The Isle of Seduction

Chapter 2

Prologue

The ground rumbled. There she stood, looking for her bags and simultaneously looking for me. I saw her first. Her vision was breathless. My heart was beating fast and wildly, my mouth was dry, and for a moment, I was speechless. There before my eyes stood a voluptuous young woman. Her baby fat had vanished, leaving behind the chiseled body of a Greek goddess. I am not sure what a Greek goddess is supposed to look like, but Jessie was beauty personified. Everyone in the airport, adults and children alike, were taking the opportunity to check her out.

She had grown to be tall, about five foot eleven or more. Jessie had blond hair that fell below her shoulders. Her amazing, deep blue-green eyes were hypnotic, and everyone who looked at them was transfixed. Here square jaw and the feminine lines of her face gave the impression of wisdom and worldliness. Jessie was an athlete, and her shoulders, arms, and legs gave testimony to her physical condition. There is something about a woman with square shoulders, a flat belly, and strong legs that turns me on more than anything else. Jessie had it all.

And then I focused on her breasts. When I last saw her, she was small breasted and wearing a training bra. The Jessie I saw before my eyes was fully developed, with n*****s protruding from her cotton blouse. No training bra. In fact, no bra at all. I called to her.

When I left, she was thirteen. When she got off the plane at the Saint Francis International Airport—one east-west runway, an old Korean War relic Quonset hut substituting as a terminal, a two-lane potholed road leading in and out of the airport—she had turned twenty-one a week earlier. Her visit was a birthday present from her parents, I assumed. She turned in search of my voice amid the din of the arrival area. When she saw me, she ran to me and threw herself into my arms and began to cry. Before I could ask her why she was crying, she looked into my eyes and kissed me hard on the lips. “The flight was so bumpy,” she said. “I was frightened. I don’t want to sound like a child, but it was really horrendous!”

Unfortunately for travelers during the summer months, huge cumulonimbus clouds roam the Caribbean like bull elephants on the African savanna. Big jets flying on low fuel from long distances often have no other choice but to slice through the angry cloud’s fat with moisture and violent wind drafts. Jessie rode the big iron bird tossing and turning to Saint Francis. Then I held her tightly again, and I kissed her on the lips. Jessie’s soft breast pressed against my chest. What shocked me pleasantly, I might add was the way she pressed her pelvis into my midsection. Spike became aroused.

This is as good a time as any to introduce Spike. Spike is the affectionate name by which I refer to my p***s. All men have, at least once in their lives, named this most rapacious of organs. Spike has no conscience to speak of. It has no morals. Spike has no prejudices regarding race, nationality, or religion. His only dislikes are women with poor hygiene, and if I am intoxicated, then all bets are off. I have invested much time in overpowering Spike’s embarrassing displays of uncontrolled erections.

Since coming to Saint Francis, I have achieved a modicum of success as a tour guide. You see, Saint Francis is the home to several optionally nude beaches and one extraordinarily successful swingers’ resort. Many of the tourists soon get into the habit of staying completely nude all day at the club and being scantily clad while tooling around the rest of the island at night.

Spike and I have an uneasy truce. He will do his best to be as calm as possible, and I will try not to put him into many situations that require his total restraint. This is necessary, given that I occasionally take tourists on short boat excursions around the island for an obscene fee. This little enterprise provides me with a little spending money and, occasionally, one or two s****l dalliances with willing passengers.

When I am indulging in meaningless s*x with women that I will most likely never see again, I let Spike do his thing with reckless abandon. I do not love them; I f**k them with every primitive animal instinct I can muster. That is the way they want it. If they wanted tender lovemaking, they would have stayed home or stayed with the man they came with. After all, he was probably f*****g some strange woman with no concern for commitment or tenderness. As Tina Turner put it, “what’s love got to do with it?”

I am always surprised at how many women want to be dominated, hair pulled, spanked, f****d hard, long and repeatedly. No man can adequately compete with the s****l appetite and endurance of women. The only way for women to get wildly aroused and thoroughly satisfied is to be on vacation in a place like Saint Francis.

The s****l feast normally starts with the official rhythm of the Caribbean, reggae. The drumbeat is perfectly timed to motivate smooth but sensuous gyrations of one’s hips. The constant beat of the drums forces your body to move, and for women, it works on the hips and ass like magic. Some call it f*****g while standing. Add an ample amount of alcoholic libation, generously sprinkled with ganja, and the night becomes whatever one is heretofore most craved secretes desire.

The local men make a national sport of giving female tourists, nicknamed snowbirds, what they want. Now that times have changed, previously closeted bisexual and homosexual men and women are also provided a full-service s****l holiday experience. When European missionaries first arrived in Africa, they looked down upon the locals being topless or totally nude. Christian missionaries, over time, convinced them to cover their nakedness, as the biblical Adam and Eve were commanded to do, and to repent for their sins. Now, Africans and African descendants in the Caribbean seldom wear revealing clothing and are never totally nude in public. In a strange twist of fate, Europeans take every opportunity to wear as little clothing as possible and every chance to be naked.

I now know what the female objectives were when the primordial bacteria created from themselves males and how they programmed every living species to surrender to female seduction. Males are seduced and driven to the point of madness to complete their ejaculation, to propagate the species, to force life into life. Males are unwittingly slaves and ponds programmed to think that they are sexually dominant. Think about it. What if the virgin birth of Christ were true? Then just as the primordial ooze that created males billions of years ago out of herself to save life on Earth by sexually diversifying, then once again the epic repeats itself in the birth of Christ, who emanated from a virgin female to save sinful humans. I have participated in and watched the mating ritual between women and men who come here on my beautiful island. The males will play the role of aggressor, while the women feign varying degrees of weakness and helplessness. All the while, it is the female who has control over what happens during and after the mating. She is the hunter, and he is the hunted. She can copulate several times a day with different men if she wants. He is spent after one, maybe two times.

Since I have been aware of the real relationship, sexually speaking, between male and female, I have promised myself never to become enslaved by female sexuality and the female gamesmanship. I will keep total control over my emotions and my body. As in the poem “Invictus,” “I am the master of fate, the captain of my soul.”