissing deeply. Francesca giggled softly and hugged you, and took my hand, and said "I like this place."
Francesca's "suite" was down the beach, the honeymoon suite, secluded, sumptuous, a huge makuti living area on stilts in the lagoon, the water lapping underneath. It was completely invisible from the rest of the hotel, hidden behind a grove of trees, paraffin hurricane lamps lit the pathway. We entered, and gasped: the suite had been lit with hundreds of candles, and night jasmine, that distinctive flower of the African tropics, had been strewn on the floor, on the bed, on the path.
Against the back wall was a four-poster Lamu bed fit for a sultan: a bed big enough for four people, mosquito nets draped up ready to be hung. Against one wall was an ornate, brocaded Victorian couch.
Francesca hit a switch, and soft salsa music began to wash across the night, mingling with the sound of the crickets, Christmas beetles and the soft lapping of the waves underneath. She stretched out her hands to you and said "shall we?"
