Back to the Garden

Our tires crunched along the gravel drive until the headlights caught a lone figure in their sights. He stood from a folding chair and waved for us to stop.

“It’s the guard,” I said, rolling down my window.

“Lonely job,” Marcus said, peering ahead. “Maybe we should blow him.”

The guard stepped to the car and shone his flashlight in our faces.

“Evening,” he said. “This is private property. Are you registered guests?”

“Yes, we are,” I said, holding forward my nametag on its lanyard.

“All right, Jefferson, let me just confirm that.” He tucked his flashlight under his chin, aiming it onto a clipboard. He flipped through pages, looking for my name. “All right, Jefferson . . . Jefferson . . . do you happen to have your vehicle’s registration number?”

“I do, one sec.” I opened the glove compartment and pulled out a packet of papers. I found the correct page and give him the number.

“Okay . . . the last two digits are six and three . . . okay, here you are, Jefferson.” The guard leaned in to turn the light onto my passenger. “And who are you, sir?”

“I’m Marcus.”

“Marcus? Well, why didn’t you say so? How’s the knee?”

“I dunno,” Marcus said, holding his brace. “It’s not broken or anything, but I’ll have to have more tests done.”

“Bet it hurts like hell.”

“It sure does.”

“Yeah, I had a pretty bad knee injury once . . . I was laid up for over a month. Still gets a twinge if I put too much weight on it.” The guard shifted his stance, moving weight from one knee to the other.

“Yeah, that sucks,” Marcus replied. “So, how did you know about my knee?”

“Oh, everybody knows,” the guard smiled. He aimed his flashlight into the darkness ahead. “All right, you can proceed to the parking lot.”

We thanked him and began to drive into camp.

“Your fame precedes you, sir,” I said, rolling up my window.

“Yeah, that was weird. How did he know about my knee?”

I shrugged.

It was just after eleven as we returned to sex camp. Thanks to the rapid response of the camp medical team and the attentions of the hospital staff, we were back just a few hours after Marcus first sustained his wrestling injury.

It felt like returning home.

While we were at the hospital, we had missed the Sex Idol Contest; unfortunately, our fellow campers would be denied the sight of Marcus onstage shoving his testicles into his ass.

However, we were arriving in time for the opening of the Garden of Carnal Delights. Marcus was unsure that he would be able to participate, but he didn’t want to miss the sights.

We were both curious to see what Lolita intended when she offered to make things happen.

Camp roads were closed to vehicles other than the golf carts that served as public transportation, but I allowed myself a special exception, given that I was driving a man felled in the line of duty.

Marcus and I had earned several hundred dollars in Kundalini Kash during the previous night’s Cirkus. This currency had only one exchange rate: to purchase sexual favors that night at the Garden’s brothel. After a quick stop at the cabin to pick up our Kash—and to top off my flask—I drove Marcus to the Sex-o-Rama cabins, site of the evening’s festivities.

Our car crept through the clusters of pedestrians making their way to the Garden.

I pulled up near a crowd at the stairs to Sex-o-Rama. It was dark but for flickering lights and candles that lit the way into the Garden of Carnal Delights. I turned off the ignition and shut down my headlights.

I opened my door and stepped out.

A crowd turned to face me.

“It’s Marcus!” a woman shouted. “Marcus is back!”

The car was swarmed. I made my way around to the passenger side, but Carin beat me to it. She opened the door and flung her arms inside.

“Marcus! Are you okay?” she asked, pulling him close and kissing his cheek. “Can you even walk?”

“Can everyone back up?” I asked. “Let’s get his leg clear of the car so he can stand.”

“Oh, I’ve got his leg, Jefferson,” Carin said. “And his crutches. Here, help me get his arms—are you sure you can walk, Marcus?”

“I think so,” Marcus replied. “Thanks Carin, just be careful, okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be careful—my God, you have a cast on it?,” Carin said, her voice raising. She turned and called out: “He’s got a cast!”

“It’s a brace . . . ” Marcus began.

Carin helped Marcus from the car. Once he was balanced on his crutches, I closed the door behind him.

"Man, you're okay!" Barry said, patting Marcus's back. "That's so cool, man. There are a million people here who would love to suck your dick."

Marcus was besieged by campers. I took Carin’s elbow. “Can you just get him up the steps?” I asked. “I need to go park the car.”

“Don’t worry, Jefferson,” she replied, her arm around Marcus’s waist as she lead him away. “He’s in good hands.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Hey Marcus, I need to go park the car—Carin’s got you, okay?”

With so many voices in his ears, Marcus didn’t hear me.

I got back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The headlights came on, sending the crowd back to the entrance to Sex-o-Rama.

I drove slowly through the crowd, back to the field that served as a parking lot. I found a space at the far end, and made my way back under a quiet, clear sky.

We never have so many stars in Manhattan, I thought.

It took me fifteen or twenty minutes to get back to Sex-o-Rama. I found Marcus at the top of the stairs leading to the cabin. He had walked about ten steps since I dropped him off.

He was leaning against a rail and talking to Eliza, the septuagenarian fetish model who had made out with me the night before.

I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Marcus,” I said. “You aren’t getting very far. Do you want to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” he said, smiling at Eliza. He leaned forward. “Everybody knows about my knee,” he whispered. “Apparently, my injury was announced at the Sex Idols Contest.”

“Hey Marcus, how’s the knee?” someone shouted.

Marcus turned and waved. “I’m okay!” he called back. “Thanks!”

“That’s nice of everybody,” I said.

“It’s nice, but I have to keep telling the same story,” he complained. “And everybody’s got a story to tell about their own knees. All this medical talk is making me woozy.”

“Maybe we should set you up at the brothel. You can sell the story of your knee injury in exchange for sex.”

“Yeah,” he smiled as he leaned on his crutches. “I can pimp my pain.”

“Jefferson!” Viviane called. “You’re back!”

“Yeah, they did some X-rays on Marcus’s knee, and said it wasn’t broken . . .”

“I know, I know, I heard all about his knee. Come on, I want to take you to the make-out room!” She was giddy with excitement as she took my arm and pulled me away.

“Wait, wait . . . they don’t allow sex in that room, right?”

“You can manage. Come on.”

I looked back to say goodbye to Marcus. He didn’t notice; his eyes were on Eliza as he stroked her short white hair.

As Tristan had told us in the orientation, there were four main rooms at the Garden of Carnal Delights: the orgy room, set aside for sex; the brothel, where sexual favors could be purchased with Kundalini Kash; the objectification room, where bodies were anonymously displayed for use; and the make-out room for kissing and sensuous touch.

Viviane pushed open the screen door and pulled me inside.

Couples were paired on pillows and sofas in various dimly lit corners, their quiet sighs rising above low music as they kissed, fondled and embraced.

We found an available spot on foam sofa shaped like a cresting wave.

“How do you sit on this thing?” I asked.

“Maybe like this?” Viviane said, falling backwards into a crook of the sofa. She giggled as the foam gave way, sending her legs in the air.

“That looks very comfortable,” I smiled. I crouched over her hips and bend forward to kiss her. My hands held her smooth calves then ran up her legs, under her black dress.

“Why Viviane!” I exclaimed, standing erect. “You’re not wearing underwear!”

Viviane’s giggles gave way to peals of laughter.

I took the hem of her dress and, in a swift tug, raised it over her belly. “Good Lord, your pussy is exposed!” I gasped.

“No, no . . .” she hiccupped, laughing as she struggled to lower her dress. I crouched again, foiling her effort by wrapping my legs around her waist.

I leaned to her face. “Viviane, perhaps the rules weren’t clear enough. You are not permitted to be nude in the make-out room.”

“I’m not, I’m not . . .” she sputtered, barely able to get out the words between laughs.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered, kissing her cheek. “I’ll help to hide your shame.” I cupped my hand over her pussy. She nearly splashed in my palm. “The shame of your very, very wet . . . “ I leaned into her ear and savored the next monosyllable. “ . . . twat.”

I slipped my tongue into her ear. She twisted and squirmed as she laughed. “No, no . . . please . . . please, Jefferson, I can’t breath!”

“All right,” I stood. “Enough making out.” I pulled her hem into place and held out my hand. “Let’s go tour this so-called Garden.”

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