and mussed up her short,wet hair. “Ed!” she said to her husband, seated on a lounge chair behind us. “I get that right from your point of view?”
“It ain’t quite ‘If it feels good do it,’” said Ed, a craggy-featured construction boss. “But then you never did do unto others what you didn’t want others to do unto you. Why I’m a fortunate man.”
“Correct,” Carla replied. Then she swiveled around and yanked on my ear. “Moral’s what other people put in here. Being kind’s what we’re born with here.” She pressed her forefinger against my chest, then repeated the gesture on her own reddening breast. “Uh, oh. Gimme back my suntan oil, Bill!” she yelled to an ad executive she’d slept with last night.
Wearing only a blue yachting cap, skinny Bill stood up from where he was massaging oil onto his wife’s bottom beside the umbrella and ambled obediently over to Carla. “There’s another question you should write about when you look at morals,” he said, lathering up his hands with Paba 21 and smoothing them over Carla’s shoulders and breasts. “When you look at morals, you have to look inside the person telling you what’s moral. Nine out of ten times what moralists say is not what they’re thinking of doing.” He squatted and kneaded the lotion down over Carla’s belly and onto her thighs. “Look around here. Eyes are the window to the soul. Everyone is saying exactly what they’re thinking, doing what they’re saying.”
“Ask me, that’s why the moral majority’s pissed off all the time,” Ed reasoned, moving from his lounge and sitting beside Carla. He too lathered up his hands and began to massage his wife’s lower back. “They
want
to do it but they ain’t allowed—even to say so.”
“Oh, they’re doin’ it, they’re doin’ it,” Carla laughed. “Most moralists are not only mean—they’re unscrupulous.”
I shifted my eyes to Chuck, the New York school principal, who lay on a plastic lounge chair sipping a Cuba Libre beside his wife of twenty years, a counselor named Leah. Bothwere bemusedly contemplating Carla—their favorite among the threescore lifestylers scattered around the disks of shade provided by the thatch umbrellas posted along the shore. Chuck and Leah had recently accompanied our tour leader, Joyce, on the most orgiastic Lifestyles holiday—the Houseboat Getaway—but they were soft swingers. As they’d told me last night at the disco, they liked to watch other couples make love and often made love while watching, but they didn’t exchange partners. Like the six other couples around them who had coalesced into an intimate clique since landing in Loreto a couple of days before, they were trim and good-looking. Leah had a curly, thick mane of red hair and narrow, refined eyes that squinted at the world with pleasant intelligence. Chuck, at first glance, seemed like a ferociously intimidating schoolmaster—tall and black-bearded, with dark eyes that focused on you intently when you talked—although more often than not he was searching his mind for the maximum riddling direction he could yank a conversation.
“Oh, is it
my
turn now?” he asked when he noticed my gaze on him. “God made man and man made religion! See that cloud over there?” He hitched his head at a big cumulus, kicked up probably by the hurricane passing south near Acapulco and towering like a Himalayan peak over the arid Island of Carmen. “See that under it?” He meant the white mist trailing from the cloud’s middle as it passed over the island. “Is that an immoral act? Quick!”
Everyone in our circle of naked couples looked to see what he was talking about, including Joe and Doris who, while not far enough away from the group to be out of earshot, kept at a safe distance. I watched Carla narrowing her eyes at the cloud and island, trying to bring them into focus without her glasses. “What in hell you talking about, Chuck?”
“Desire and
“It ain’t quite ‘If it feels good do it,’” said Ed, a craggy-featured construction boss. “But then you never did do unto others what you didn’t want others to do unto you. Why I’m a fortunate man.”
“Correct,” Carla replied. Then she swiveled around and yanked on my ear. “Moral’s what other people put in here. Being kind’s what we’re born with here.” She pressed her forefinger against my chest, then repeated the gesture on her own reddening breast. “Uh, oh. Gimme back my suntan oil, Bill!” she yelled to an ad executive she’d slept with last night.
Wearing only a blue yachting cap, skinny Bill stood up from where he was massaging oil onto his wife’s bottom beside the umbrella and ambled obediently over to Carla. “There’s another question you should write about when you look at morals,” he said, lathering up his hands with Paba 21 and smoothing them over Carla’s shoulders and breasts. “When you look at morals, you have to look inside the person telling you what’s moral. Nine out of ten times what moralists say is not what they’re thinking of doing.” He squatted and kneaded the lotion down over Carla’s belly and onto her thighs. “Look around here. Eyes are the window to the soul. Everyone is saying exactly what they’re thinking, doing what they’re saying.”
“Ask me, that’s why the moral majority’s pissed off all the time,” Ed reasoned, moving from his lounge and sitting beside Carla. He too lathered up his hands and began to massage his wife’s lower back. “They
want
to do it but they ain’t allowed—even to say so.”
“Oh, they’re doin’ it, they’re doin’ it,” Carla laughed. “Most moralists are not only mean—they’re unscrupulous.”
I shifted my eyes to Chuck, the New York school principal, who lay on a plastic lounge chair sipping a Cuba Libre beside his wife of twenty years, a counselor named Leah. Bothwere bemusedly contemplating Carla—their favorite among the threescore lifestylers scattered around the disks of shade provided by the thatch umbrellas posted along the shore. Chuck and Leah had recently accompanied our tour leader, Joyce, on the most orgiastic Lifestyles holiday—the Houseboat Getaway—but they were soft swingers. As they’d told me last night at the disco, they liked to watch other couples make love and often made love while watching, but they didn’t exchange partners. Like the six other couples around them who had coalesced into an intimate clique since landing in Loreto a couple of days before, they were trim and good-looking. Leah had a curly, thick mane of red hair and narrow, refined eyes that squinted at the world with pleasant intelligence. Chuck, at first glance, seemed like a ferociously intimidating schoolmaster—tall and black-bearded, with dark eyes that focused on you intently when you talked—although more often than not he was searching his mind for the maximum riddling direction he could yank a conversation.
“Oh, is it
my
turn now?” he asked when he noticed my gaze on him. “God made man and man made religion! See that cloud over there?” He hitched his head at a big cumulus, kicked up probably by the hurricane passing south near Acapulco and towering like a Himalayan peak over the arid Island of Carmen. “See that under it?” He meant the white mist trailing from the cloud’s middle as it passed over the island. “Is that an immoral act? Quick!”
Everyone in our circle of naked couples looked to see what he was talking about, including Joe and Doris who, while not far enough away from the group to be out of earshot, kept at a safe distance. I watched Carla narrowing her eyes at the cloud and island, trying to bring them into focus without her glasses. “What in hell you talking about, Chuck?”
“Desire and
Similar Books
