by Jo Watson
I grimaced. “A holiday fling?”
“Yes, you need to find somone to practice on. Someone nonthreatening. Someone to help you get over this slump.”
“Someone to practice on. Uh…I think that’s the last thing I need.”
CHAPTER THREE
The phone calls came respectively at 5:23 a.m. and then again at 6:27 a.m.
I was fast asleep, dreaming happily about the vacation I was about to go on with my friends in a few hours, when it assaulted my eardrums. A few months ago I’d changed my ringtone to a very angry Linkin Park song, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, barely at the crack of dawn, it just gave me a blinding headache.
“BURRNN IT DOWWNNN, AAAHHHHHH!!!” I scrambled quickly for the phone to shut off that offensive screaming.
“Hello!”
“Hey…” It was Lilly and she sounded horrific. “I feel like I’m dying.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I have food poisoning.”
“How?” I sat up in bed.
“Um, well you know how Stormy invited us around last night?”
“Yes.” Of course I did. I had politely declined.
“She cooked.”
“No! You didn’t,” I gasped.
“I did. I think it was that strange organic, vegan, yellow-browny gelatinous-looking thing.”
I shook my head to myself. Everyone knows not to eat anything Stormy prepares. Experimental veganism, she calls it.
“I’m at the ER and the doctor says I’ll be okay in a few days, but there’s no way I can travel with you today,” she was practically wailing.
“What? You’re not coming?”
“No, I’m coming, I just have to move my flight out by a few days. I’m not getting on a plane like this.”
“I can’t believe it.” I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice, which made me feel terribly selfish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make this about me. Just get better. Jane and I will brave it alone for a few days. ”
“You guys will have fun! Maybe you’ll find a scuba instructor to practice on.”
“Doubtful.”
“Oh my God, I think I’m going to get siiickkk.” She hung up.
But then, just as I was thinking about her, Jane phoned with the exact same story; sick, practically on her deathbed, clinging to a bucket…not pretty. I had sudden visions of myself alone on vacation while all those loved-up honeymooners and groups of happy tourists had fun in the sun. I would stick out like a sore, lonely, pathetic, single thumb. I was self-conscious enough as it was without people pointing and staring at me like the last lonely rhino in the zoo. Besides, who would put sunscreen on my back?
It was in that moment that I wished my other two friends weren’t so damn complicated. Stormy-Rain and Val had both declined Lilly’s invitation, for very different, but equally ridiculous, reasons.
Stormy-Rain because she believed that humans weren’t meant to fly and that airplanes were unnatural, and Val because Mark (the neighbor she’d been secretly in love with for years) had invited her to a family wedding. She was convinced—yet again—that he was going to realize he was in love with her, and her limbo of torturous, unrequited love would finally be over. I wasn’t going to hold my breath for that; this traumatic saga had been dragging on for years, like a story line from a bad soap opera that went round and round in repetitive circles.
I’d been so excited about this trip, but the idea of going alone terrified me, even if it was only for a few days. For a moment I contemplated pushing my flight out, too, but then I looked out the window and saw the sight I dreaded most.
Perhaps I should have mentioned earlier that Gunter, my landlord-slash-neighbor, is very “open” with his body. Maybe it’s a German thing, maybe it’s because he’d been a nudist in the seventies?
But whatever the reason, in my humble opinion, no sixty-five-year-old man should clean his pool, bending over often, I might add, in a tiny red Speedo. He’s also a hairy man, and I’m not just talking about his chest. Let’s just say it always looks like he’s smuggling a poodle in his speedo.
“Hi, Annie.” He waved at me, exposing the Santa beard he had tucked under his armpit.
“Hi, Gunter.” I smiled politely and waved back, deciding that I definitely should go to Mauritius that morning. It was summer after all, and the pool would need regular cleaning, not to mention regular bending.
I grabbed my ticket and ran just as Gunter started leaning over to clean the leaves out of the filter.
* * *
The flight to Mauritius was only three hours and I spent the entire time entertaining myself with a series of happy thoughts. Happy thoughts that helped me get rid of images of that red Speedo.
The turquoise sea. I could almost hear it.
The warm sun. I could almost feel it.
White sandy beaches.
Lush palm trees swaying in a warm tropical breeze.
Cocktails, margaritas, mojitos, cosmos, and sex on the beaches (and I mean that in the purely alcoholic sense). There would be no sex on the beach for me, or anywhere else for that matter. I’d come to terms with a kind of self-imposed vow of celibacy. It was obvious that I needed a lot more practice in bed first, before jumping into one. I was continuously plagued by thoughts of total sexual inadequacy, which I’d never had before. I’d once considered myself to be a girl who knew her way around a bedroom. When I’d mentioned this to my friends, Stormy had come up with a very Stormy suggestion.
“If you’re looking for sex tips, you should watch a porno,” she’d suggested enthusiastically.
“A porno?” The last time I’d watched a porno was with my college roommate; we’d laughed the whole way through it.
“Just think about it. Those people are paid to have sex. Paid!” she’d said while sipping on a glass of muddy, green-colored sludge. “That makes them professionals. If anyone knows how to do it, they do.”
At first I’d dismissed her suggestion. But a few weeks later I watched a TV program on infidelity—one of those true-life things where the wife hires a private investigator to track down her miserable cheating man-whore—and I changed my mind. When confronted, the man-whore showed no remorse, instead citing his wife’s lackluster bedroom performance as one of the main reasons for “straying.”
Maybe Stormy was right after all. What the hell? What did I have to lose? So with that in mind, I Googled the nearest adult store. I’d initially decided on online porn, but Stormy had insisted we have a real-life experience, not a virtual one. I’d never been to an adult store before, so the prospect was rather daunting. And cruelly, most seemed to be located on rather busy main roads, forcing you to engage in some kind of public walk of shame, thus increasing your chances of getting spotted. And I could not risk being seen. Half the fashion world already thought I was a willy-chopping weirdo.
I contemplated going in some sort of a disguise. But after I’d experimented with a trench coat, a cap, and oversized glasses, I realized that I looked like a deranged stripper and was at risk of being arrested…again.
The news of my sexual expedition spread, and one Saturday morning Stormy, Jane, Val, Lilly, and I found ourselves sitting in my car together across the road from the sex shop.
“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Jane said. If anyone needed this, though, it was probably Jane. She hadn’t had sex in years, not since her bad experience with the man that had a secret wife on the side.
“It’s so exciting,” Lilly said. Once the biggest sexual prude around, she now enjoyed wild and very frequent sex with Damien. “Maybe I’ll get one to watch with Damien later.”
And then there was Stormy, who had turned this into a whole production. She had arrived in a disguise. Wig, strange vaguely Victorian-looking clothes, and a terrible accent that seemed to be a mixture of Australian and Transylvanian. She was the least prudish of the group, but she had seen this an opportunity to flex her acting muscles. Val was also there looki
ng tear stained. Word on the street was that neighbor-boy had started seeing someone.
We all gazed out of the car. ADULT EXTRAVAGANZA. The shop certainly made no attempt to blend in or be discreet in any way, shape, or form. In fact, it was just the opposite. It screamed and waved its arms wildly. It boasted a large, flashing red X that could no doubt be seen by intelligent life forms living in another galaxy.
And there was nothing subtle about the interior, either. It was so dimly lit by a seedy red light that it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. And once they had, I reviewed my surroundings. I felt like I’d taken a tumble through the rabbit hole and walked straight into Alice’s Wonderland for adults. Half of the shop was dedicated to toys and accessories and the other half to DVDs. Currently we were surrounded by…mmmm, what euphemism can I use here…female pleasure appliances?
“Look at ull zee giant dildos,” Stormy said in her loudest possible voice. We didn’t need her to point them out, though. Because we were all already staring at them. Some were pretty ordinary-looking things, while others looked like something you might buy from the gift shop at SeaWorld. One giant luminous yellow-looking thing caught my eye. I pointed at it for everyone to look when—
“Nice choice.” A voice startled us and we all jumped. Jane, who is far too tall for her center of gravity, stumbled backward, and boom.
Disaster struck.
The shelf wobbled.
It tilted.
It swayed.
And then it fell, taking its contents with it.
Suddenly the floor around us was a sea of sex toys. A purple vibrator unexpectedly sprung to life, vibrating and shaking so hard that it actually started crawling across the floor like a large snake.
We all bent down trying to pick up the wobbly, shaky, battery-operated creatures. I glanced up briefly and ascertained that the voice in question belonged to a pale geeky-looking guy wearing a Star Wars T-shirt and a pair of army boots.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, bending down and standing up again, holding something that looked like the love child of a Christmas decoration and an automatic pool cleaner.
“I’m so sorry, you startled us and—” Jane started to splutter.
“No worries, it happens all the time.”
“Vat? Zat people knock over ze shelf?” Stormy asked, trying to find the off switch to a distinctly tropical-looking thing that also seemed to be belting out reggae music.
“No. That I startle people.” He said it with a deadpan delivery and somewhat vacant desert-wasteland eyes. It was a little creepy. I could see why he might startle people.
A few minutes later we had finally managed to get all the battery-operated toys shut down and back onto the shelves.
“So, is there something I can help you ladies with?” He spoke again.
“Yes, we’re looking for a movie,” Lilly said confidently.
“You’ve come to the right place. So, what you girls into?”
“Um…” We all looked at each other.
“Woman on woman, man on man and woman, S and M, BDSM, CFNM, BBW, M and M, hard-core, soft-core, somewhere-in-the-middle-core, bisexual, transsexual, trisexual, or latex?”
“Normal stuff, I guess,” I said.
“Aaah.” He nodded as if I’d just answered a really deep and meaningful question. “Vanilla. I’ve got just the stuff for you.”
We followed him around the corner past a rail of outfits. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I recognized one. Leathery. Studded. Chain-y. I shuddered, wondering if Trevv and Tess had been in here.
“This is where you’ll find your softer stuff. I can recommend some, if you like?”
“No, no thanks. I think we’ll be okay.” I smiled at him and he took this as his cue to leave, going back to the counter from whence he came.
We looked around: Lord of the G-Strings, Driving into Miss Daisy, Spankenstein, Free My Willy, American Booty, and Ocean’s 11 Inches. Without any discussion we picked 11 Inches up and inched our way up to the counter. I slid the DVD across the table.
“That’ll be ten dollars.” And then he winked at us. At least I thought it was a wink; it was hard to tell behind those thick, dusty glasses he was wearing. “You ladies are going to love it.”
We smiled politely, paid, slipped our newly acquired purchase into a handbag, and scuttled off.
Once home and safely installed on the couch, I pressed play on Ocean’s 11 Inches.
Let’s just say we didn’t learn a great deal about the intricacies of sex.
All we learned was…
“Guys…” My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head.
“I know! I know!” Val leaned forward, examining the TV screen carefully.
Lilly, Stormy, and Jane crept across the floor to get a closer look.
“It’s…,” I whispered in shock.
“I know. I know!” Stormy said.
“It’s…,” I tried again, but the words failed me.
“It can’t be,” Jane said. “Press pause. We need to find a tape measure.”
“No. It definitely is,” Lilly said emphatically.
We were all silent. We stared at the close-up shot that was filling the entire screen.
“It’s halfway down to his knee!” Val screeched.
“It’s the size of an elephant’s trunk!” Stormy tapped on the TV screen.
“I know. I know,” we all echoed.
“It has to be a prosthetic,” Jane finally said.
We all stopped for a moment. “That actually makes sense,” I said, “because I’ve seen some amazing prosthetics on set. You should see what they can do these days.”
“Exactly!” Lilly exclaimed. “Didn’t they put a prosthetic nose on Nicole Kidman for that movie?”
“Totally,” I quickly verified.
“Um, guys…” Stormy had pressed play again. “But if it was prosthetic, would he be able to do that with it?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mauritius is beautiful. Exquisite even. The interior of the island is comprised mainly of huge—as far as the eye can see—fields of bright green sugar cane. In places, the sugar cane stretches for miles and miles, and the only things breaking the flat, monotonous green horizon are the large jagged mountains that rise up straight out of the earth.
Wide-open spaces are punctuated by small roadside towns, an eclectic mix of old and new. Street markets selling pineapples and coconuts are located next to a McDonald’s, an interesting blend of old architecture next to modern buildings.
And then there’s the sea. Brilliant, turquoise, and more inviting than a sale at your favorite shop. The beaches looked as white as snow and as soft as cotton wool, and I couldn’t wait to stretch out across one. In some parts the water was so clear it was transparent, and the small boat sailing past looked like it was floating, suspended on nothing but air. I opened the car window and the humid, salty smell of the sea rushed in.
This place was magical. Perfect. And for the first time in forever, I felt at peace. Nothing was going to ruin this vacation for me.
I finally arrived at my resort—Le Trou aux Biches—around midday. I won’t even go about trying to pronounce that name out loud; my French is very rusty and the first time I attempted it, it came out as Le Troo axe Bitches. I’m pretty sure that is not the intended pronunciation, considering the way the customs officer glared at me after I’d told him that’s where I was headed.
But the question of how to say it really doesn’t matter once you are inside this thing of tropical beauty. The lobby is grand. Triple-volume ceilings rise up, giving the feeling of ultimate space and freedom. The floor is made entirely of white beach sand with actual palms planted in it.
From there I had to cross a small moat of water to get to the rest of the hotel, and once across the bridge, I found myself in a dense tropical garden.
Several paths cut their way through the thick flora, dotted with signs that read POOL, SPA, SALON, SHOP, TENNIS COURT. (As if!) I follow
ed the bellhop through the beautiful tropical gardens, past the bright pink flowers, the large lush leaves, and huge palm trees that were heavy with coconuts.
I finally reached my room, a small stand-alone bungalow on Jasmine Lane. There were about ten other small bungalows, and I assumed the ones next door were reserved for Lilly and Jane. The best thing about the rooms was their location, only thirty feet from the beach. I stood there for a moment, as the bellhop fiddled with the key card, and took it all in.
The sea was dead calm, as still as bathwater and probably the same color and temperature. The water looked shallow, and I imagined that you could probably walk all the way to the distant reef where the sea became a dark sapphire color. The beach was scattered with deliciously inviting-looking loungers positioned under umbrellas made of dried palm leaves. People were lying like lizards in the sun, while others bobbed up and down idly in the water. It was picture perfect. A postcard depicting the very best of lazy, hot holiday relaxation.
It felt like two hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside, and I grabbed a cold Coke from the bar fridge and climbed into a hammock, which was swinging invitingly on the patio. Nestled comfortably in its folds, I experienced this amazing sensation of weightlessness, as if I was suspended in midair, floating on the wind itself.
Instant relaxation. Immediate bliss.
I lay there sipping my Coke happily—although I did think I would be choosing a G&T next—while looking out over the quiet sea. With each cool sip, each gentle sway, and the feeling of the cool sea breeze on my face, I started to feel more calm and serene than I’d felt in ages. The feeling was like catching up with an old dear friend who I hadn’t seen in years.
And then a thought.
Why the hell sit and look at the beach, when I could be on it?
I jumped out of the hammock and quickly changed into my bathing suit.
Sunglasses. Check.
Sunscreen. Check.
Towel. Check.
Hat and book. Check.
Upbeat vacation attitude. Double check.
I shoved everything into my beach bag, one of my own creations, and headed out as fast as I could. I was halfway to the lounge chairs—