Free The Sexopaths by Bruce Beckham

off the sinister
asexual presence of this woman.  Her hypothesis that the reconvened crew
has drifted beyond the horizon of normal conventions that bind behaviour
rekindles the sea-sickness that has troubled him since their arrival. 
What would it take for Monique to be press-ganged into their midst, vows
unwinding?  Too much to drink, a broadside of flattery with an intent she
might not recognise, her wish to impress, her urge to charm, to please, to
reward; thus compliant - a planned ‘chance’ encounter in the half-darkness, a
touch of the arm, a trial kiss, sex in sixty seconds.
    ‘Well – you can’t be too
judgemental about these things.’  It’s the Irishwoman, throwing in a line
and rescuing him from his oppressive thoughts.  ‘Everyone gets a bit
over-friendly and amorous on occasion, but I reckon most of it’s pretty
harmless.  You can’t blame people for wanting to let their hair down
– it doesn’t mean their underpants have to go south as well.’
    Adam smiles.  And he takes strength
from her confidently assuaging common sense.  She’s right – everyone
likes a good time – and although he’s been to plenty of conferences where
there was a desire, a will among some, it doesn’t automatically equate to
Monique hopping into bed with a newly met colleague.  Anyway – she
isn’t like that.  It’s just that she’s too generous for her own good;
those little conversational intimacies that most women keep on a short leash,
Monique lets loose like a puppy greeting its eagerly awaited master.
    The Belgian looks like she’s
building up to disagree with the Irishwoman, maybe translating into English her
intended rebuke, but further relief arrives in the form of the main course,
each successive plate laid breaking a link in the chain of chatter around the
table, as diners stiffen in turn to receive their meals.  Robotically, the
Belgian switches her attention to her souvlaki; swiftly and silently she tucks
in, perhaps conditioned to snatching meals between endless nursing and
nappy-changes, escaping to some inner sanctum where she is deaf to demands and
disputes and discarded dummies.  Gradually the noise recovers to an
eating-level of polite dialogue and appreciative comment.  Released from
his conversational obligations, Adam takes the opportunity to cast about the
table.  Some people are trading forkfuls across the glinting landscape of
glasses and bottles.  He sees Monique offer something from her plate to
the French President, then to Simone.  He raises his eyebrows at Ignacio
who catches his gaze and reciprocates.  He counts the heads opposite
– thirteen, so there must be twenty-six of them, an almost equal mix of
males and females.  He wonders who would pair off with whom. 
Has?  Certainly they seem to know one another surprisingly well –
they’re more like a group of long-term colleagues from a single company than a
disparate and occasional gathering of conference-goers and their disconnected
partners.  Much of the talk seems considered and ongoing, conveying
time-served camaraderie, unlike his polite just-met exchanges with the
Irishwoman.  In Monique’s section it’s still pretty lively, and now the
interposing hubbub has subsided he can snatch soundbytes – until they’re
drowned by seemingly inevitable bursts of hilarity.  While most shared
conversations are conducted in English – and Adam has felt humbled by the
ability of these Europeans to switch language to accommodate another person
joining in; the versatile Dutch flit from French to German to Flemish and back
to English; the Austrians, Germans, Italians, Spanish and Swiss appear almost
equally competent; even the French can speak disturbingly good English when
they feel so inclined – at the moment Monique’s group are still
conversing in French.  There’s a subtext to this that troubles him; of course,
she can hold her own and more, and he has to admit he’s impressed – with
him she employs only