Post-coital Panic

Me?

I'm ready to get fucked up and fuck.

I can't drink excessively on the boat. One rough wave, and I'm actively gagging. If I want any kind of party experience, it's got to happen on solid ground.

Our late morning and early afternoon are spent at one of the more energetic beach clubs. Restaurants, shops, pools, and bars eclipsed by a canopy of interwoven Sabinas, bordering the whitest sand I've ever seen. There's a synthetic beat pumping out from the DJ's booth, easygoing house music that's just enough for a shuffled step. Pristine beaches are lined with shaded lounges and Bali beds. Anchored sailboats bobble between croppings of pale rock in the near distance. Further out, jet-skis spit across the water and parasails dot the blue. Here, too. Everything's so beige. If not for Cala Bassa's turquoise bay, this place would be just as drab as the interior of the ship.

Charlie booked us a gazebo, because of course he did. Stupid, thoughtful twat.

Because this is a private sector, it seems generally frowned upon to do anything you'd normally do at a beach. The water isn't off-limits, but hardly anyone's in it. Sports are out of the question, as kicking up sand would be a faux pas of the gravest caliber. There's really not much to pass the time besides laze, eat, drink, and look down your nose at the underprivileged. Seriously, I've heard more than a few derogatory comments about the public beachgoers three miles down. Like we're not all in fuckin' Ibiza.

Currently, I'm crossing the narrow boardwalk to our gazebo, two cocktails in hand. They're colorful and fruity, though I'm clueless as to what all's in 'em. I ordered, verbatim: "whatever you feel like makin', boss."

"Henry," I hold the drink out as I round the chaise lounge, which he takes with a pleased, straight-toothed grin. Dropping into the lounge next to his, I pull my first sip of the teal mixture. You know how you expect bright, colorful drinks to be mostly mixers?

Coughing, I balk at the glass: "Jesus Christ!"

Henry laughs, setting his down on the low table between us. "I know, dude. It's like straight liquor with a few drops of food coloring."

"They can afford to overpour." I snort, going for another sip. "You havin' fun, man?"

He doesn't answer right away, and he's got a far-off look in his eyes where they're turned out to the picturesque bay. "I mean..." He starts, thoughtful. "...yeah. Yeah, how could I not? This place is...gorgeous, and everything's so nice. Luxurious."

"Would've been better as a honeymoon, huh?"

He shoots me a sheepish smile. "Nothin' gets past you, man."

Dropping my head into the cushion, I do my own admiring of the scenery. As kids, and even teenagers, a place like this only existed in postcards and movies. It wasn't real for us. It wasn't even something we could dream about. For all we knew, it was Hollywood make-believe. Our corner of the world felt so small, so suffocating, yet big enough that we'd never get out of it. A tiny, borderless shithole that we'd never be equipped to escape. Places like Cala Bassa, Ibiza, I know he'd rather experience them with Sarah.

"I get it. You're not hurtin' my feelings."

"Seriously, though. I can't believe you came, as much as you hate being on the water. And Charlie."

"All the more reason to overcome my weaknesses. When else is he going to spend this kind of cash on me? I've gotta milk the cow while I can, dude."

"This is...it's a little much, right?"

"Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Just enjoy it. Speaking of," Henry groans before I can get the question out, but I finish it anyway. "—you're comin' out tonight, right? Getting married doesn't mean you're on hospice."

"Everyone else wants to, so it's an obligation at this point." He huffs, going for his drink. "I probably won't drink much. This is plenty."

"Suit yourself." No one likes an antagonist, and we're too old to peer pressure each other into bad decisions. Henry makes a great chaperone. Tipping the half-empty glass over my face, I drain the rest. It's my fourth drink, each just as potent as the last, and I'm finally feeling the spread of that sweet, fuzzy warmth. Muscles liquified, head full of helium. Catching an urge, I stand from the lounge and shed the shirt from my shoulders, already unbuttoned.

Who buttons up on a beach?

"Gettin' in?" Henry calls after me.

"Someone should."

I wouldn't say I'm the best lookin' guy in the world, but there's more than a few heads turning as I perform a short jog towards the surf. Just shy of six feet, shredded where it counts—soft where it's appreciated. Unlike Henry's bodywide growth, I keep a clean face. Any attempts at growing a beard comes in spotty, often associated with breakouts. I've been told it lends to my boyish charm, a 'scoundrel' aesthetic I'm unopposed to. Fortunately, the hair on my head's never wanted for fullness. Male pattern baldness doesn't run in the bloodline, thank Christ. Brown, coppery in the sun. I keep a neat undercut. Some patchwork tattoos, ears poked through with a few piercings.

I get by, y'know?

It's late spring, nearly summer, so wading into the Mediterranean is much like submerging in a warm bath. The water's no less crystalline lapping at my shins, and the sand mushing under my toes is free of shells or natural debris. As long as I can touch and see the bottom, we're golden. Glancing around, there's only four people in the water including myself.

More ocean for us.

I wade until the water reaches my chest, and fuck, that's good. Diving in, even better. The tempestuousness of open water is tamed by the bay's crescent, cliffs breaking the waves into a gentle lick. I might regret it later, but I briefly open my eyes in the brine, limbs slicing through the tepid sea. My last breath pops on the surface, bubbles of it escaping my nose, until my lungs burn with emptiness. Coming up, I'm about forty feet from where I started. The sun's swelter touches my head, my face, in a way I'd swear I've never felt before. It's like bursting through a portal and discovering a utopian realm.

It's the first, honest moment I'm grateful to be here.

I'm glad I came.

Two hours later, at the prospect of a ménage à trois with a pair of French sisters on holiday, I'm grateful enough to plant a sloppy kiss on Charlie's mouth next time I see him. Henry and I abandoned the gazebo once it became clear no one would be returning to it. Charlie's MIA, probably off somewhere contracting HPV. Cedrick, Cam, and Dakota haven't strayed far from the pool, and that's where we join them. There's another DJ booth, and the playlist is a little more provocative and upbeat. Big loungers and beds encircle the ovular pool, and the canopy of string lights are just starting to spread their halos in the sun's descent.

There are more people dancing, swimming, and mingling than stagnating on the cushioned furniture, coming up on their poison of choice. The swim-up bar sees a regular flock of loose-limbed, bikini-clad patrons, which is where I become acquainted with Brigitte and Anaïs. They're a blonde pair, a hairsbreadth from being identical in the face. Manicured brows atop the same forehead, aquiline noses with a hump in the bridge. Brigitte's a tall girl, waifish and bony. Her hips, knees, and elbows jut out in a way that's almost gangly. Anaïs is more meaty than her sibling, dimples and cellulite in all the best places.

Names are exchanged, and three rounds of Gin Mare later, I'm sandwiched between flesh and bone in temperate, waist-deep water.

Brigitte's fascinated by the long barbell threading the cartilage of my ear, and with the hand slid through my hair, she's constantly spinning it between her forefinger and thumb. Her two-dimensional chest is flattened to my ribs, as I've got one arm slung around her reedy shoulders. A heavy, waterlogged braid tickles my wrist. Anaïs is almost fully pressed against my front, her bare thighs split around my quad. Saying she's 'handsy' would be a gross understatement, as she's teasing a handjob overtop my trunks. She's grinding the top of her thigh between my legs, a steady pressure rolling across my balls. Her nails are scraping tickling paths between the ridges of my abdominals. She plucks at the waistband of my shorts like testing the chords of a stringed instrument.

"Tu as un corps magnifique!" She praises in a slurred, sultry voice.

"Vous devriez aussi nous former." Brigitte lifts her arm out of the water, attempting to flex a nonexistent muscle. She pops her lip in a pout, "c'est pitoyable, n'est-ce pas?"

Grinning, I reply: "non, non, tu...as besoin de plus de protéines. Je suis...heureux de vous nourrir."

They share a titter, and I'm not sure if it's over the lewd insinuation or my heinous pronunciation. They're fluent in English, but we switched over to French after I made the effort. I'm sure it's because they're getting a kick out of my butchering it.

With perfect recall, I should be a multilingual maestro, but alas, this brain was wasted on the likes of me. I know only what I've picked up in passing: conversations on the street, subtitled television, podcasts, skimming through translation dictionaries. That's nowhere near enough for a well-rounded understanding of something as complex as language. If I dedicated the proper time to it, I'd probably be fluent in about a week. In anything.

Makes ya sick, doesn't it? Only a proper chump would have the innate ability to coast their way through life and not take full advantage of it.

But, hey, Brigitte and Anaïs find my shitty, broken French charming. Win's a win.

"Tu viens en boîte avec nous, oui?"

Anaïs asks if I'm going clubbing with them, and the answer is a resounding: "Oui."

—

Insane.

In-fucking-sane.

Sink enough money into a place, you'll have the foundation rattling, lights cutting a show, and top-shelf bottles clacking on the shelves. But there's no accounting for the energy, the vibe. Ibiza knows how to curate a vibe. The people here party like it's their job, like it's how they put food on the table. Like they're possessed.

The circulation of stimulants probably has a lot to do with it. I've seen an awful lot of 'runny noses' and gnashing jaws, pupils blown to potholes. I've dabbled in my fair share of recreational drugs, so I'm not one to judge, but I've always preferred a steady slosh to the severe highs and lows of coke or molly.

It's approaching midnight, and thus far, we've hit two clubs. The one we're crammed in now is supposedly the place to be, and our group's decided to hunker down and ride it out until the crash. Henry, despite his earlier reticence, participated in two rounds of shots. He withdrew himself from future rounds, opting to babysit a beer. Cedrick took his sorry ass back to the ship, as he downed too much too quickly at the pool. There's a series of booths shaded in the undercarriage of the second level, and Cam's wormed his way into one of 'em, snorting powder off a topless woman's back.

Dakota's...somewhere.

I hate to say it, but out of our entire herd, Charlie's the best party. Brigitte and Anaïs ditched me two hours ago, but Charlie wrangled up an entire entourage from the Cala Bassa seaside. He's got four girls, each prettier than the last, pawing at his polo. The consecutive shots made him generous enough to share the spoils, and Catalina gets relegated to my lap. She's all tan, pliable curves snugged into a slinky, black number that rides the globes of her ass. No. Underwear. Wearing shorts, I can feel the smooth lips of her pussy glossing across my upper thigh, and I might actually cry.

What a fuckin' night.

We're sitting at the bar, and Catalina's got her sticky lips climbing the side of my throat. Likewise, my hands and mouth are everywhere they're legally allowed to be without turning this into a barside fuckshow.

I can't tell you why my eyes turned away, other than that it's a natural inclination. I'm not bored, nor unhappy with her attention. There's just so much going on, an overwhelm of every sense. When will I get another chance to commit a snapshot like this to memory?

Except—

It's a double-edged sword, isn't it?

On the second level, facing the direction I'm sitting, I glimpse a hulking figure that replaces the interior of this club with last night's onboard steakhouse. Once I survived the night, I'd put that trio of probable hitmen out of my mind. I didn't look back at their table once I'd been caught ogling, and eventually, that feeling of being watched left me. Done and done, easy to forget. But, there he is. Without a shadow of a doubt, it's the buzzed blonde from the restaurant. One of his companions is next to him, and they're leaned up against the railing. The other guy's back is facing me, but the blonde has his forearms resting over the top bar—

Looking down.

Looking at me.

Who's staring at him, again.

I can see him properly now, sort of. He's just as big as I thought. Wearing white instead of black, his shoulders are like cliffs stemming out from his neck. The multicolored lights catch on his face, and it's one that might be cracked down the middle should he attempt a smile. Masculine, harsh, but not unattractive. Belatedly, I realize I should look away. His buddy is leaning into his space, talking at him. Probably discussing their next heist/target/deal. My flagrant gawking might not be overlooked a second time.

Before I can refocus on the gorgeous, aroused girl in my lap, he does something that zaps a sobering chill through me. He smiles, far from friendly, and lifts two fingers to his temple. It's a curt salute, and I can feel my mouth dropping. Speechless.

Should I...do it back...?

"Kit!"

"Hah?"

Catalina pulled back to grin at me, performing a little bounce on my leg. There's a full-to-spilling shot glass on the bar, and she tosses it back. Next thing I know, her mouth is sealed to my slack one, and liquor burns a trail to my stomach. Not just liquor. Something hard, tiny, and chalky clacks off my molar on the way down. I rip away, halfway scowling.

"What—what the fuck was that?!"

"Moli!" She laughs.

This bitch—

This bitch just drugged me.

Dislodging her from my leg, I stand quick enough to get Henry's attention. He's sitting on the stool beside me, though I had my back turned. He catches my elbow, sober enough to sense something amiss. "Kit, hey! What's wrong?!" He shouts over the music.

"She just shoved fucking molly down my throat! I thought it was a shot, man!"

I know Henry didn't sign up to be anyone's trip-sitter, but he's a good enough guy to take on the job without being asked. "Fuck! Alright, let's get you some water! We'll find somewhere quiet for the come up!"

Charlie, who'd been brought up to speed by an indignant Catalina, laughs derisively from my opposite side. "It's fucking ecstasy, Carrington! Christ, she didn't roofie you!"

"Fuck you—!" I start to snarl, lurching forward with a knotted fist. 'High-road' Henry drags me back and makes a barrier of himself between us.

Molly's not the worst thing to get slipped. It's not DMT or salvia. But, if I fucking wanted to do drugs, I could spit in any direction and find 'em. I was already having a good time. It's embarrassing to admit, but the slow onset of a bodily high makes me anxious as shit. I hate the way my heart races, the restlessness, the cold-tipped fingers as my vessels constrict. It takes forty minutes before any type of euphoria sets in, and that's a long fucking time.

Henry procures three bottles of water from the bartender, and I'm suddenly being steered through a throng of bodies. Directly in my ear, his murmurs of 'I've got you, man' and 'everything's gonna be fine' are enough to make my eyes sting with grateful tears. I think he'd treat anyone this way, but that doesn't make me appreciate it any less. Between men, friends like Henry are few and far. He won't belittle, leave you behind, or let you endure something terrible alone. I try to repay that kindness whenever possible, be as much of a pillar when he needs one.

That 'somewhere quiet' he mentioned turns out to be a long, wide corridor. Bathrooms on one end, an exit to the street at the other. If we leave the club entirely, it'll be a next-level hassle to get back in. The bathrooms see a regular rotation of partygoers, so we claim a space against the wall twenty feet down. I immediately chug one bottle of water, but keep the other two on standby. We start off sitting with our backs against the brick, side by side, elbow to elbow. The muted bass vibrates my spine in place, and the floor reeks of alcohol and stale piss.

"Fuck, man. You don't have to sit here with—"

"Shut up, dude." Henry sighs, eyes closed. His dark hair is mused against the wall where the back of his head kisses it. "You think I'd have a good time in there without you?"

"...maybe. I don't know. You'd have a better time in there than out here."

"We'll go back in when you're up. I won't have a good time if you're out here by yourself."

"I'm a grown man, Henry. This is your trip, and the guys are still—"

He slides me a dry, knowing look. "Come on, Kit. This isn't my scene anymore, man. I'm glad everyone's having a good time, but this isn't how I'd choose to spend my time. Even on a bachelor's trip. I thought..." He trails off, sighing again. "I thought we'd go up to Yosemite or Glacier, like we always talked about doing. It'll be hard to make time for a trip like that with the baby."

"Nah." I nudge him, smiling. "Uncle Kit's got it handled. That'll make a good, belated honeymoon when Sarah's all better."

"Dude, you've never held a baby in your life."

"Neither have you, asshole."

"Damn." Henry pales, as if his lack of experience never occurred to him.

Conversation comes and goes over the next thirty minutes. After twenty, I'm starting to feel it, and anxiety tries to creep in when my brain realizes something's off with my body. My heart feels fluttery in my chest, stomach swooping. I'm beginning to sweat through the ups and downs of poor temperature regulation, fluctuating between uncomfortably warm and sickly cold. I feel unbearably stiff, like the aches you'd associate with a fever. I update Henry through all of it, and he patiently digests my rambling.

"Shit, I—I gotta stand. Walk, stretch, something. What time is it?"

"Uh, 12:32? You're good, man."

Climbing to my feet, that insignificant movement is enough to bring relief. Flexing, stretching, it has my eyes rolling back. If it were possible, I'd have every individual fiber of muscle removed, stretched like handmade taffy, and replaced in my body. I limber up like I'm readying for a 5k, making pornographic noises all the while. Henry snorts from his place against the wall. It feels so good, and good feelings begin to override that sense of panic.

"Alright, I think I'm ready to go back in."

Henry heaves to his feet, dusting himself off even though the floor's grime is the kind to stick. "You sure?"

"Yeah, just...keep an eye on me."

"We're leaving together, man. No more drinking though."

Going back in, it's like I've never seen the place in my life. My head swivels, because this can't be the same club I was in forty minutes ago. The movement of the lights feel sentient; a vibrant, spectral being that bestows its holy presence on the mortals. Someone you can dance with, and it'll dance with you. The heavy, thrumming music is hypnotic, and the bodies in the middle of the room ripple like disturbed waves in a pond. Everything's slower, brighter, prettier. It's a fresco you want to splash yourself on.