Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  She was short, even tiny. Her companion, a tough raw-boned girl, towered over her as they chattered together in melodious German. Dark hair cut in a rather severe page-boy style framed a pert face. At first glance, her figure might have been assessed at no more than elegant. Seven or eight on Peter's flexible scale of feminine excellence. She had delicate arms and shoulders; delightfully firm and upright breasts, each no more than a comfortable handful; a narrow waist that looked as if it could be spanned by a man's two hands; and enticing legs and thighs. All in all, a very pleasant sight, restful to the roving male eye. And all clad in modish sports clothes, tight cycling shorts and a top bearing the name of a famous designer.

  She had just two things that spoiled the stylish image, that added a spicy sexual flavour and forced a man to look at her again. First, her nipples. The proud buttons pushed out the thin fabric of her tee-shirt in a way that would send any fashion designer into despair. They looked excited, although Peter could see no reason why they should be. Perhaps she was always excited.

  I wonder, he thought, if she realises just how that affects the men who look at her. I bet they can't take their eyes away. I know I can't. I'm sure she knows it very well.

  The other thing about her that would definitely upset her dressmaker was her sumptuous bottom. As if to allow Peter to make a full assessment of it, she had turned and reached up on tip-toe to hang something under the beach umbrella. It really was entrancing, full, round, completely female. Not a slim, boyish, Nordic bottom with no flavour. Nor a prominent black, muscular one like his friend Vicky had used to drive him wild when he was back in East Africa. It was a peach of a bottom, ripe and heavy with promise.

  Aah! What luxury! Peter's thoughts flicked over and over her as she prepared to settle down. Her sunglasses went into the bag, and slowly the sun-oil and a paperback came out. Then she stood up again and reached cross-armed to her waist. She was going to take her shirt off. Peter was suddenly aware of his own nakedness.

  He felt a little equivocal about the whole idea of public nudity. In theory, at least, he welcomed it. Given the choice, he was happy to discard all his clothes and play in the sea, enjoying the feeling of breezy freedom. He had become accustomed to peeling off in the middle of a crowded beach, even this one where a large proportion of the visitors was openly gay. What really bothered him was his own reaction to the women around him. Try as he might, he could not keep his eyes from their naked breasts. He would glance at their faces and figures in passing but, without wishing it, he would then find himself checking their chests. Why, he asked himself? They've all got two, they're all different, and none of them are on offer. Why the fascination?

  Of course, his curiosity did not stop there. Between their legs these women hid such a variety of playgrounds that Peter was thrown into despair. And worst of all, while casting a covert eye over the breasts around him was relatively easy, the rest was another matter. Nature has conspired to keep that important part of a woman semi-secret, to show no more than a tantalising glimpse to the casual male eye. He would have dearly loved to be invisible, to be able to roam and stare without offence. What fun he could have!

  Perhaps he should start work on a book. “A Guide to the Playgrounds of Mykonos.” Or perhaps, “Aegean Delights.” It should have mostly photographs. Maybe he would call it simply “Sunflowers” and include a short interview with each flower's owner alongside the picture. Just a little of its history, what it had seen, what suited it best and what drove its owner wild with delight.

  He left his day-dream with a jolt. The girl was still standing as she had been, poised to undress. She had been talking to her friend and now she looked at him over her shoulder. Her clear blue eyes met his and held him for a moment before she turned away. The contact was unmistakable. She wanted him to understand that she knew. That she knew he was watching and waiting for her to show herself. Slowly she raised the hem of her tee-shirt. As she raised her arms and her face was hidden, she turned back to face him.

  Magnificent! So perfect, so classical except for their proud tips standing up to give a spicy relish to her beauty. He felt slightly threatened by them.

  Oh no! She was making him respond! He quickly rolled onto his stomach to conceal his wakening sex. Now he would be stuck here until it decided to go down again. The girl turned back to her friend with a comment that he was sure was aimed at him, before sitting on the edge of her bed to undo her sandals. Peter realised unhappily that he would now have to suffer as she took off her shorts. The sterile plastic of the sun-bed pressed uncomfortably against his swelling.

  Her cool gaze met his again and this time she continued to watch for a reaction as she bent forward and slid her shorts over her hips. As if hypnotised, he dropped his eyes and winced at what he saw. Obviously she did her sun-bathing without clothes. No silhouette of a bikini marred her tummy. Her dark hair was well cared for. She kept it trimmed to a small patch gracing her mound and had banished the rest. There was nothing to conceal the demure folds that disappeared between her legs. He tore his eyes away and reached for his book.

  The page seemed out of focus and the letters had a disconcerting desire to dance on the page. He wrinkled his brow in concentration, but he still could not ignore the siren call beside him. When he looked again, she was still sitting on the side of the bed and chatting to her friend over her shoulder. His desire made him feel weak and foolish. If he could have decently left, he would have but, even in Mykonos, some things are not done, and standing up in his present condition was one of them. He lay where he was with his cock crushed beneath him and resolved not to lift his head again.

  Peter had brought with him to Greece translations of Homer's great works, the Odyssey and the Iliad. He found it easy to sympathise with the first book, virtually a modern novel in its form and content. The figures of Telemachus and his swine-herd—even of Odysseus himself—were easy to see striding over the rocky hills and beaches of the islands. In the unreal Aegean air, it did not require much imagination to add Athene and her heavenly colleagues.

  Determined to keep the best for last, he was first working his way slowly through the Iliad. He found it much less satisfying. A primitive saga painted on a limited and bloody canvas, inhuman characters endlessly casting javelins into each other's vital parts. He was trying to immerse himself in this gory tale to shut out the sight just three or four metres away to his side. None of the Iliad's heroes would have allowed themselves to become trapped as he was. Their women were kept in their place. They would have either been ignored or, if they had brought themselves to a man's attention as this one had done, they would have been thrown over his shoulder and carried off for his (and only accidentally her) immediate gratification.

  From the corner of his eye he saw her settle full length in the sun and start to read. He gave all his attention to Homer and waited uncomfortably for his excitement to subside.

  For several pages, brazen heroes proclaimed their distinguished lineages before skewering luckless adversaries. Blood flowed in the dust and night fell on several pairs of fabled eyes. Armour was stripped from warm bodies and the dusty corpses left for the dogs. The gods sat and delighted in the carnage. It made an unattractive scene, and he read on without enthusiasm. Life would be altogether finer when he could start on the Odyssey. A movement drew him from the page, and he took another glance. She was reading her book and had turned onto her side, resting on one elbow. She was beautiful. Her breasts enchanted him, and the utterly feminine curve of her raised hip. Her relaxed pose called to him, and at the same time spoke of a scornful disregard of any suffering male. He peeped again, and this time she caught him at it. She stared him down again, and his discomfort increased.

  After a while, she stopped reading and rolled onto her back, shading her eyes with a straw hat. Her body lay open to the sun, who alone dared to touch it. Lying as he was to her side, he could see little of what he would have dearly liked to see, only a prominent mound with its neat trim of black hair. It was no g
ood. He would have to move. The girl could keep him pinned there until nightfall if she wished.

  A little luck came his way when the couple on his other side decided they had burned themselves enough for one day and got up to leave. Beyond them were two gay men who had eyes only for each other. He realised that with a little imaginative shielding by his bag, he might just be able to sit up with his back to the girl and pull on his shirt and shorts. He glanced around him and decided to give it a try.

  It was more difficult than he imagined. The bag on his knees did hide him a little, but anyone interested would have had no doubt about his state. He pulled on his shirt and draped the tails over his erection. Awkwardly, and without taking the bag from his knees, he wriggled into his shorts. Relief! Semi-decent at last with his stubborn male part belted firmly against his stomach, he gathered his things, ready to leave. As he stood, he turned to look again. She still lay on her back, but had raised herself on her elbows to watch him leave. With an abandon he knew was far from casual, she had drawn one leg up and allowed her knee to fall to the side. She looked at his barely concealed swelling and grinned. He would have liked to communicate with her, to wave or cheerily call goodbye, but in his confusion, he only nodded dumbly. The girl looked over to call her friend's attention, but he could not stand that. He turned away and headed for his rented motor scooter.

  Although it was too early in the day to go home, he drove the winding, stone-walled tracks back to town and his hotel. In the privacy of his room, he undressed to take a cold shower. Even the cold water was tepid. He lay down to take a late siesta, troubled with dreams.

  He awoke with a start. Dusk had fallen already, and he must have slept for several hours. He had been roused by an image of himself walking on the beach, threading his way through sun-beds bearing naked women, all leaning back on their elbows. Each had one leg casually thrown wide to display herself, and they all watched him as he hurried back to his clothes. His sex began to stiffen and he broke into a trot to reach safety before his excitement became obvious. Soon he was running past the women as fast as he could, searching for his clothes, his penis swollen to an extraordinary size, swinging and bobbing as he went. The nightmare faded, but his excitement did not, so he took another shower.

  He had nothing planned that night. No postcards or souvenirs to buy, no particular cafe that called for his custom. He walked slowly into town as the sun finally set. On the large and expensive yachts moored at the millionaire's quay, the beautiful people prepared themselves for an evening in town. He strolled on, feeling somehow apart from the young and care-free people who passed by him, all in a hurry to join the party that was Mykonos at night.

  The town was delightfully relaxed. The local inhabitants were close Greek islanders, a breed that should be deeply conservative and old-fashioned. But they seemed to co-exist with the strange and outrageous, and even to approve of the high spirits that worked up to a noisy frenzy by mid-night. Anything goes, he thought as a bright young thing pushed her way past him dressed—if that was the word—only in sandals and a piece of loose lingerie in ivory silk. She turned a few male heads in a relaxed and complimentary way.

  He was not sure if he was hungry, so he decided to walk around as many of the winding alleys as he could until something caught his fancy. He plunged into the labyrinth of dark tunnels, all with their flagstones outlined in white paint. Knots of visitors made their way slowly past the highly fashionable jewellers and clothes shops. Music thumped from the cocktail bars, and in minute plazas waiters served fresh sea-food to the tourists under eucalyptus trees.

  He found himself searching as he walked, seeking the girl from the beach. It started as no more than an idle quest, but soon he was looking in earnest. He checked every bar and shop he passed, and surveyed the restaurant tables. It must have been nearly an hour later that he found her at a small table outside a restaurant, dining and talking quietly with her friend. She looked up as he approached the low fence around the tables.

  Her first reaction was shock as she recognised him. Then, as he waved and smiled, she gave a minimal smile and pointedly turned back to her friend. The rebuff was completely clear and left him no recourse. Again feeling very foolish, Peter walked on past with what he hoped was a nonchalant air.

  He avoided the beach next day. He did not wish to court further embarrassment. Instead, he decided to take his snorkelling gear and find a suitable rocky point to dive from. He loaded his rucksack with mask and flippers, tucked his book into the pocket, and set off to buy lunch— crunchy bread and a hunk of cheese, along with a half bottle of light red wine. He drove his scooter towards the beach of yesterday, but turned off as the road dropped into the valley.

  By walking for a couple of kilometres over rough goat trails, he reached the end of the point beyond the beach. Carefully, he climbed down the warm limestone to the royal blue sea below. He traversed a short way at sea level before he found what he wanted, a sheltered entry to the water with few sea urchins to make life difficult and nearby a flat rock partly shaded by an overhang. He swung his rucksack down and began to undress.

  He was completely secluded here. No one could see him from the cliff above, and it was too far from the beach for swimmers. He would be alone for as long as he chose. Wearing nothing but mask and flippers, he cautiously took to the water. The sea felt much colder here than at the beach. The sun struck swaying golden curtains deep around him, and he could see far below without difficulty. He kicked his feet up and swam down towards the bottom.

  It was a good place to snorkel. The rocks of the point had been deeply incised by their battle with the sea and held plenty of interesting crevices and shallow caves to investigate. He spent a long time diving into the shadows, enjoying the sense of adventure and hoping to see fish or perhaps an octopus, but there were no fish larger than his hand and the rocks had only starfish, weed and sea urchins. The curse of the Mediterranean, the spear gun, had frightened the fish away. Why did men need to arm themselves like gladiators and act the Angel of Death to any passing fish?

  The heat of the sun welcomed him as he emerged. He arranged his beach mat on the flat rock and let the wind dry him. The sun flashed brilliant silver flares from the sea, and he soon reached for his old straw hat to give his head some relief. Even his month-old tan was in danger of burning as the salt dried on him.

  As he sat rubbing himself with sun oil, he became aware of the throbbing of a motor. At first he thought it might be a helicopter, until a fishing boat suddenly burst around the point only metres off-shore, and the noise resolved itself into the slow pulse of a small diesel.

  The boat carried tourists out for a ride, and he became the immediate focus of their attention. They were all clothed, of course, and he was sitting on his rock as naked as Poseidon's statue, but what could he do? To dive for his towel would be even more embarrassing than sitting it out. He winced as he saw cameras raised in his direction. There were even camcorders. Then he saw the girl. She had recognised him and was calling to her friend. With big smiles on their faces, they both waved furiously. He took his hat in his hand and waved back, and the whole boat was waving to him and shouting. How dreadful. What must they think of him? The fishing boat rounded the point and disappeared.

  Left in peace, he pondered over what had happened. The girls had both seemed pleased to see him. Their smiling and waving had been friendly. How could he reconcile that with the smaller girl's cold rudeness last night? Why was she happy enough to communicate at a distance when she refused normal social contact? Perhaps she enjoyed watching him struggle with embarrassment in front of her. The display of her body on the sun bed had certainly been calculated to drive him wild. What did she expect to happen? Did she expect him to be brave enough to approach her anyway? He shrugged her off and between dozing, reading and lunch, the day passed away.

  He looked for them again that evening, but not with much hope of seeing them in the crowds. Again he was lucky and caught sight of them leaving a ticket agency at
the western end of the harbour. By the time he reached the agency, they had disappeared. He scanned the list of trips available on the board outside. The main part of the agency's business was local boat trips. On impulse, he bought a ticket to Delos; he thought it the most likely place the girls would choose.

  He took an early breakfast in town next morning and headed for the quay. His boat was already taking on passengers, and he went on board to wait in one of the scarce seats. In spite of his continual scanning of the harbour, the girls did not appear, and the boat bore him off alone.

  Delos represented a giant step back to ancient Greece, and he was glad he had brought his book. The whole island was sacred to Apollo, and for centuries had been devoted to religion. It had a wealth of temples and statues. The ancient Greek army had stopped here on its way to Troy, and it was here the child Iphigenia had been sacrificed. He spent time in the small museum, informative by Greek standards and displaying some beautiful pottery. On the crest of the island, reached by a long climb up an ancient stairway, he sat on a rock and read. The ethereal light and the weight of history on his shoulders made Homer come alive.

  In spite of the modern tourists and the ruinous state of the town, the antique Aegean atmosphere remained intact. It was easy to see the present as no more than an unfortunate aberration of a past that waited to return at any time. The sunlit air had a surreal clarity that he found hard to describe to himself. Delos cultured a craving in the heart for things as they were, and a great discontent for things as they are.