She did as he asked. I trust this man completely. With her eyes closed, she could hear the waves. The air was crisp—fresh—so she inhaled deeply, feeling her chest expand, her nipples pushing hard against her sundress.
When she exhaled, it felt like the purest breath she had ever breathed. And…
She felt something on the back of her perfectly-formed, alabaster-skinned thighs.
What is that?
Screech had gotten down on the ground behind her, lifted up her dress and was now licking the back of her thighs.
No, not again!
She heard a muffled voice from underneath “SURPRISE!”
“Screech! Stop that!”
“But you love it!”
She confessed silently that she did indeed enjoy being licked. But even as her body craved more, her brain screamed, “No Screech! Not here! Not now!”
At precisely this moment, Marianna saw an elderly couple walking towards them from a bend in the path. Their view was screened by the rock wall, but in just another moment, they would round the corner and see Screech underneath her dress like a perverted pantomime horse.
“Screech! There are people coming!”
“Haha! Yes, and I’m going to make sure that one of those people is you!”
“I’m not joking Screech—there is another couple coming down the path.”
She felt Screech’s tongue slow down to a canter, and then his head jerked back—a movement that put her off-balance as well.
“Screech! Now!”
“I can’t! My earring is stuck on your underwear!”
“Just get out!”
Screech shook his head back and forth, trying to pull free from Marianna’s La Perla, all the while pulling Marianna’s midsection along like a rag doll.
The other couple had continued their stroll and now stood before Marianna, who swiveled around to face them, in an attempt to shield from their view the man who was stuck underneath her sun dress. But Screech continued to pull against Marianna’s panties violently, making her shake from side-to-side like a Polaroid picture.
The couple, perhaps in their 70s, stood in shock.
“Burt! Do something! This young lady is having an EPILECTIC seizure!”
“No, I’m fine really!”
But it was too late. The elderly gentlemen had rushed over, wallet in hand. He grabbed Marianna and tried to push his billfold into her mouth. At this precise moment, Screech pulled with all his might. Something tore, releasing Screech, who tumbled backwards, creating a chain reaction. Marianna toppled over, bringing the septuagenarian Samaritan down with her. He landed directly on top of her.
Screech looked up from the ground with a grin on his face, Marianna’s lace panties, ripped at the seams, still stuck on his earring. “Wow! That was something!”
The elderly woman glared at Marianna, then looked at Screech.
“Burt! Let’s go!”
But the old man would not move. No, he could not move, for he had breathed his last. While he fell, the wizened senior’s gnarled hand had inadvertently grazed Marianna’s perfectly formed bosoms—a sensation he had not felt for many a decade. This proved too much for the ancient man’s noble heart. His unblinking eyes were wide open, with shock, but his mouth formed a wide, but final, smile.
This was going to be a tough one to explain to the police.
It was all humiliating. The interrogation lasted for hours. As much as Screech protested, the police were adamant that the seawall was not an appropriate place for cunnilingus. Marianna had wanted to sue the elderly couple for ruining a pair of La Perla panties, but the police counseled against it.
Bastards, she thought, they probably have no idea how much La Perla costs.
But Marianna’s anger with the police was but a fraction of the rage she felt towards Screech. Marianna was done—just done—with Screech. He couldn’t be trusted not to attempt to spit shine the pearl in a public place. When the police released them, Screech had called out “See you next weekend!” and gleefully made a vulgar gesture by placing his tongue between his middle and index fingers in lieu of the more typical wave “good-bye.” Marianna simply turned and walked away. How could she have been so wrong about a man again?
Chapter 14 – Fleet Week
Without a man in the picture, each day had no meaning. Work was more monotonous than ever. Once again, only yoga provided solace to Marianna. It was strange that this solitary pursuit, where no money was spent, was the only thing that could relax her.
But even as Marianna’s wounded soul healed and she purchased replacement panties for the La Perla pair that she still mourned, the town of Newport was waking up. Through spring, it had slowly dusted off the cobwebs. But now summer had arrived, and the village had the energy of a small child given meth-laced sugar donuts. Everyone was buzzing about the coming regatta. But Marianna struggled to share in the excitement. I suppose it makes sense. There is no Fashion Week here. These poor people have so little, Marianna thought. But it was a big deal to the village people, which made her feel ever more alone.
She needed to call a friend.
“Suzanne?”
“Marianna! I’m so happy to hear from you! I was getting worried!”
“Worried? Why?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but Bradley’s been looking for you. He’s been hanging around outside our office, howling your name at passers-by.”
Marianna shuddered.
“But you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” But the tone in Marianna’s voice hinted at her pain.
“Listen, I’m coming up this weekend. I haven’t visited you yet, and I’ve heard there’s this big regatta in Newport next weekend. With all those yachts around, I’m sure I’ll find a good number of seamen to my liking.” Suzanne snickered.
Marianna had tried to object, but she acknowledged that having her best friend close by this weekend would be, if nothing else, an amusing distraction from the disaster her life had become.
Race day arrived, and it seemed like the whole town had taken to sea—the only way to watch the regatta properly. Of course, Marianna had no boat. Throughout her time in Newport, she had been too afraid to get near to the unwashed locals to make friends. There was no one she could ask—other than Captain Larry, but he was competing. Even if he hadn’t been, Marianna would have rather shopped at Wal-Mart than talk to that arrogant man and his firm bottom.
So when Suzanne arrived for the weekend, Marianna fretted that she had let her friend down. But on Saturday night, Suzanne befriended a group of lacrosse players from a local prep school outside of a 7-11 and convinced them to take the two ladies on their boat. In return, Suzanne said she had promised to French kiss each one of them.
“Suzanne!” Marianna exclaimed when she learned of this outrageous proposition.
“What? French kissing minors isn’t illegal. Don’t be such a prude! And at least it’s better than the time that I got us a ride back from Dorrian’s by promising the truck driver a blowjob!” Oh, how they laughed at that funny memory!
On race morning, the sun shone brightly, and the sky was azure like bleu cheese. The girls headed to the docks to meet the boys, who were waiting by their boat. When the boys laid eyes on Suzanne, they began to trade high-fives and dance little jigs.
Surveying the hubbub, Marianna asked, “Suzanne, are you sure you only promised to French kiss them?”
“Oh, haha! I might have promised them a little something else as long as they bought us drinks and got us back safely.”
Despite the distinct possibility that Suzanne had promised to facilitate an adolescent gangbang in return for a boat ride, Marianna was instantly relieved to see that the boys were affluent and mono-cultural except for an Asian boy who hopefully had been adopted by white parents who were barren. She walked towards the boat, a boy with a scuffed baseball hat offered her his hand to steady her as she boarded. He called her “Ma’am,” which made her blood boil because it meant that Suzanne,
and not she, would be the center of attention on this boat trip. What’s so special about Suzanne anyway? Anyone can promise a group of prep school boys a orgy of Caligulan proportions.
The boys’ boat was a fishing boat, about 25 feet long—not glamorous, perhaps, but it would allow the girls to watch the regatta from the sea. And the teenagers had remembered their promise to bring drinks. Almost as soon as they got underway, the boys started passing around large bottles of what looked like beer, although it was not Duvel, Chimay or any brand of beer that Marianna was familiar with. Instead, it had some strange blue bull over the label. Marianna wouldn’t touch it, but Suzanne drank and said it tasted like ass (and not metaphorically—Suzanne had occasionally tossed salad, so she was able to pinpoint the flavor.)
Boats dotted the harbor. In a prime location near the start of the regatta, a large grouping of pleasure craft had been lashed together to form what the boys called “a party raft.” The boys piloted the fishing boat to the end of this row of boats and tied their boat to the raft.
Marianna could see that this row was the place to be in Newport! Most of the prominent townspeople were on this party raft—she recognized prominent Newport resident Richard Hatch, who had won the very first season of Survivor! Next to him stood a dignified man in a seer-sucker suit, Mr. Abernathy Day–Biltmore and a small boy. The boys on the raft explained that Day-Biltmore was the Mayor of Newport and the child was his somewhat dull-witted, but well-loved, young son, Chas.
Chas delighted the crowds on the raft by reciting parts of Atlas Shrugged in the accent of the Mayor’s Dominican housekeeper, Carolina, which everyone agreed was not racist because “she really does talk like that.” Chas followed that by making fart noises to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner, which was deemed very patriotic indeed. When he finished, applause rang out from boats across the sea. The townsfolk loved Chas. The Mayor’s boy is the heartbeat of the village, Marianna thought. Truly, it would be a tragedy if something were to happen to him!
A murmur grew from the crowd, complementing the eternal whisper of the waves. The racing yachts were getting ready, lining up at the start, each with different-colored sails. A potent, but pleasant, wind blew, sending ripples across the tender skin of the sea. Marianna squinted. Her eyes were drawn to the boat with the yellow sails—she could just barely make out Larry, dressed in a white sailor outfit and white captain’s hat, barking orders at his crew. His men looked like real men from an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, ready to take commands from their leader.
Next to Larry’s boat was a yacht with white sails with red stripes. Even from a distance, the captain of this boat cut quite a different figure. He was obese, older and appeared to be wearing mascara and a silver spaceman outfit. Ah! This must be Sam Sparkle. Sparkle was a notorious aging rock-and-roll singer who had bought his way into Newport. Although the crime of having earned his money would have been enough to garner the disapproval of the town, Sam had also been caught in Thailand having sex with girls. The sex was consensual and the girls were of legal age, but the girls were somewhat overweight and also a different race. The town was disgusted. Thai authorities had deported Sparkle back to America, which was a scandal because America did not want him either. It became a blight on Newport when Sam Sparkle decided to settle there. The townspeople hated Sparkle—it was disgusting when unattractive people had sex. Marianna shuddered at the thought.
Marianna was brought back to the sea when a single shot of a starter pistol rang out, cutting through the gentle murmur of the deep. It was followed by twelve near-simultaneous cracks as each racer’s sails were unfurled, like Mark Wahlberg’s penis in Boogie Nights, the wind catching them with a snap, which did not happen to Mark Wahlberg’s penis in Boogie Nights. The race had begun.
Larry’s men were quicker with their sails—more coordinated—and the yellow-sailed boat took the early lead. Marianna felt her heart leap when she saw this, even though Larry was selfish, repulsive and had a beer belly. But suddenly the winds changed direction, and Larry’s men struggled to re-position their sails.
A boat surged from behind. It had white sails with red stripes. Sam Sparkle. The crowd booed when they saw this—they had their favorite, and it was Larry. Marianna could barely see now, but she saw that Suzanne had brought binoculars and was watching the scene intently.
“Suzanne, why do you own binoculars?”
“There are a lot of reasons to have binoculars!”
“It’s not like you go bird watching!”
“Birds? Ha, no, but I do go cock watching! And let me tell you, sometimes you need binoculars for that!”
Oh, how the girls laughed.
“Let me see!” Marianna pawed at the binoculars anxiously.
Now Marianna could see Captain Larry, shouting and pointing, his men driving into action. Larry was holding a rope with one hand, his muscles taut and bulging. Then she turned the binoculars on Sam Sparkle and his crew.
What a contrast! Sam was grotesquely overweight and had farcically put on his own captain’s hat. Sam had only wisps of hair left, which stuck out straight from the sides of his head, creating a Bozo the Clown effect. Sam was stumbling around, quite possibly besotted on rail alcohol, but his men appeared to be every bit as active as Larry’s. Those men had opened up Sam’s hundred-yard lead as the boats headed off into the distance.
Sam’s boat approached a buoy—there they would have to turn the boat. The race consisted of three of these turns, and it was the skill of the crews on these turns that would surely decide the outcome. Marianna watched as Sam’s boat leaned sharply. For a moment, she thought it would tip over. But the vessel cornered nicely—the sails swung to the other side.
Still trailing by some distance, Larry’s boat approached the buoy. The crew pulled and leaned. The boat tilted, if anything even more deeply than Sparkle’s, and then shot forward once the corner was turned. Marianna could now see only the backs of both boats, and it was impossible to judge who was in the lead.
The crowd in the raft now grew distracted. With the distant race hard to follow, the boys in Marianna’s boat turned their attention to drinking games. One game was called “butt luge,” which involved three boys. One boy had to pour beer down another boy’s back, while a third boy would place his mouth near the small of the other boy’s back and drink the beer flowing down. Then they would yell “No homo!” when they were done.
What pleasant boys! thought Marianna. She looked over at Suzanne and saw her friend turning green.
Someone shouted. The racing yachts were making another turn—you could see the masts dip and then pop back up… and…
The boats were again visible from the side—Larry’s and Sam Sparkle’s boats were neck and neck. Only the final turn would separate the two boats. A hush fell over the crowd. Now even the boys were fascinated—still drinking beer and playing butt luge, but absolutely rapt. Marianna felt so tense that she too grabbed a bottle. Although the taste was awful, Marianna thought that the beer probably “works, every time.”
The boats approached the turn, but what was Sam Sparkle doing? It looked as if the villain was directing his boat closer and closer to Larry’s. Was this an attempt to intimidate Larry, or steer him into a deadly mistake? Marianna felt a lump in her throat and a tingle in her silken folds. The boats were so close to each other that the crews could have reached over and shaken hands had they not been battling like two attractive, heavily muscled gladiators with perfect teeth in a Roman coliseum. Just the very proximity of the boats seemed unwise, considering how dangerous and unpredictable high performance yachting could be.
At the turn, the masts again dipped as the crews strained to find the perfect balance between a precise turn and certain doom.
When the boats again turned upright, there was only one leader.
And it is my Larry! Marianna thought, before catching herself. My Larry? His manhood wasn’t even erect when he was naked on top of me. He’s probably gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that—I hav
e lots of gay friends), and I can’t stand him! She told herself this repeatedly, with complete and steadfast resolution on the subject.
The raft erupted in wild cheers—the villagers were ecstatic, partly because it meant that they didn’t have to pretend to congratulate the foul Sam Sparkle. It was a victory for all Newporridgians. Larry and his crew pumped their fists in the air, piloted their boat close to the raft and anchored.
The cheerful townsfolk headed towards the yachts in smaller boats—dinghies they called them—offering bottles of champagne and small baggies of cocaine. The Mayor and his adorable boy headed towards Larry, pulling alongside Larry’s yacht and tying up near to it. The Mayor jumped on board and shook Larry’s hand vigorously for the cameras as his son Chas stared on from the perfect safety of his boat.
Marianna sighed. Yes, Larry was well-liked in this small town, but she had no desire to get in one of those dinghies to congratulate him. His head was big enough, and, after all, he had been the one who acted so ungratefully when she tried to introduce him to Starbucks specialty drinks. Why can’t I find a man who doesn’t act like that?
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