Beware of Tan Span

BEWARE OF TAN SPAN

My wife's birthday is Tuesday. Though four years shy of fifty, Margaret's taut silhouette, and flawless skin remain the envy of women half her age. And, as irrefutable as is her striking beauty so is the struggle of all the men who cast their rapacious eyes upon her to suppress their wanton urge to fuck her mercilessly right then and there. And that includes me.

The flight from Miami to Cozumel Airport proved uneventful. The weather was travel log picture perfect, scattered billowy clouds -- temp mid-eighties, light breeze. The indigenous population is warm and friendly as their bright smiling faces confirmed on the streets of downtown San Miguel during our cab ride to our hotel at the south end of the island. In DC where I operate in the 24-7 death struggle of American politics, a genuine smile is a rare commodity indeed.

Margaret and I enjoy spur of the moment jaunts, including scuba diving in Mexico. Once content to spend the day on a beach chair snuggling her Kindle and watching me motor off to reefs unknown, I returned from a dive one afternoon six or so years ago to discover a six-foot-eight Dutch ex-bodybuilder turned divemaster sniffing her up. After two futile attempts of my own to get her certified, her Her Divemaster convinced her to finally take the plunge. Margaret has become a formidable diver in her own right -- capable of squeezing in and out through the tightest of spots.

Unfortunately, me squeezing into her tight little spot has become increasingly less frequent. Not that I can't find it or having difficulty operating my own equipment, Margaret seemed to have just dried up and lost all interest. I never imagined I'd be relegated to the life of a celibate - a fate I'll have to tolerate until Margaret comes around. Hopefully, sooner than later, otherwise I might be tempted to ask Davy Jones to make room for me in his locker. Though I should have suspected something of this sort would eventually arise. Margaret has always been a bit of a prude. Never once in fifteen years of marriage did she initiate sex. Never made it through a sex scene in a dirty movie and still turns and gags when some cable tv series goes steamy. But I'm hooked. No going back now. Have mercy on my soul.

Our bungalow on the beach, adjacent to the dive shop, was one benny of our frequent visits and Margaret's chumminess with the dive operation owner. We settled into our room and by six we were dressed and out for a pre-dinner smoke in the lobby. Lighting-up is normally limited to our periodic dive holidays. I enjoy an occasion Cuban, which I purchase locally while Margaret has an affinity for her Cheyenne Wild Cherry, pussy cigarette-cigars she hordes at home preparing for our trips. It's amazing how Margaret can stare down and lie to the most determined Mexican customs agent when asked if she's smuggling in tobacco. And as always Margaret looked smoking hot. No cigar, solar flare, phenomena natural or otherwise is any match for the heat Margaret generates when entering a room.

Unbeknownst to me, several years back Margaret began assembling a wardrobe of ultra-sheer ankle length Latin-themed dresses. Like her pussy cigars, they only surface in Mexico. Deliciously audacious, out of character, and certainly something she'd never dare at home where eyes are less appreciative and even more unforgiving. If we hung around a month, no guest would twice see the same ensemble of dress and jewelry. I couldn't have been more pleased or flabbergasted when she donned the first. The flimsy fabric clings to her body with unrestrained prejudice, as if a static electricity generator was churning away somewhere deep inside her. It was clear from the outset the dresses themselves failed in their mission to cloak what treasures lay beneath. I figured the superfluous thong and paste-on nipple-bra were her halfhearted concession to local promiscuity laws. On anyone else the dresses would have been condemned beyond-the-pale sleazy, the wearer scorned as a narcissistic exhibitionist. On Margaret, it was a timeless Michelangelo masterpiece - the ancient Greek sun-goddess Helios. No one seemed to object. Certainly not me.

It would also be superfluous to say, she was an instant sensation. The obsequious young Mexican bar waitresses hovered over her like a fantasyland princess. Her wine along with my Scotch arrived before we could place our soon to be waterlogged asses in our usual cushioned seats by the flamingo pond bridge.

Among the throng of male admirers in attendance that evening, one unaccompanied gentlemen, early fifties and Spanish (as in Spain), if his open-collared white linen camisa, matching pantalón, and long wavy hair were any indicators, cast a continuous and longing eye for Margaret. Not that that was a watershed moment in our relationship. What man wasn't.

Cozumel is renowned for its world-class scuba diving. Legendary French oceanographer Jacques Cousteau designated Cozumel's reefs - best in the world. Therefore, no one is stunned to find themselves sitting across the dive boat from some European, Argentinian, Japanese, South African, or even a West Texan. However, I was somewhat taken back to find the Spaniard on our boat the next morning setting up his rig inches from my wife.

During the first dive, I noticed the deeply tanned Spaniard trolling far aft as the group circumnavigated and penetrated the immense coral formations. He was clearly an experienced diver, comfortable in his element, slow - fluid, no wasted motion. I'm typically in the lead, Margaret close but a comfortable distance behind. On the second dive the Tan Spaniard had closed the gap, less aft, than right-up her ass.

Once Margaret and I started diving together regularly we developed an equitable distribution of labor. I haul everything on and off the boat. After the dive she bags the gear readying it for me. That was then. Day two however, she appeared far too distracted to comply with the inconvenient provisions of some inane agreement. Instead of bagging our stuff, wavy-haired Tan Span had her sequestered in the bow engaged in heavy but thoroughly consensual conversation. She was all smiles. No harm in being friendly. Or so I thought at the time.

Tan Span, as I began thinking of him, was well-built, well exercised, and though I had him by a good three inches in height, he was a good ten years younger. In my experience it is highly unusual for good-looking, well-heeled guys like Tan Span, that far from home, to be hanging around a dive resort unescorted. Someone usually tags along - wife, son, girlfriend, even boyfriend. I'd be lying if I claimed I didn't wonder why.

I'd never been the jealous sort. Women never posed any particular problem for me. Moreover, years back Margaret had lost all zing for rolling around, for me and apparently anyone else. But, for my liking though, she was grinning a bit too enthusiastically.

Then, back at the dock with Francisco the boat hand having finished tying off and helping divers depart, Margaret and Tan Span had yet to surface for air. I considered leaving and letting her talk herself silly, or I could interrupt. I chose the latter.

"Margaret honey, time to go," I said, applying a subtle nudge to her exposed right shoulder.

Tan Span looked up and smirked.

After a deep breath and momentary lapse in recognition Margaret turned gazed at me and said, "Oh, hi honey," He's good friends with Antonio (owner of dive operation)."

"And he is?" I replied, politely grinning at Tan Span.

Tan Span stood and offered his hand. "Axel. Axel Alvarez."

"Alan," I replied, but still somewhat puzzled by his smug mug, I purposely withheld my last name. Unfazed by my slight, he instead turned back to my wife.

In the lobby that evening he was already seated by the bridge lighting-up his own Cuban with wine in hand for Margaret and the bottle of birth on the table beside him. No Scotch, straight-up or otherwise, was observed anywhere nearby.

"I thought you might like this," he said, glancing at my wife and nodding to the wine.

As Margaret grasped the glass, Tan Span's eyes eagerly lapped up the latest iteration in her long line of penis erecting dresses. "My family's vineyard," he continued-on as did his eyes toggling between my wife's two ample breasts and intoxicating confluence of legs. After finally breaking his trance he gazed back down at the family label. "Next month will be one hundred and fifty years."

I quickly began feeling every bit of one-fifty myself.

"So, how do you know Antonio?" I asked, insinuating myself into what I sensed would quickly become an insular conversation absent me.

"Antiquity patrol," he replied dismissively, then opened his palm directing Margaret to take the adjacent seat. "We were part of a special Spanish police force commissioned to protect underwater artifacts," he said sneering at me as if I was a rotten grape that had somehow infected his vat.

"Been here before?" I asked, still unwilling to accede.

"My first," he murmured.

I had to wonder why, why his first? Had Antonio revealed something? Something about Margaret? If so; what? I knew Antonio had a hard-on for Margaret. It was obvious to me, if not everyone else who observed him drooling in her presence. Clearly, he knew we'd be visiting. Always did. And he and Margaret, till this day remain bosom Facebook buddies. Of course, just a coincidence. Sure! Stranger still, Antonio wasn't even in Cozumel. He makes a point of hanging around to greet Margaret personally. But, with seventeen other operations scattered around the Caribbean and Mediterranean, he's otherwise occupied minding those stores. So why then was Tan Span here now, when his comrade cop buddy wasn't?

"Married?" I asked.

Margaret answered for him. "She doesn't like to dive," she replied breathlessly.

Tan Span nodded affirmation.

"Why, what a shame she doesn't dive," I said, sardonically. Of course, I thought to myself. How convenient!

I've seen men on the hunt. Been there myself. Tan Span was on the hunt. And, he wasn't just some shark lurking hoping to stumble across a wounded cod. He had identified his prey. It was my wife. And his pearly white incisors were out, large, and on display.

But Tan Span had one thing working against him. Margaret was not the cheating type. Or, so I thought, and technically still do. No late-night outings with the girls -- suspicious whereabouts, phone calls, texts, etc. It seemed I talked to her more often when she was away on her occasional government business trips than home on the couch. Not to say, she can't be a flirt. She flirted with Big Dutch. He did his best to move in during her five-day dive training and certification process. I wouldn't have discovered that, had I not been approached in the airport men's room by another trainee who had witnessed it all. When confronted with my bathroom conversation, she just shrugged. Shrug or not, it might take two to tango but there are physical limitations to what can happen underwater in a full 3-mil wetsuit. Although I'm sure Big Dutch would be willing to give it the old Dutch try.

I did manage to keep Tan Span at bay during dinner. Only because he didn't come. Not that Margaret didn't beg. But to my pleasant surprise he passed. But Tan Span was far from done however. Far from it -- as I learned as much the morning of the fourth.

The boats cast-off for the morning dives by 8:30 am. By 5:00 pm that evening, boat assignments are posted on the dive shop's whiteboard for the morning next. Although, there are four boats, Tan Span coincidentally had been assigned to ours each morning thus far. Undoubtedly, a personal favor from his missing cop dive buddy.

While I routinely wait until 8:15 to retrieve our gear from the bin, Margaret is usually out by 8 jawing with divemaster(s) and sundry divers she deems worthy. There is no shortage of oglers, ogling Margaret in her wetsuit. More than one horny eighteen-year old male has begged for a chance to caress her orange wetsuit lining. But, like a good politician's wife, she rarely spends more than a minute or two with any one or two. That changed day three.

Day three, while I was collecting and double-checking our equipment, Margaret and Tan Span had begun collecting out on the end of the dock and out of earshot of everyone save four boat captains and their deckhands.

Then, back at the dock during surface intervals subsequent mornings, Tan Span insisted on escorting Margaret to the restaurant to fetch coffee and pastries for the boat crew. I'm sure I wasn't alone assuming they were a couple. No doubt it was coupling Tan Span had in mind.

Day four I was heartened to discover Margaret busily bagging our gear as previously agreed. Were things at last returning to normal? I'll confess, the answer was one I never expected. I was sitting on the portside gunnel thumbing through my dive computer log when Tan Span deposited himself to my right.

"I'm going to fuck your wife," he announced matter-of-factly.

Instead of going for the jugular, and though understandably livid, I ignored him, then as casually as possible, walked to another part of the boat.

Then three hours later while grabbing two Diet Cokes at the beach bar he reasserted his claim. "I'm going to fuck your wife."

This time I turned -- glasses in hand and said. "Who the fuck are you, and why don't you crawl back into your hole, before I shove one glass up your ass and one down your throat!"

"Threat all you like. I'm still going to fuck your wife, and there is nothing you can do about it."

Now I was intrigued. I set the glasses back down. "Oh yeah," was my weepy retort. "What makes you think my wife is open for fucking? Has she been informed of your intentions, or are you keeping that a secret?"

"In good order," he replied. "She'll be informed soon enough."

I was never the kind to want to see another man fuck his wife. Some might find it exciting. Kind of sick if you ask me. Still, part of me said mister if you can get her to spread her legs, then more power to you! I haven't had much luck of late. Good luck to you. I couldn't believe somewhere in the recesses of my sick mind I was wishing some stranger Godspeed at drilling my wife.

"Soon enough huh!" I quipped. "You sound pretty confident for someone who has yet to pop the question."

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Margaret who was engrossed in her Kindle fifty feet away, our heated conversation began to fly off the rails.

"You'd better hurry up. We're leaving the day after tomorrow," I lied. "So, when are you going to ask, and when exactly is my wife's debasing scheduled for?"

"I'm not going to ask. Give me those drinks, come back in ten minutes. I'll have the details. But no later than tonight."

"Tonight," I responded sarcastically.

"Tonight," he said. "After the show."

"PLEASE," was the best I could do. Now I was seriously curious. "What's this all about anyway. Anything to do with your buddy Antonio?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps what! Yes or no."

"In passing Antonio spoke of your wife. Said he'd always wanted to fuck her."

"Are you suggesting Antonio fucked my wife?"

"No. But he bet me I couldn't."

"You two are sick ones. Even in the unlikely event you are successful, what proof will you have? He's not here to witness. And, she's not likely to announce it on Facebook, or tell him herself."

"No, she might not. But you will," he replied.

"Me! Come on! Even if I would, how can I be sure?" I said playing along. "She's not one to spill her guts."

"Because you are going to watch."

"Watch!" I replied incredulously, now barely able to contain my rage. "Watch!"

"Watch," he said. "Then you'll inform Antonio personally."

"And why would I do such a thing?"

"If you comply, I'm out on the first plane tomorrow. If not, I'll hang around for the duration and fuck your wife every day."

Ten minutes later I returned. To my surprise Margaret was alone - the two Diet Cokes still fresh in their plastic glasses.

"Honey, what happened to your dive buddy Axel? I had to hit the head. He said he'd deliver the Cokes. We had some dive-stuff to discuss."

"Haven't the faintest idea," she replied. "He scurried off in a huff."

She must have chased him off, I thought, or hoped. Perhaps she told him to go pound sand. The arrogant prick. I was immensely relieved but still needed to rub it in for a bit of well-deserved revenge. Out of the corner of my eye I spied the arrogant Spanish prick by the dive shop checking out his gear. I couldn't resist. I made a beeline across the hot white sand.

This time it was my turn to sidle up next to him and commiserate over his bad news.

"Are you going to write Antonio a check or pay him in cash?"

He turned, gazed at me then back to his rig.

"Going for a night dive?" I inquired smugly.

He turned his head. "No. tonight I'm going to fuck your wife. Come with me and I'll show you where."

I reluctantly followed him around a corner to a staircase leading to a series of second-story classrooms. Several wind-surfing boards lay scattered about on the sand between the shop and the water.

"See that staircase?" he asked.

I saw no reason to respond.

"I'll will assume the bottom step," he said. "She will take the next. I will lift the back of her dress and fuck her from behind. After she reaches an orgasm, which she will immediately, I will lay her down on one of those surfboards, spread her legs and finish her off.

"You, Mr. Cuckold," he continued, "will be observing in the water offshore. It's dark. If you wear your wetsuit and are quiet you should be able to crawl within a few feet without being seen. When I'm done I'll send her home then you and I will make an international phone call."

"This this total bullshit," I said.

"It is?" he countered with a smile.

"For sure!" I replied, shaking my head confidently but wearily concerned.

"There is one way you'll know for sure."

"How that's," I asked.

"I told her to wear the dress she wore the first day."

"I've never seen her wear the same dress twice, but if she does, it's not necessarily a stock receipt she's agreed to fuck you."

"By itself, perhaps not. But I instructed her not to wear underwear."

"No underwear!" I exclaimed. "She's gotten bolder. But not so much to display that silky bush of hers in public."

"She won't be showing. I told her to shave it. No errant hairs to obscure your view. Remember, afterwards we'll have business to attend to. Once I fuck her, she'll never turn me down. Break our deal, and I'll fuck her until you turn ninety, morning, noon, and night."

"I still think you're full of shit."

"You'll know soon enough," he said smiling, then looked at his watch. "By the time you get back to your room she should be changing for dinner. You'll know any second now. Excited!?"

I didn't know what to say. If I did, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. But I wanted to nail this down.

"Remember our deal. You had better be there watching, or I'll be back tomorrow, to fuck her again. Might just fuck her in the lobby in front of everyone while you drink your Scotch."

"You still have to fuck her today, before you fuck her tomorrow," I reminded him.

"After the show," he said pointing his finger at me. "After the show, when you get back to your room, she'll discover her cell phone missing. She'll say she left it at the restaurant, then leave to go get it. I'll be waiting at the beach bar. We'll stroll up the beach for a few minutes of preliminaries before returning to the shop. That will give you time to slide into your wetsuit and sneak offshore. I'll be fucking her for a while, the semen oozing through your wetsuit should keep you warm until I'm finished. There will be a signal at the end. You'd better be able to identify it, or I'll start all over again tomorrow. And, this time there will be no me hopping a plane the next day."