Last Resort

By: Kate Roth


One Ticket to Paradise

The buxom Latina beauty behind the reception desk shined a mega-watt smile at me before her greeting rolled off her tongue. “Hola and welcome to Desire Resort and Spa. Checking in?” My head felt heavy, my vison was a little blurry, and thick beads of sweat trickled down to the small of my back. It wasn’t the Mexico heat that had overcome me. It was the ridiculous way I’d come to this ridiculous place. Swallowing hard, gulping for my next breath, I slid the woman my ID and credit card with a shaking hand.

“Don’t worry, Miss…” she paused to look at my passport, “Ward. Plenty of singles come to our resort for a carefree adults-only vacation. You won’t see anyone dangling from the chandeliers, as they say, but should you meet someone who interests you, by all means, give in to your desires.” She handed me my keycard in a paper sleeve with the room number scribbled on it and flashed her sparkling white teeth at me again.

I was positive the back of my tank top was drenched in sweat. I nodded, swiped the card off the counter, and scurried toward the elevator, praying I wouldn’t meet any other guests on the way to my room.

I figured my best bet was to lay low. I could order room service every night and sneak out to the beach early in the morning to keep from seeing anyone’s breasts other than mine. The elevator opened and I sent up a little thank you to the universe for bringing the car down empty. I stepped in with my rolling bag in tow, hit the third floor, and huffed, sliding back against the reflective wall of the elevator.

What the hell were you thinking, Danielle? A sex resort?!

How did I get here? How on earth had it come to this? Oh right, first Kyle dumped me. Then I somehow lost my mind, hopped online, and booked a solo trip to Mexico. At a place where people swap partners, screw strangers, and tops are optional!

I winced, rubbing my hand harshly over my forehead. The elevator ding sounded and the doors parted. I didn’t pass a soul on the way to room 346 and my body relaxed a little. The place could be dead. Maybe this was the off-season.

Once my key granted me entry to the room I’d spent a small fortune to have for the week, I had to let out a sigh. It was stunning. The view of the ocean was spectacular, the bedding was lush, and there was a damn tub built for five in the gigantic bathroom as well as a walk-in shower. It was worth the money even if I never left the room. Especially if I never left the room.

I flopped down on the fluffy white down comforter and groaned, suddenly hit by a rogue thought. It’s probably white so they can bleach it. Gross. Breathing deeply, I tried to let the worry escape my body. My heart. My soul. It was the worrying that had brought me here. I was tired of living a life of stress and over-thinking, over-analyzing to the point of misery and loss. This trip was the devil on my shoulder finally speaking up and telling me to live a little.

At twenty-four years old, I had technically had sex once. Technically because the second time I attempted to have intercourse we only got two seconds and one inch into it before I freaked out and locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. My boyfriend Kyle had knocked on the door first, telling me it was okay that I was scared. Then he banged on the door and told me I had to come out. Then he whacked it himself and fell asleep with the lights on and I played mind-numbing games on my cell phone until my panic attack aftershocks subsided.

Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday, I cashed in what my best friend, Georgia, calls The V Card. Stephen Molaski had been my boyfriend for two years of high school and he was an absolute dream. He was sweet and kind and he gave me that giddy feeling I knew was something more than a crush. I’d waited for what felt like forever to have sex with Stephen and when his parents took off on a cross-country road trip, leaving their son to look after the empty house, we took it upon ourselves to do the deed.

It was…fine. It didn’t hurt the way I figured it would but it didn’t feel as good as the few times he’d gone down on me, either. It was rushed and clumsy and messy. It lacked every bit of romance I had hoped for. I hated to think about it in such honest terms, but it was truly disappointing. Afterwards, I remember feeling so let down, like Santa had skipped my house on Christmas Eve. Like the last five pages of the greatest book of my life had been ripped out.

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