Red Bikini

It’s the morning after the wedding and we’re hungover from tequila shots and dancing like idiots. We’re nearish the Texas border, in Monterrey, Mexico, which no one’s ever heard of before, but it’s supposed to have really good steak and a close friend of mine is marrying a girl from there, so there we are.

Around noon, which feels like an ungodly hour in our state, family friends of the bride arrive in several cars to ferry the group from the hotel to a house out in the countryside for a final hang. It’s supposed to be a long drive, but worth it; we are told the house has a pool.

I’m small, so I always end up on someone’s lap in these situations, which usually is more uncomfortable, but this time, I get in the backseat between the legs of my friend, much better than perching on a lap. She’s straddling me and I feel like I’m being embraced. She has these thick thighs and soft curves. We joke that if we put her ass and my tits together on the same body, people wouldn’t be able to handle it. But it’s true, we’d take over the world.

I sink into her, taking comfort in her feminine form—it makes me feel softer toward my boyfriend somehow. He is in the front seat ahead of us, and every now and then I reach forward and stroke his neck. He’s been distant this trip, we’ve been fighting, and we’ve barely touched except for the mechanical fuck we had the day before, just hours before the wedding. Me on top of him with hair and makeup done, careful not to mess it up, I simply fucked him until I came. He knew I needed it, but it was too clean; glorified masturbation.

The car ride is fun even though the drive is long. We’re all in that silly post-drunk mood where you still might actually be drunk and you go with it. I take a moment to acknowledge a feeling of distinct happiness: despite my headache and weak stomach, I’m being ferried around a foreign country by a local, surrounded by friends that love me, and my boyfriend who may or may not love me, but regardless he’s along for the ride.

We pull up to a gated community, and suddenly we’re all paying attention. We’re entering what looks like a neglected wildlife park, dotted with a few homes, the mountains looming in the distance. We crawl out of the car and enter the grounds, immediately heading for the pool.

The air is crisp in a slightly sad, pre-fall mood, but we strip to our bathing suits anyway. The sunshine, weak as it is, feels like a tonic on our bodies. We’re languid on lounge chairs, starting to hurt, and we reach for beers to soothe us. One, two...the third is the one that’s medicine.

More people arrive and there aren’t enough lounge chairs, so I climb onto my boyfriend’s, melting into him, saying very little. He’s big, 6’2”, and his arms around me feel reassuring. He has a steadiness that grounds me. I close my eyes and put my nose in his armpit. I know he’s probably mad at me, I was mean in the morning, but I’m in a better mood now. This day feels like the resolution of what was a difficult trip: we’re going to be okay.

We eat lunch, everything is fried, it’s perfect and spicy, healing our hangovers. Then the children, the brave ones, get in the pool, so we migrate to sit on the edge, dipping our feet in. I lean back in my red bikini, my hands getting stamped by the rough surface around the pool. My feet in the cool water give me a rush, and my nipples tighten. My boyfriend is watching me from behind his sunglasses. I can tell, so I arch my back a little. He looks cute in those sunglasses.

When he’s happy with me, he’s flirtatious and affectionate in a way that disarms me. Now, he reaches behind me and grazes the top of my butt through my thin bathing suit, then, moving his hand around my waist, playfully tugs at the tie to the bottom. The tug creates a slit between the suit and my skin, and I get a tiny rush of cool air on me. My nipples turn to marble and a wave of desire creeps up, like slow fingers. I throw him a ‘fuck me’ stare, lips parted, but it turns into a smile, and I laugh. I take a too large gulp of my beer, close my eyes, and imagine his mouth on me.

I am always thinking of his mouth on me. He is the first man to make me come with his lips and tongue, and now it is my favorite thing. When he makes me come with his mouth I want to tell him I love him, that he is magic. I want to make a statue of his mouth, so I can worship it like he worships my cunt.

The sky is getting hazy and darker, and I start scratching an itch on my thigh. A bump rises, and another. I’m getting devoured by mosquitos. He touches each bump, his fingers damp from his beer can, and as I stand to properly observe the damage, he also takes me in, tracing along the back of my thigh, inward, then up. I have the urge to sink into his hand, but I resist. He runs his finger along the crease under my butt, and gives me a squeeze.

It’s time to pack up and say some goodbyes, and amidst the shuffle, we duck into the garden to share a smoke. Wordlessly, we study each other, imagining our clothes off, where we’d put our hands and mouths. The tension is building from days of separation, days of being surrounded by people, so little time to be alone and connected.

We finally get back to our hotel after what seems like an eternity, and agree to meet my friends for steak in 40 minutes. Their room is next door, and we drowsily part ways in the hallway. I enter the room, air conditioned and crisp, and in quick succession: peel off my shirt, drop my jean shorts, and lay across the made bed. I’m on my back, still in my red bikini. He lies down next to me.

At first we just breathe next to each other, both exhausted. But then he rises up on his elbow, his face hovering over my belly, and leans down to kiss my side. At the same time he tugs hard at the string of my bikini bottom, and the piece comes undone. The release activates something in me, I feel flushed with heat, desperate for his mouth, and I start moving my hips, begging him. The little red nylon bottom falls to the side.

He moves closer, his hot breath on me, and then I feel his tongue lick slowly, so slowly at my lips. It’s a dance I know, so I relax into the tease, I don’t struggle at all, I don’t want to miss any sensation.

He’s moving up my lips, dividing time between either side until he reaches the top, center, then lifts below my belly to better expose my clit. He moves right in, his tongue quickly reaching a rhythm that makes me clutch the sheets. I’m moaning in a way that sounds theatrical, but is one hundred percent authentic.

He presses his mouth into me, hard, there’s a pressure building and as it mounts he slips his fingers in me, easily, I’m so wet from all his mouth on me. The two motions are such varying speeds, pressures, magic, they feel disconnected somehow but working toward the same goal, and my zone of pleasure feels expansive.

I grab his head, and grip the sides of his face as I feel myself about to come. By now, my moans are so loud I momentarily consider my friends next door, knowing they will bring this up later and laugh, but unable to control myself. It feels more intense than usual, and I want him to know how intensely I’m enjoying this.

His tongue is so consistent and powerful, my orgasm is building to what seems an unfathomable strength and then suddenly I feel the release, the pulses, and I’m shaking with waves of pleasure, his mouth still lingering near me, making sure I’m satisfied, looking like he wants to taste more of me.

But I push him away because I’m too sensitive, and pull him up so that he knows to come lay with me. We look at each other for a long time and I smile. “That felt so good,” I say, touching his puffy bottom lip. And then, “Let’s find a really good steak place.”

Photo: Natasha Poly for Vogue Paris, June/July 2014, by Inez Van Lamsweerde & Vinoodh Matadin

VanillaGeorgia Omain