This is the story I attempted to read at Calabash 2012. I suppose in retrospect it was kinda spicy for a Sunday afternoon. In my defense, it was my every intention to read on Saturday evening with the setting of the sun and people's inhibitions. Alas. I read it nonetheless. At least until my time ran out.
Here it goes:
Welcome to Aphrodite Hotel, where the pleasures of love know no boundaries. Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. A fittingly ironic title for such a clandestine location. Nevertheless the thrills of desire cannot be confined to any particular location.
These Jamaican Love Hotels provide shelter to the wanton impulses of a nation built on illegitimacy.
Places like these exist on almost every street in this vast metropole. From Red Hills to Crossroads, Kingston is known for providing covert environs for all kinds of promiscuity. Not your typical sex lair, where women repeatedly cast their pearls before swine. No. A place where illicit matters are accommodated. A breeding ground of adulterous episodes. A single theme emerges: discretion.
Torn square wrappers, evidence of the previous nights' debauchery, an ancillary staff of two are left with the monumental task of clearing and washing away the sin that permeates the walls and stains the sheets, night after night. Permanent reflections of temporary love affairs.
A myriad of DNA left by visitors to this after hours love haven are incessantly washed down the drain. The latent smell of latex greets you at the door. For a split second you sense hesitation. But your libido is blind to the cries of morality. A man wants what he wants when he wants it and should not be made to wait too long to receive it.
A proverbial den of iniquity: High green and yellow walls shroud the entire hotel in secrecy. You push money through a slot and whisper a number; a key emerges. You are now free to express your heart's desire, at least for the next few hours or so.
Soft whispers of love, you can't see the pain resonating in her eyes, the fluorescent bulbs only illuminate the path to a room furnished with the bare necessities. Bed, chair, shower and a ceiling mirror, if you can stand to look at yourself. The bar soap is replaced after each visit.
You know the drill. In and out. No lingering, lest the ghosts which haunt these corridors start their trolling from door to door. Here, no doorpost is marked for the passover. If judgment were to descend, no one would be able to escape the damnation.
Every time you cross the threshold of these rooms you take on a new persona. You are no longer married with kids. There is no need to filter the white nagging noise of a wife whose noose gets tighter around your neck with each passing day. No babies crying, just the occasional scraping and banging from neighbouring rooms. Collective partners in crime. This was what love had come to. Secret meetings on back roads. Soft grunts in rooms designed to do one thing, keep secrets in.
Here you are emancipated from marital slavery. An unadulterated feeling of exhilaration washes over your body. You stare at her silhouette and become instantly aroused. As a lion stalks his prey you knew exactly what you wanted and stopped at nothing to get it.
You've been thinking about this moment all night as you watched her writhe across the dance floor in a dress so tight you could see her nipples harden from across the room. Challenge accepted, you hoped this night would have a desirable outcome. Bumping and grinding to the deep drum and bass, alcohol coursing through your systems, high on expectation, you manage to coerce her into leaving with you. You decide this in the moment, to escape further culpability.
Now, here you are, mere minutes from ultimate release. As if celibacy within a long-term relationship wasn't torturous enough. You had been faced with the arduous task of returning home each night with balls so blue they resembled the sky on a clear day. But not tonight.
The tension pulsating through your muscles finds its destination in your pants. Her name slips you as you slip her thong to the side and your fingers deep inside. Applying just enough pressure, you feel her tense then let out a sigh of relief. Kissing becomes time consuming when you have only one objective in mind.
Before you both know it, the mission is complete. You dispose of the evidence. A quick shower, a few exchanged words later and you've gotten your money's worth.
You leave as you came.
This story was influenced greatly by my time spent in Japan observing the culture there. However it is entirely a work of fiction. Promise.
still writing erotique fiction.
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