More Dirty Bananas

A disillusioned Tristan returns to Jamaica in search of a good time

The next day at the pool, everything seemed different. A fiftyish woman was lying with spread legs on the swim-up bar while a pack of military guys did body shots out of her pussy. The butch couple was in the pool being affectionate. A group of people were playing nude volleyball. Everywhere I looked, I saw inked skin (and I don't just mean the hot guys in the band) and penis piercings and bodies of every shape and size. Everyone was doing their thing. Suddenly, it wasn't swinger central, it was the place I wanted it to be: a place where everyone could truly be themselves.

In my role as Soul Days sexpert, I taught a workshop where I spanked Juli, tied up that cute lesbian redhead, and passed out free sex toys to the gang. We all went tubing down the White River, where my inner tube began to sink, and I was rescued by a river guide. We dined at a magical place called Toscanini, where I attempted to convince every guy at the table that he could take at least a pinky in his ass. See, I told you I was working.

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