Culture / March 23, 2010
By A.D. Gentle
“Here at Conviction you will have memories to last a lifetime,” the bus driver says as we leave the hotel transport van. She is topless, with long, pierced nipples, and a London-style, leather cabby hat rimmed with chain over the short bill sits atop her mass of red ringlet hair. We, the passengers, are all male.
The resort looks great, exactly what I needed. It is up-to-date, but with a rustic feel from the wooden pillars guarding the lobby entrance. The air out here is clean and perfectly warm while the sparse trees and barren, red land complete the unnerving feeling of being isolated. Two topless blonde women open the glass doors and welcome us inside as the bus driver slams the door and spins the tires, kicking up a cloud of dust, as she drives off. A line of tourists like me are already lining up at the reception desk and I follow their lead. I can’t get enough of the neglected, yet functional look this resort has and I can’t wait to see if everything I’ve heard is true.
The black haired woman at the desk gives me a red-lipped pout as I hold out my ID tag, her sharp red nails scratching my skin as she takes it from me. “Room 9,” she exhales with her heavy breasts heaving up and down, nipple rings dragging down the breasts to give them a sad look. I think I may have seen someone like her on a street corner in the red-light district, but now that I think about it, all the women could have been hand-picked from any number of seedy locations. I am excited by them and I start to fantasize about what they’ve got lower down on my way to the room, a key with a wooden penis inscribed with the number hangs from my twitching fingers.
The room is pretty standard with a hastily made bed with plain white sheets, some mismatched floral drapes, a bathroom with rusty toilet, and a single light bulb on the ceiling. There’s no TV, but a card folded in half is sitting on the bed. It reads:
We offer three entertainment packages. Check your box of choice.
• A walk in the park. $5
• A swim in the ocean. $50
• All the way (Must sign waiver) $500
Being on a budget, I choose a walk in the park and make a mental note to walk the card down to reception when I go down to take the place in, not that I worry they’ll run out of space. My day is just beginning and I unpack my masturbation toys along with my day clothes–in that order–and take out a map of the resort. The bus in took over a solid day’s worth of driving, most of which I slept through, but my clothes stink as a result.
I take my room key and head out in my fresh clothes. Corridors and dead ends amuse me for a little while until I realize that I want a walk in the park, so I find the red talon woman and the front desk, only she’s no longer there. Her replacement is another topless woman, a brunette, wearing a pair of gaudy sequin arm bands, but the desk hides the rest of her and my imagination is running.
“A walk in the park?” she nearly sneers at me with curling lips. “What kind of man chooses that when you could go all the way?”
My face burns and my cock is hard. I feel my throat close and I mumble a reply while I pull out the extra money and add it to my reservation card.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she commands and I only manage to get as far as her lips, which keep speaking at me, but I’m lost in watching them move, the glimpse of her teeth and tongue, the dark passage down her throat–“You meet back here in an hour.”
Glad to escape, I leave the main building, which seems to have hired prostitutes for every position from front desk to room maids. I shower to prepare for the walk in the park and take a short nap to avoid touching myself before the main event. My alarm goes off and I head down for a walk in the park.
Time has passed. I don’t remember what happened during the walk in the park, but I have bruises along the back of my legs and my head is bleeding a little. I must have fallen. Disappointed that I can’t remember, but tired as night has fallen, I rest until morning.
Next morning, card in hand, I sign up for a swim in the ocean. I repeat my routine from the previous day and return an hour later. Once again, from the time of the meet up in the lobby, my memory is gone and I find myself in bed, nearly too sore to move.
By this point, I must know what is considered all the way. I feel that I’ve been taken all the way twice already, but I want to know, I need to know. On my way to the front desk, I notice that some of the loungers by the pool have fresh facial wounds, while others sport the kind of bruises that suggest internal bleeding. The little card in my hand, slowly turning from crisp paper into a floppy tissue from my sweating palms, feels heavy.
A new receptionist. She holds the most contempt for my soggy card. “Sign this and cash up front.” Her mouth has a set of dentures stuffed into it; she can’t be older than 18, and her breasts lie on the top of the reception table like sand bags. I read the waiver over and notice the words death and/or disfigurement and non-liable. If it gets to be too much, I can just not participate, I tell myself, after all, I’m paying for a service and that puts the control in my hands. I tell her I don’t have the money right now.
“No cash, no entertainment.”
I apologize and she yells at me for wasting her time. I feel close to coming, so I carefully walk out the front door with my little card back in my pocket.
The young men are covered in lines of blood running from their faces down into their white shirts. Their bottom lips have six ring piercings a piece and a long spine driven through the center vertically. Another spine pushed through the skin of the neck, just under their chins, runs horizontally and forms a sort of T with the other spine. Blood is pouring from incisions on either side of their foreheads. One of them is missing an eye. Other freshly bleeding wounds are present on their bodies, but their clothes thankfully obscure the details.
I feel sick. I feel afraid. My body convulses and I taste stomach acid. Disgusted with myself, I realize I still have a painfully strong erection. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It makes sense. The convicts that run this place, I haven’t seen them yet, but I know with certainty that they, and not the women, are responsible for the damage I’ve seen.
“That was the best!” one of the boys says, his words speckling blood on the face of the boy beside him. The other reaches into his stretchy, blood soaked pants and pulls out a penis so damaged it’s little more than a urethra with a thin bit of skin on it.
“That’s great for you. I’ll never be able to have sex.”
A sneer. “So what? Who needs sex after THAT?”
“You’re too young to be here. You’re barely a man,” a 20-year-old boy said from behind them. “You know there is no bus back.”
“And no refunds,” I add helpfully, but they are not here to make friends, they are here on vacation, like me.