Sticky, Sweaty, Salty, Sour: Sex and Marriage on Caye Caulker

I count the turns as I ride into town – 2^nd left, 3^rd right – watching for the telltale signs that guide my way.  Lazy Iguana B&B, Cocoplum… there are no street signs and the locals won’t give me a map.  They say I couldn’t possibly get lost on an island as small as Caye Caulker.  Try me. 

“Hey baby, where you going?” The friendly and leering Belizean boys reach out their arms to catch me as I pass.  I avoid them and the potholes in the white sand road as I try to keep my skirt from flying up.  I just showered and I’m already sticky from sweat, my skin burning after 6 hours spent in the relentless sun.  I feel good, clean and alive, and ready for anything.

My ex-boyfriend Henry told me before I left on my solo adventure to Central America that I was going to “fall in love with some Belizean guy.”  This is part of our relationship now – we tell each other the stories of our sexcapades and laugh at each other’s sluttiness.  I would classify him as a fellow Slutty Feminist.  We broke up when things were still good between us, just because we wanted to explore ourselves and other people.  We still have sex and spend whole days together.  No one understands that we’re no longer “in a relationship”; we seem more in love than a lot of couples I know.

“I’m gonna get you drunk tonight,” James beams, placing another grapefruit rum cocktail down in front of me.  He’s a local.  This is his place, his nickname’s on the wall.

Anita, his Norwegian wife, smiles coolly and looks away.  James’s expression hardens as he turns to her.

“You want something?”

Anita points to my drink. “Yeah, I’ll take one of those.”  Instantly, the energy shifts.

“What the fuck?”  James is pissed.

I turn my attention to the local woman working the grill.  The smell of fresh charred lobster pours over me in a smoky wave.

“Well, you didn’t ask me before so…” Anita laughs it off, biting her lip.  I shouldn’t be here, I think.  The third wheel to their marital spat.

I had a relationship like this once.  The hateful little jabs, the undercurrent of sarcasm and frustration, the inability to keep a lid on it even in public.  I ended up cheating on that boyfriend.  And then I broke up with him, albeit months and possibly years after I should have.  And I had thought about marrying him.  I thought we were soul mates and would have a baby and be together forever, even though a lot of the time I wasn’t happy. 

                                                   

It seems like all the local guys on Caye Caulker cheat on their wives.  At least that’s what one of them told me.  By day, they are tour guides taking American and European tourists out on fishing/snorkeling/diving trips; by night, they fuck white women.  And their local wives stay South of the island in the ramshackle huts where tourists don’t go, and take care of their children.  It seems like a pretty shitty arrangement to me and it makes me ask myself once again the question I’m constantly asking myself: why are these people married?  Because I understand very well the human impulse to fuck different people, but I don’t understand at all the impulse to commit to fucking the same person for the rest of your life.  I don’t actually believe this is a human impulse; I think it’s an antiquated tradition that has no place in the ever-changing world of today.

Take Anita for example.  Anita is this cool, independent woman who used to work some serious, business-y job in Norway before one day finding herself in Caye Caulker where she fell in love with local man James and decided to completely change her life.  Now she spends her days cleaning the rooms they rent to tourists, hanging out with their two dogs, and turning the other cheek when her husband hits on 20-something white women.  But Anita is clearly not meant for this lifestyle.  She’s tall and serious and strong and smart.  She’s intellectual, and now that the honeymoon’s over, I can see that she’s fucking bored.  I don’t blame her.  In fact, I feel a certain kindred connection with Anita – a mutual strong woman/ tall-blondeness that makes us inherently understand one another, and we talk freely.  Except about the one thing I’m really curious about: her marriage.  This is the subject we don’t broach.  Because she and James are not happy together and James obviously wants to fuck me.

Anita and James close down the restaurant and we head to the karaoke bar, the only joint still serving booze after midnight.  At the bar I stand uncomfortably sandwiched between the unhappy couple.  James keeps buying me drinks and I wonder what his plan is – take me back to their place and tell Anita to wait outside while we have sex?  I’m acutely aware of the awkward symmetry in the situation.  I’m the 20 years younger version of his 40-something wife, and James, in the primal tradition of men everywhere, wants to feel young again by fucking me.  I also don’t know how to diffuse the energy because I’m really bad at not flirting.

This is why I’m down on marriage.  Because I constantly find myself in the position of the Other Woman.  And it’s true, I don’t always diffuse the tension and, to be honest, I have no qualms about sleeping with a married/unavailable man because I don’t think it’s my responsibility to save his relationship and, if he wants to cheat, he’s going to cheat whether he does it with me or not.  Also, it shouldn’t be discounted that sexually I have very little self control – when I want it, I want it, and no one can stand in my way. 

But it just so happens that I don’t want James, and I really like Anita, so I choose to walk away.  Literally.  We are standing there in the bar and, without saying a word, I walk over to this cute local guy wearing a cap that says LA.  He’s been eyeing me all night.  This is the same guy that later tells me about how all the local men like to fuck white women.  I can feel James watching me as we talk, his disappointment is palpable.  Man, your wife is standing right there – why don’t you try to fuck her for a change?  It’s so totally depressing I can hardly stand it.

LA Cap Guy speaks Creole, Garifuna, and broken English.  I ask him to say something in Creole, a language that sounds a lot like English but is virtually impossible for me to understand.  He says he will if we can walk out to the end of the pier.  I know this is a ploy but at this point I’m into it, and I’d like to escape James’ penetrating gaze.  The pier is overpopulated with couples looking for privacy so we head back and walk along the dark shore.  I suggest a night swim.  He says it’s going to be cold but, thinking he might get laid, starts to take off his shoes.  I pull my dress over my head and wade in.  He’s right, it is cold, and shallow and mucky.  We sit in the muck and he pulls me into his lap – I can feel his huge erection poking into my back.  He kisses my neck and paws at my breasts and asks if I’m “enjoying” myself.  I know this is his hospitality training and I wonder if he asks the same during sex.  I decide I don’t want to find out.  I pull away and head for shore. 

“I’m cold.”  I actually am.  My teeth are chattering, I’m ready to go home.

After he’s done meticulously getting dressed, he pulls me in close and asks if he’s the only local boy I’ve ever “dated.”  I explain that we’re not dating, that I’m single.

“Why are you single?”

“Uh, because I want to be.”

He can’t believe this.  Actually, no one here can believe that I’m single by choice. 

His dream is to marry a white woman and move to LA.  I hope this isn’t a hint-hint.  He admits he’s got a bet on me with one of the other locals.  $30 Belize ($15 US) he’ll fuck me.  I tell him he shouldn’t have told me that, but I also find it hilarious that he did.

“I bet your lips are sweet.”

“They’re not,” I tell him.

He laughs and asks for a kiss.  I let him because his boxers are wet underneath his jeans and that can’t be comfortable.  His tongue tastes like sand paper and cigarettes.  His lips are squishy and sucking on mine.

I retrieve my bike and ride beside him as he walks back to the hotel room he keeps next to the dive shop where he works.  He talks about how he’s a dive master and a “boss” because they gave him his own hotel room.  He’s proud, he loves his life, he’s not married and he gets to fuck white women.  Don’t move to LA, I pray for him.  He wants another kiss.

“I really love you,” he says.

I hope this is a language barrier thing.

“Goodnight!” I shout, and scoot off.

The next morning, I run into James in the street.  For some reason, I find myself expecting to be scolded by him.  For running off with another guy.  Why I feel I owe him anything is totally beyond me.  But he seems cool and gives me a high-five.

He had said he’d come by the cabana to take me out on his boat this morning, but he never showed.  I ask him why. 

“Oh, I didn’t know if you’d still want to.”  I feel like we’re in high school.

I was actually totally relieved when he didn’t show up this morning.  I realize now if I find myself alone on a boat with him, it’s anyone’s guess what he’ll do, and I don’t want to make the situation any more awkward and depressing by rejecting him.

But as I watch him now coolly surveying the spill of tourists walking along the road, I realize that I’m just another blonde woman from the States to him, and there will be another boatload of us coming in by noon.  I feel better, because I didn’t really hurt his feelings.  He won’t miss me when I’m gone.  I’ll just be another white woman he didn’t get to fuck.

Desperately Seeking Orgasm!

I’m starting to wonder if guys realize that women actually like having sex.  There’s a bit of a 50s notion going on where men are like ‘okay, I need to just stick it in, pump a few times, and get it over with so I can let her go to sleep.’  Does this have anything to do with man’s ancient fear of vagina, I wonder?  Is it like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom – get in and get out ASAP before someone gets hurt?  Even my very sensitive, lovely and cunning linguist ex-boyfriend once referred to it (speaking as a 13 year old boy, when he encountered his first vag) as a “scary little monster.”  To this I say, come on guys, there’s literally nothing scary about a vagina.  It’s this soft, fuzzy thing with little pink lips, totally harmless, totally sweet and loveable.  But I digress…

Times are a-changing and I’m not looking for some rich guy to buy me a house, make me a baby, and stick a rock on my finger.  I’m simply looking for someone to give me a goddamn orgasm.  Shouldn’t be too much to ask.  Just saying.

So, this one night I find myself engaged in a pretty raunchy encounter with a random gaffer in an Albertson’s parking lot in the middle of the night after an event at my work.  After following me around all night with a string of suggestive commentary, he wants to “walk” me to my car.  In preparation for coming attractions, I pop a mint in my mouth.

“What are you sucking on?”

“A mint… You want it?”

“Yes.”

And with that one no-nonsense exchange, we’re off.  He grabs me, kisses me, sticks his tongue down my throat, a rich man-smell emanating off him making it all the more primal and exciting.  We rub on each other and groan, trying to keep it down so the folks chatting just out of sight around the corner won’t hear us.  I am stunned into silence when I notice his penis poking out at me under the fluorescent lighting.  Bold move to whip it out in a parking lot. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just gonna rub it.”  He bends me over the hood of my car and starts to put it in.  I push him off.  No, this is not happening.  I’m not having unprotected sex in the Albertson’s parking lot with a total stranger.  I have to draw the line somewhere.

“Come on, just a couple pumps,” he begs.  It’s tempting but I stay strong and get my panties back in position.  I drive away, very hot and bothered, and upon arriving home, I put my rabbit (not the kind with fur, the other kind) to good use.

Since that fateful night, our relationship has consisted of sexting dirty pictures back and forth, and intricately detailing the nasty things we’ll do to each other once our opposing schedules finally align.  He promises to make me “cum 5 times” and wants me to “sit on [his] face and drip down [his] chin.”  The talk is hot but it leaves me all worked up with nowhere to go.  For weeks I try – and fail – to get him to come over after work (he claims tiredness, I discover through my own research it’s more like live-in-girlfriend-ness… he promises via text that she is “on her way out”… I decide this is Not My Problem). 

So this one night, I’m being put up by my work in this really sexy hotel room.  I mean, literally on Santa Monica beach, waves practically crashing on the bed – SEXY.  I’m thinking, there’s no way I’m not getting laid in this room tonight.  I weigh my options.  On one hand, my ex-boyfriend: lovely, sweetest guy in the world, best friend, amazing sex, awesome orgasms – all in all beautiful man.  On the other hand: Gaffer Guy – totally unreliable, maybe alcoholic, possibly manic depressive, potentially still living with said girlfriend, dubbed “tweaker” by reliable coworker, last seen at random Albertson’s encounter.  The choice is obvious, right?  I mean, right?  Okay, so I’m not a masochist or one of those girls that gets off on being degraded/abused (at least, I don’t think I am), but I’ve had my ex – a lot – and, slut that I am, I’d like some new cock.  Besides, Gaffer Guy is HOT.

Holding out little hope he’ll actually show up, I invite him over.  Incredibly, he agrees to drive from Studio City (?) at 11pm on a Monday night for a company-funded booty call in my hotel room in Santa Monica (??).  I’m excited.  I shower, shave, switch on the electric fireplace, turn up the volume on True Blood (my boss is literally in the next room… like, I can hear her talking on her cell phone through the wall… at least if I get fired, I’ll go out with a BANG).  Half an hour later, Gaffer Guy miraculously shows up on my doorstep.  It’s late, I’m horny and naked under my hotel robe, so I figure, you know, let’s get this show on the road.  I reach out and touch his hair (lame, I know, but you gotta start somewhere and I’m not just gonna grab his crotch). 

“Okay, touching the hair,” he narrates.  I stop.  He goes to “take a leak.”  I lay down on the bed, robe strategically open just the right amount.  He returns and heads for the couch where he promptly cracks open one of the Coronas he brought in his backpack.  Okay?  I join him.  Reach out and try again, this time going for some finger-touching action (what can I say, I’m not used to making the first move). 

“Slow down,” he says.  Huh?  Via text, this guy has seen the inside of my vagina and he wants to SLOW DOWN?!  He wants to “talk.”  We drink beers and try to find something in common.

“What are you here for?” I ask. 

“To hang out,” he says.  He didn’t bring condoms, he doesn’t want to “disrespect” me. 

“Stop being coy and fuck me,” I say.  He says I’m going to get crazy later, women all pretend to be “down to clown” then turn crazy after.  I’m not sure what his point is but if we don’t have sex soon I’m going to start paying attention to the bullshit coming out of his mouth. 

I’ve encountered this male line of thinking before and it completely baffles me every time.  This thing of “I don’t want to disrespect you by just fucking you” and “guys don’t just want sex.”  No sweetie, you’re not hearing me.  I JUST WANT SEX.  Why does no one believe me?!  I didn’t invite you over here to talk like girlfriends – I’ve got girlfriends for that, and guy friends I like to talk to.  I invited you over to fuck.  I’m a big girl, I can live with this decision.  I’m not going to regret not getting to know you later.  Believe me, of my various regrets about this night, that will not be one of them.  I honestly think they actually believe that sex is something we give them so that we have someone to cuddle with and confide in afterwards.  Which leads me to my next point…

I finally coerce Gaffer Guy into kissing me (a harder battle than I was prepared for this late in the evening).  It’s getting hot and heavy, my robe is open, he’s moving down, and before I know it, he’s inside me.  Finally got him right where I want him!  He moves us to the bed and starts taking me from behind (why guys always skip right to doggy when it makes them come so fast is further evidence of the point I’m getting to)…

“You’re so delicious,” he says, grabbing my ass.  He pumps away for a minute and a half and, with little fanfare, tells me he’s going to come, and… comes.  Okay.  That’s cool.  He’s 36 but whatever.  He’ll get his thing back together and we’ll do it again in 15 minutes or so.  That’s fine with me, I actually enjoy the build up.  After all, he did say the first one would be quick and the plan is to have sex all night, right?  I mean, that is what you’re here for… right??

We move back to the couch, me fully naked, him fully clothed.  We talk a bit more.  The more he talks, the less I like him, so I go in for some more kissing.  I actually really enjoy the kissing.  I unbutton his shirt and try to touch his stomach. 

“Stop grabbing my fat,” he whines.  Sorry, didn’t realize I was making out with a 16 year old girl.  Having exhausted all my other moves, I go in for the big one (figuratively speaking).  I reach for his penis and… I can’t find it.

“It’s gone,” he says ominously.  I check, feeling around.  It really is gone.   
“Where did it go?” 

Actually, he’s got it tucked Silence of the Lambs-style between his legs. 

“Stop that, you’re gonna cut off your circulation,” I plead, genuinely concerned that he’s ruining my chance at a second go-round.  It doesn’t really strike me until later how fucked up this is.  At this moment, I’m just sexually frustrated and bored of the horsing around. 

“I’m so tired.  I got like 3 hours of sleep last night,” Gaffer Guy slow blinks.

I just stare at him.  Please don’t do this to me.  Silently pleading with him to pull himself together man, get back in the game!  I push my boobs in his face.

“Oh man, I want a bacon-wrapped cheeseburger.”  Seriously?!  I tell him to eat the $10 pop chips on the bar and take a nap.

“Nah, that’s lame.” 

“You can just leave then,” I pout, hoping to guilt trip him into giving me an orgasm.  He reminds me that he’s 36 and doesn’t need my permission to leave.  Okay, Norman Bates. 

I wonder where did all that charisma and bravado go – you know, the stuff that made me give it up in the Albertson’s parking lot?  I feel blindsided by his insecurity, caught unawares by this person I’m suddenly painfully aware I don’t know at all.  I tell him again that he’s free to go.  He puts a penny on the coffee table. 

“That’s for you,” he jokes.  “That was the best minute and a half of my life.”

“Meaningful,” I say, opening the door to make it easier for him to leave. 

“Sorry for letting you down.” 

“You didn’t let me down,” I respond lamely, instantly regretting letting him off the hook.  Yes, you fucking let me down, you selfish prick.  I’m still learning how to say these words out loud.  He stalls, kissing me (I let him, I know… I’m a slut, what can I say?  Despite it all, I still want to have sex… I know.)

I can’t believe that all his teasing sexts amount to this.  Where’s the guy that promised to make me “cum 5 times”?!  I’m bitterly disappointed in him and, for the moment, men in general.  Who is raising these guys?  They can’t all have crazy mothers and misogynist fathers… or can they?  I’m fairly impenetrable (no pun intended) so I don’t take things like the penny-on-the-coffee-table personally – I actually feel nothing about this, which maybe is not healthy either – I don’t know.  But the disappointment is palpable. 

At 11am the next morning, I’m in a business meeting.  My phone vibrates.  A text from Gaffer Guy: “I got arrested last night on a DUI.  I just got out of jail.”  I feel awful.  Instantly guilty and sorry for making him come all the way to the beach so late at night for a failed booty call.  I apologize profusely, I feel sorry for this sad individual who is 36, lives paycheck to paycheck, and now has to deal with getting his license revoked and spending a ton of money on a lawyer and traffic school and all that shit.  My heart pounds, my imagination runs amok, I’m on the verge of a panic attack when… bzzzz.  New text message:

“April Fools Day in July!”  I stare at my phone in disbelief, trying to get inside the head of this sick person.  And then I realize, no, this is not worth my time. Because as disappointing as last night was, I can give myself a fucking orgasm.  

            “Fuck.  You.”  I write.

            “Yes please,” he responds.

            “No thanks.”  I turn off my phone and go back to work.