Lola Dreams of Gang Bangs
“Lola, by any chance did you watch Lily Phillip’s fucking a hundred cocks?” I asked over breakfast.
“Who do what?” she replied.
“Don’t be coy.”
We were sitting on the roof deck of a fancy five-star hotel in South Beach. To my right was the famous Ocean Blvd. and then the Atlantic. To my left was the roof deck pool, cabanas lining the side of it, and a bar at the far end. In the pool and lying out in the early sun were topless women and their husbands sunning themselves and drinking cocktails. It was only ten in the morning, and at that hour a Bloody Mary is basically breakfast. Or, at least it is when you’re on vacation.
“Of course I watched it,” she finally blurted out. “Why?”
“I was reading an article this morning that was quite enlightening about it.”
“I bet you were,” she said with jealous derision in her tone.
“Do you care to read it?”
“What’s it called and what do you find so fascinating about it?”
“It’s called ‘Lily Phillips: One Woman’s Dream of Don Juan’ or something like that. In a nutshell, it says that there is an archetypal sexual fantasy for men and another for women.”
“I’m curious. What would those be?”
“For men, it’s the – well, it’s a little difficult to explain,” I stumbled over my words. “But basically, every man fantasizes about being an Alpha Male on steroids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just imagine Rocky, The Terminator, John McClane from Die Hard, all rolled into one.”
“I get it, like Tyler Durden is to what’s his name in Fight Club.”
“Exactly. And, he doesn’t have a name.”
“The fantasy figure?”
“No, the narrator for Fight Club, played by Edward Norton. He’s so castrated that he doesn’t even get a name.”
“Castrated?”
“Never mind.”
“And what is a woman’s fantasy? Please, do tell,” she said sarcastically, underscoring that it is not a man’s place to tell a woman her fantasy.
“According to this article, Don Juan.”
“Don Juan?” she repeated, stunned. “He’s a male fantasy, if anything. I mean, he is the prototype for those movies you just mentioned.”
“That’s what’s interesting about this essay,” I said. “It’s a little too convoluted for me to explain. Why don’t you read it yourself.”
I texted it to her. She finished her breakfast, stood up, removed her bikini top, and sat in one of the lounge chairs facing the pool, phone in hand, reading the article.
I ordered a mimosa and sat across the pool from her. I watched her from behind my dark sunglasses as her left hand held the phone in its palm and her right hand moved lower and lower down her abdomen, to her bikini bottom, and then between her legs, where she pulled the thong to the side and revealed her long, meaty labia. She slowly stroked them in full view of all to see – especially me.
The boys get a real thrill when Lo’s around
When she was done with the article, she looked up from her phone. There, in the pool, were at least two men and a few boys who had been spying on her just as I had been. Let me be clear, everything she did was unconscious. When she’s engrossed in something – a movie, a book, an article – she is oblivious to the onanistic meanderings of her free hand. But her audience was engrossed in her. Each of them – including me – tried to pass it off as if they hadn’t noticed a thing, but it was abundantly evident – to me and everyone else, especially the wives and moms around the pool – what captivated their attention.
She glanced over the brim of her large and dark sunglasses, smiled, fixed her bikini bottom, and walked to the bar where she sat on one of the stools. It was a small, tiki-style bar, only big enough for four patrons at a time. She waited for the bartender who, at that moment, was delivering a tray of drinks to various patrons around the pool.
I met her over at the bar and said, “Well? What did you think?”
“I like that the author doesn’t deny Lily Phillips her right to claim her own pleasure, her own fantasy. I like that he doesn’t say, “She says this, but she must be wrong.”
“And?” I was expecting a critique.
“I also agree with the observation that no man, no matter how virile, can ever get it up enough.”
“I thought you’d like that. I mean, that was the theme of our second book, More!, after all.”
“But,” she began.
“Ah-ha! I knew there was a but.”
The bartender returned to his post and asked Lo what she’d like. Lo got excited. She stood up from the stool and was now bending over, leaning on the bar, showing her thong-clad butt off to her loyal fans in the pool.
A.I. of Lola by the pool
“Hmmm,” she said, licking her lips, “you have all these specialty cocktails. I love their whimsical names!”
“I think she’ll need a minute,” I said to the bartender, with a wink.
She was wiggling her butt in anticipation of the fun drinks, like a puppy excited to play.
“So,” I said, bringing her back to the conversation. “What is the but?”
“Well, I think there are a lot of fantasies – not just two.”
“Fair, but I think he’s talking about a fundamental fantasy.”
“You know,” she said, looking at me now, “even Don Juan wasn’t so simple as people make him out to be.”
“Your point?”
“Well, when he was a young man – I mean, really just a boy – he was sold into slavery and then, when spied by the sex-starved sultana, Gulbeyaz, she had her eunuch buy him for her, dress him up as a harem girl, and sneak him into the sultan’s seraglio for him to please her on the sly.”
“You mean, in Byron’s telling of the tale,” I said.
“Of course Byron!” she responded.
“And your point?” I asked again.
She turned her head over her shoulder and looked at her admirers in the pool.
“Well, maybe Don Juan is a woman’s fantasy, just not the Don Juan who beds all the women. Maybe the Don Juan who. . .”
“Lo, I think I know where you’re going with this. You weren’t dreaming of Lily Phillips while reading that article over there,” I nodded to where she had been lying down. “You were dreaming of MILF Meri’s son.”
“Por qué no los dos?”
“Madam?” asked the bartender.
“I’ll have the Red Headed Slut shot,” said Lo, licking her lips.
“Very good. And you sir?”
“The Blue Balls shot.”
Meri and son with a bull
