For one thing . . .

River comes in. “I had to swing by the grocery store and grab some meat.” I’m about to say it, when she pulls something out of the bag. It’s big. It’s green. It’s got some serious girth.  It’s like a double-dong. Or a horse dick. “And a giant cucumber!” “Uh, I was going to say—” “Something rude?” “No, I was going to say you could grab my meat. But I can’t compete with that.” I can’t compete with it, but it’s giving me all kinds of ideas. “You need somebody to share that with. And I’m not . . . the right kind of person.” For one thing, I can’t stand cucumber.


Women Don’t Get Hotel Sex

Women don’t get hotel sex. At least River doesn’t. But I’ve heard she’s not the only woman who doesn’t get it. For some reason, being in a hotel room with River makes me want to have sex with her. Right there right now. Maybe it’s a territorial thing: I’m expanding my territory, or marking it somehow. That fits with hotel sex being (mostly?) a man thing.

River does say “variety is good”. But I guess that doesn’t include variety of location. Like after living here all these years we still haven’t done it in the laundry room. But to be fair we’ve done it everywhere else. Except the kids’ rooms. And the laundry chute. Even the back yard (River’s idea) and the front balcony (mine) say “Reed and River were here”. But she doesn’t get that sexual boost, thrill, jolt, whatever that I get from a hotel room. Or any place away from home.

We’re in San Juan, Puerto Rico. First time for either of us. I’ve never been anywhere in the Caribbean. We’re staying with our kids in the Acacia Boutique Hotel. Something a little special. The rooms she booked have us in a separate room from the kids. We’re just staying here overnight on our way to and from Anguilla. Bookends for our real trip. You’ll be hearing plenty about that.

River says being in San Juan is romantic. So far so good, with the room and the romance. I’m glad she’s getting a romantic vibe from San Juan, even if I’m not. I like a romantic vibe, it helps me a lot, makes me want to fuck, but really all I need is a hotel room. Or some other kind of variety. Or River.

All day long I’ve been staring at the boobs in her sun dress. Her boobs. “Are you wearing a different bra?” “No. Just the hot pink one.” Always a good day when she’s not wearing beige. Beige is the worst bra color ever. Probably the worst color ever. One of those non-colors. “It’s rather . . . effective.” I want to add “if you know what I mean”, but she knows what I mean. And so do you. Suddenly she has cleavage. Not the kind that looks like a butt crack, but the kind where it looks like she has boobs. Which she does. Really small ones. I like them that way. I’m always staring at chicks with small boobs. Like the tall black woman waitressing at E’s Oven while I stared at her. Leaves something to the imagination. Mmm, imagination.

So here we are. We walked a few blocks from our boutique hotel to a place recommended by both the taxi driver and the guy at the desk, and had some delicious Puerto Rican food in a really busy (and loud) place. Walked back. The kids have been sorted into their rooms, and we’ve done our bed-time reading with Brook. Boutique hotel plus separate rooms plus romantic San Juan plus yummy dinner is adding up to some good rumpus. Maybe some sweet rumpus, maybe some raunchy rumpus, but definitely some good rumpus.

So why is River coming to bed with panties on?

She only does that for two reasons.  And it always means not tonight.  The first is shark week. The second is when the kids are having a sleepover at our house and she’s afraid she’ll have to get up in the middle of the night for some reason. She’s always afraid of that, but it never happens. Does that make her crazy? Probably. She does have to get up to pee at night (having kids does that) but the bathroom is right nearby so getting there and back naked should be a non-issue. And she has a robe.

So WTF with the panties? “I just don’t want to sleep naked here.” We’ve been sleeping naked together a long time. I converted her. There’s just something about snuggling with a naked sweetie. Every time I think about it, wondering what that something is, I come to the same conclusion: she’s naked. That says it all.

But I realize we’ve been sleeping naked together so long I’m not remembering the thrill of feeling her through her panties, my hand floating over the fluff of bush pushing the fabric above her skin, slipping my finger through the leg and into her wetness, then sliding them down at the proper time while River lifts her ass off the bed to help. Or I would do it. Tonight.

But I don’t. We’re not only passing up hotel sex, this is a whole new country for us to fuck in. To expand my territory. And we’re not doing it.  Why not?

It comes down to three things. I must be tired. She’s been an exceptionally good girl on our vacation. And my sentimental streak kicks in: it’s strangely satisfying to leave Anguilla in a class by itself. The only island in the Caribbean that we’ve fucked on.

You’ll be hearing more about that.