You’re a normal, mature, sophisticated horny male preparing for a week in the sun in the Caribbean and, of course, you’re after women. So you prepare — much as Alexander the Great successfully prepared to conquer the known world.

Let me be blunt — I don't have to prepare. I can get laid in the Caribbean or anywhere else any time I want. But unless you’re George Clooney or Brad Pitt, you can't. So you have to strategize. You’ve only got seven days and if the seven days are to be worth the price, they have to include getting laid.

I sympathize and understand perfectly. So here’s my advice (with apologies to any sisters who think I’m giving too much away.)

PREPARATION:
1.  Invest in medium bronzer and start applying it all over a few days before departure. The stuff won’t protect you from the sun but it will make you look a lot less pale and wan when you stride manfully onto that first beach that first morning. Students of getting laid are unanimous that pale and wan is not the look favoured by the better class of bikini.

2.  Buy a hard-cover Mongolian-language book, take its dust cover off and wrap it around your own book. This is so you can scowl, mutter “no spik Inglis” and concentrate on your book if the person sitting next to you on the plane or bus shows signs of wanting to be your new best friend forever. (If the person sitting next to you speaks Mongolian, of course, you have a problem.) This strategy should be abandoned immediately if the person sitting next to you turns out to be a beautiful woman, but I'm told this never happens in real life.

3. Buy some fashionable, reasonably expensive beach and bar wear, including a swim suit that isn't polyester tartan and doesn't droop down past your knees when wet.

4. Stock up on condoms and your favourite Cialis/Viagra/Levitra or whatever.

5. Check the resort out on the Internet to find out if there will be special evenings which need special clothing (bare as you dare night, whore and pimp night etc. etc.)

THE JOURNEY:
6.   Arrive at the airport with enough time to charm the ground hostess into assigning you "a seat-in-an-exit-row-as-far-forward-as-possible". You want an exit seat because you get considerably more leg room than any other passenger. (Of course, people on exit seats have to help other passengers escape “in the unlikely event of an emergency” but those who study these things say the chance of your actually having to help your fellow passengers escape from a burning or sinking plane is even more remote than your chance of finding a beautiful woman sitting next to you.) You want as far forward as possible because that gets you off the plane fast, leaving enough time to check in with the man under the umbrella in the parking lot before your bus leaves for the resort.

7.  There is at least one man in every parking lot in every Caribbean airport — except possibly in Cuba — who sells ice-cold beer and marijuana. At Montego Bay, Jamaica, he has a little metal cart with a Red Stripe umbrella on top and excellent ganja down below. Ganja will be vital bait in your pussy-hunt so by all means bargain but pay the man what he asks if you have to.

THE CAMPAIGN:
8. Once at the resort, bribe everyone in sight, particularly if it’s a no-tips sort of place. Bartenders, waiters, maids, dive masters, sailing instructors, tennis pros, entertainment managers etc. do their best work when stimulated by unexpected windfalls of US dollar and their best work could easily include introducing you to likely prey. Heavy tipping also gets you to the front of the line when ordering two banana daiquiris at the over-crowded bar after midnight. (This is no time for foolish patriotism — US dollars are the coin of the Caribbean realm.)

9. Stake out your hunting ground very, very carefully. Unless it’s an adult-only resort (about which more later) stay clear of the pool. The pool is where respectable families with children cluster because they believe their children are less likely to drown in the pool than the ocean. And the best bikinis don't hang out with respectable families with children. Don’t let the sight of some of the cellulite flesh on display put you off your hunt. Your average Caribbean all-inclusive resort (with the honourable exception of the Club Meds) is not peopled by noted beauties.

10. Avoid very young women even though they are legal prey and often look quite splendid in very small bikinis. You will have nothing in common with females, however enticing they look in very small bikinis, who say “like” and “you know” and “know what I mean” and “whatever” two or three times a sentence, a habit which can drive your average mature, sophisticated male right out of his banana. Leave them to the louts who wear their caps backwards, play beach volleyball at noon, believe it a mark of manhood to get hammered before the sun sets and vomit a lot.

11. Your best bikinis can usually be found sunning alone on the least crowded part of the beach. There are  two reasons for this female solitude. One is that she’s convinced herself that she’s only here to rest up, recuperate, recharge the batteries and get far away, if only for a week, from some man who so obviously doesn’t deserve her. Or, for that matter, away from all men who so obviously don’t deserve her. The other reason is that no woman ever born (except me*) is truly satisfied with her body. She’s certain that her breasts are too small or too droopy, her bottom too big, her thighs too fat or, just as likely, all the above. So she’s decided to nurse her glaringly obvious imperfections in virtuous isolation. You meantime, a mature, sophisticated male with no intention of remaining either virtuous or in isolation for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, will have no problem seeing her as a vision of unsurpassed loveliness, a veritable goddess unmatched in all of womanhood in all the world. Or, at least, suitable prey. It is, therefore, your job — indeed, your duty as a gentleman — to rescue her from her solitude and doubt.

So how do you rescue this shy maiden and be rewarded with appropriately grateful action? If I get enough responses, I’ll be happy to provide the answer.

*To tell the honest truth, I think my breasts are too big, out of proportion to my waist. But no-one else seems to care.


(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)