40. Horndog
CHAPTER 40
Horndog
IVY
I’m having such a great time with Alistair that I almost forget where we are. It feels so daring, so freeing, to be able to sit naked with other people in a room with no staring, and no disapproval. At most, there are a few appreciative glances our way, and it feels good.
“Pretty safe to say that I’m an exhibitionist, then,” I admit.
“This is excellent news,” Alistair replies. “Now I can show you off.”
“It doesn’t make you jealous?” I ask. “When other men look at me?”
“No, because they’re not the ones who get to take you home.”
“Are you being honest?” I press. I know how territorial he can be.
“Okay,” Alistair relents. “It makes me feel a little possessive, but that’s normal for me. More than anything else, it makes me want you more.”
I sit up straight and grin at him. After this marathon talk about sex, I am more than ready to engage. “Well, I am reiterating my offer that you can have me however you want me tonight. I’m game for anything.”
“My god,” Alistair exclaims, “the pressure!”
“Oh, this won’t be the last time,” I assure him.
I’m sure I’ll only get more open about trying new things.
We decide to zip Alistair up and walk around the boat to see what’s happening. I can hear the laughter, shrieks, and splashing from the turquoise-lit pool before we reach it.
“I’ve always liked skinny-dipping,” I say.
“Yep,” he replies. “Definitely an exhibitionist.”
People all around the steaming pool, inside and out, are making out, face-sitting, sixty-nining, and old-fashioned slow poolside fucking.
“I wish I had access to this kind of party when I was younger,” I say. “I was such a horny teenager and this would have been my ultimate fantasy.”
“When you were younger?” asks Alistair.
“You know, like eighteen. All those good horndog hormones wasted because teenagers know nothing about great sex.”
“Did you just use the term ‘horndog hormones’?”
“I’m not sure where that came from exactly, but you get my point.”
“I do. You used to be a young nubile nymph, and now you’re a desiccated old hag unable to join a pool party because of your rusty joints.”
I push him away, shaking my head. He grabs me and pulls me back into his arms, his chest vibrating with his chuckling.
“Oops, Careful there. The tiles are wet. Wouldn’t want you falling and breaking a hip.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Honestly. I can’t tell you anything.” I don’t mean it. I do, however, feel like pushing him into the pool, but I don’t want him to inadvertently land on an orgy.
“Nonsense,” he replies. “Just because you’re a geriatric, doesn’t mean I can’t be your confidante.”
“You’re deliberately missing my point,” I say. “You’re being obtuse.”
“And you’re being delicious, as always. I would pay a great deal of money to meet you at eighteen when you were a … what? Horndog?”
“A horndog is one thing. A horndog with zero decent prospects is quite another.”
“Yes,” nods Alistair. “Zero ‘decent prospects’. A horndog out of a Jane Austen novel. Imagine the sex we could have had.”
“I would have worn you out in no time, old man,” I say.
He snorts. “I doubt that very much.” Then he freezes. “Wait. How many boys did you wear out?”
“Exactly zero,” I reply. “They didn’t know what they were doing, and neither did I.”
“A crying shame,” Alistair says. “Nothing short of a tragedy.”
“I guess we could make up for it.”
“Better late than never,” he agrees, pulling me close again to whisper in my ear. “Before the osteoporosis sets in.”
I change my mind about pushing Alistair into the pool when I feel his strong arms around me. I feel so safe wrapped in his muscular body, pressed against his chest and abs. And happy—happy that we’re out of danger, that we make each other laugh, that we get on so well—even though we’ve had a few fallouts, we always manage to get over them. Life with Alistair is exciting. Dangerous, yes, and unpredictable, but also fulfilling. Alistair gets me. I’ve never had a connection to a man like this before. Becks, yes, always, but never a man.
We keep walking. We want to see what’s on offer before making a decision. We pass a dance party, a fancy dinner, and a sound bath session, after which Alistair elbows me in the ribs to show me my “tribe”.
“Soon they’ll all be taking mushrooms and doing naked yoga with goats,” says Alistair. “You watch.”
“Ew,” I reply. “No, thank you.”
“But they are your tribe,” he insists.
Don’t get me wrong. I love psilocybin, nudity, baby goats, and yoga, just not all at the same time.
We pass various bars, more pools, and more parties. All looked good enough to join, but Alistair seems to be looking for something—or someone else. Finally, we find it.
I scrunch up my face. “What is it?”
It’s like someone has taken a large shallow inflatable kiddie pool and filled it with transparent slime. Adjacent is an outside shower to hose off.
“You liked the sensual anointing, so I thought you might like to try this. I’ve forgotten the name, but I know it. Body-safe, organic, zero chemicals,” replies Alistair. “It’s made from an Asian seaweed.”
Ew, again.
I lean forward to sniff it, but it doesn’t have a smell. I scoop up a handful. It’s incredibly smooth and slippery, almost like silicone gel, so suddenly it makes sense. It’s basically a giant bath of lube.
“Wow,” I say. “Who would need this much lube?”
“Old ladies with osteoporosis?” he jokes.
The pool of slime isn’t well-lit like the pool or the bars, so not many guests have discovered it yet. Perhaps it’s for later in the evening when people mind less about getting messy.
“It feels amazing when you’re covered in it. Wanna hop in?”
I grimace. “I’m not sure.”
“Let’s get in and I’ll give you a shoulder massage. You can get out at any time.”
“Famous last words,” I reply.
I take off my panties and gingerly dip a toe. “I’m not sure that I like the fact that it’s warm.”
“You’d prefer to be covered in cold slime?”
“No, you’re right,” I deadpan. “Cold slime is not nearly as sexy.”
I did say that Alistair could have me any way he wanted me. What I hadn’t expected is to be marinaded in nori, but I was determined to be open-minded. To avoid the ick-factor, I get in quickly to not draw the experience out, but it’s so damn slippery that I immediately do a half-split, shrieking, then smack right into the center of the jelly, twisting every limb I own. It makes an awful SPLAT! sound.
In the shocked silence that follows, I hear a strange muffled sound, and turn to see Alistair trying to hide his laughter. He’s doubled over, so he’s not doing a very good job. Seeing him like that is contagious, though, and as much as I try to hold it in, I can’t help laughing. I move to a more comfortable position, so that I don’t look like Bambi on the frozen lake, but the more I try to move, the more I slip, and the more I shriek. Alistair can no longer hold it together, and guffaws openly, which only makes me laugh more. We keep inadvertently spurring each other on. Every time I think I’ve recovered, I catch sight of Alistair in hysterics and it sends me into another round of belly laughing. We’re cackling like lunatics and we don’t care.