Alphas Prefer Curves

by Unknown

  Last there is the Med Bits Institute, a new international research facility that just opened in South Florida sent me a job proposal that’s right my alley. They thought of me because the research would be a follow up on my PhD work. That’s the most tempting offer I’ve gotten so far even if it’s only a short contract.

  The fact is that I’m spoiled with too many opportunities; I can’t come to a decision.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE PLANE ROLLS BY A few hangars, and stops close to a long building, the terminal. James helps me with my suitcase and my carry-on, and he’s very talkative. Oriental languages are his thing; he’s been working as an interpreter for Agatha and many other Europeans in the area. He tells me about his various clients. I shake my head, and hope I’m making the appropriate sounds of approval.

  Hey, maybe I can pull this normal shit off.

  Then again, maybe not, because all the locals stare at me. I was told that it was going to happen, but knowing it and experiencing it are two different things.

  I’m not only a “farang”, which means stranger or foreigner, but I’m also a “Pome Sii Dang”: a red hair. In the Laotian pantheon of supernatural creatures only the demons have red hair. So they stare at me the same way we would stare if we saw a guy with red skin and a tail walking in our streets.

  Once a freak, always a freak.

  We pass through the check-point, where Agatha waits for us. She moves her arms and jumps up and down like a cheerleader on crack. I can’t help myself; she makes me laugh out loud.

  As we get closer, she squeals to the both of us, “I’ve missed you so much! I’m so happy you’re here!” But she does not touch us.

  I’m sure she’d like to hug me, and I guess she’s dying to put her hands on James, but she can’t. In Laos public displays of affections are unacceptable.

  We walk out of the terminal, and, within seconds, I’m a sticky mess. It’s hot and more humid than a Turkish bath.

  I watch with fascination the endless line of cycles rolling down the street. I’ve seen pictures of this, but seeing it in person is amazing. In Laos, motorcycles are a collective mode of transportation. I watch a group of four kids drive by on a Chinese scooter. There’s a boy, a girl, another boy and another girl; they are like sardines in a can. You could hardly have a more complete physical contact between them, but, for some strange reason, that’s just fine, while it’s indecent to hug for three seconds or just to hold hands. Go figure!

  The inconsistencies of the artificial rules that collective life forces upon us are amazing; I’m about to open my mouth to point this out when Agatha stops me.

  “Stop it, Jade. Whatever you’ve noticed, I don’t want to hear it.”

  James’ head shoots back and forth between the two of us in surprise. I shrug, and get in the car without saying a thing. Sometimes Agatha is spooky; it’s like she can read my mind.

  We pile up in the antique machine. It’s a tribute to the strength of rust. The chauffeur and the luggage are in the front, and the three of us are in the back with no safety belt. Who cares, though, the car goes at a whopping 20 miles per hour. Agatha is in the middle, between James and me. He’s got one arm wrapped around her shoulder, and she has a hand on his knee. Yep, they’re an item.

  “I told Jade that we would go swimming at the waterfalls if we get home before night,” says James.

  “Sure, why not? It will do all us good and Jade loves cascades.”

  I do. I love water. If I could live in a pool of fresh water or in the ocean, I would.

  The drive is not very long, and we soon reach what they call the camp. There are a few wooden constructions around a large solid-looking building. It was probably erected by the French, in the 19th century, when this part of world was known as Indochina.

  It’s one of those collective structures that you can identify at once in any part of the world; the shape of the building is dictated by its purpose. Initially it may have been a school dorm, a prison, or a military base-something practical for the collective life. It’s not sophisticated or pretty but it’s a sturdy structure designed for sheltering a group.

  I feel relief just looking at it: there will be indoor plumbing! See how easy I am? Give me access to real toilets, and I’m a happy camper.

  “This was a seminary,” says Agatha. “Downstairs we have the lab, the kitchen, and the common area. The living quarters are on the second floor. It’s rudimentary. There are small monk cells, four toilets, and two very tiny showers. I guess they were not big on hygiene at the time of construction. The locals who run the place have created outdoor showers, which are lovely to use if you’re not too prudish.”

  “What do you do when you want privacy?” I ask.

  “Well you walk on the Nam Khan banks. Between the camp and the waterfall where we’ll be going, there are a couple of cozy coves where you can go wash,” answers James.

  He takes my suitcase to the second floor, and they show me my room.

  “Room” may be too fancy a word for this space. Agatha’s right, it’s actually more like a cell. It’s the ideal torture chamber for anyone who suffers from claustrophobia.

  The door bangs open on the foot of a narrow bunk bed, which is a metal cot with the thinnest bedding I’ve ever seen. The cot covers most of the surface of the cell. I walk sideways past it to drop my bag on a minuscule table with a stool underneath. Right next to the table is the back wall with an opening covered by a mosquito net. On the wall opposite the bed - the one I wiped clean with my butt when I walked in - there are three pegs with hangers abandoned by the prior visitors.

  Agatha and James retreat to their own cells to put their bathing suits on, and close the door behind them. I put my suitcase on the cot, and go looking for my bathing suit, the sarong that Agatha sent me for Christmas, and a towel.

  The search is quick as half of my suitcase is filled with medical supplies. Before I left, I raided the sample room of the lab that I was working for. The reps gave me their blessings to do so, of course. They said that whatever I took was fine with them, so I went a bit crazy. I have disinfectants, antibiotics, steroids, painkillers, gloves, compresses, surgical tape, and sewing kits. I figured it would always be welcomed by a dispensary or some clinic.

  I lock the suitcase, and slide it under the bed for now, so I can sit on something while I change. I hum to myself and smile when I realize what tune is playing in my head; it’s Baloo’s Bare Necessities.

  Funny how one’s mind works.

  When I exit my luxury suite, James is already in the hallway. Two seconds later Agatha comes out, and she’s wearing the same sarong as me. While it slightly overlaps around me, it wraps her up completely with an extra fold. How can someone who eats that much stay so petite? If she wasn’t my best friend, I would hate her all the time just for that.

  We walk to the waterfall down the river, and it takes my breath away. Water cascades from a small hill into a pond that constitutes the bed of the river. James sits on a tree trunk. He’s walked barefoot here, and has something stuck in his heel. Agatha and I hang our towels and sarongs onto a tree branch and dive in. The water is so fresh that it’s an absolute delight.

  “Oh, this is perfect,” I say, swimming to the other side of the pond. “Just what I needed after being locked in planes for a full day.”

  “Does it feel good?” Agatha asks.

  I know she’s baiting me, but I’m so happy to be in her little corner of paradise that I play along, and answer.

  “Yeah, sure, it’s great.” I wait for a second, and think she’s going to spare me one of her favorite line, but no, she can’t resist.

  “It’s not better than sex,” she says, and dives under the water in fear of retaliation. It’s cute that, after all those years, she still acts as if I could do something as silly as swim after her to push her head underwater, or something.

  But even if I was inclined to do so, which I’m not, I’m too tired to swim after her, so I just float on my back and watch th
e sky. It’s getting a little darker, and I wonder what it would be like to swim here at night under a full moon and the stars.

  From the opposite side of the pond, a male voice, much deeper than James’ voice says, “Nothing’s better than sex.”

  James concurs, “You can say that again.” He dives in and swims in Agatha’s direction.

  Looking for the source of the voice, I see the silhouette of a man dive into the pool. I scan around at the water’s surface but see nothing.

  On the other bank, James has caught up with Agatha and she’s giving him the welcome kiss that she’s kept on hold since the airport.

  I look away, and keep scanning the pond. There’s not a bubble, nothing. Either the man has drowned, or I’m so tired I’ve imagined his presence.

  I’m starting to think that I’ve had a hallucination when his head pops up in front of me.

  A very handsome head it is, that is, if you don’t care for hair, and I have an open mind on the subject. His skull has a very regular shape and his eyes are wide and perfectly symmetrical. I love symmetry. There’s not enough light for me to see if the eyes are brown or black but they’re witty. Very wide lips open on even teeth. Not perfect but close enough. The mouth speaks. Oh. My. God. He’s drop dead handsome.

  “So, you’re a virgin?”

  I’m so surprised that I open my mouth, water rushes in. I try to cough it out but I can’t. I choke; I’ve swallowed so much water that I can’t breath. I’m going to die, and the irony’s not lost on me: I’m dying a virgin!

  The strange thing is that I’m not in a state of panic; I feel an amazing sense of relief. I’m ready to let go. I’m so not ready to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life that, for an instant, I’m fine with drowning. It’s cool because, if I drown, I won’t have to make a choice and then spend the rest of my life wondering if it was the right one.

  Before I go under, I see that James and Agatha are still on the other bank. They’re so wrapped up in each other that they haven’t noticed a thing. My vision blurs as my heads goes under the water.

  Strong arms get ahold of me and press on my ribcage. My head is above water now, and water comes out of my lungs. I cough and gasp for air. My lungs fill, and I’m breathing again. I look at my savior’s face. I’m pretty sure, I just spat in his face!

  The first time I think a man is interesting, and I manage to set a new record for the world’s worst first impression!

  As my heart beat returns to normal, I become aware of his hands gently resting on my hips, and of my breasts crushing against his hard body. He’s hard, I mean really hard.

  He’s smirking, and I smile. Maybe I did not make such a bad impression, after all.

  I push away without letting go. I doubt I’m able to swim or float on my own yet.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod. I’m unsure that I can speak. If I do, I’ll probably sound like a cartoon duck.

  “Hello Red, I’m Oliver. It’s nice to meet you.” The smirk is still plastered on his face.

  I breathe in once more, and say, “Jade, my name is Jade.” My voice is a bit raspy. My throat hurts when I speak.

  Now he’s grinning like I just said something really funny.

  “Seriously?”

  I nod again.

  “Now, Jade, are you feeling okay or do you want help to swim back to shore?”

  “Fine” I whisper.

  He releases me, and I swim away. I climb out of the water, wrap myself in the sarong, and wipe my hair with the towel. I glance in the direction of James and Agatha. They’re swimming back towards me, and talking to each other in hushed tones.

  James gets out of the water and pulls Agatha out.

  “Where’s Oliver gone?” James asks looking at me.

  I look towards the pond and shrug. I have no clue but I’d really like to know. I think I like this man.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I WAKE UP WRAPPED IN my sarong. I remember removing my wet bathing suit, brushing my teeth, rolling my dirty T-shirt in a ball to make a pillow, and lying down on my bed. That’s it. In a second, I was dead to the world.

  It’s 5 AM and all my muscles are sore. My back is stiff as I painfully pull myself up. I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off sleeping directly on the floor. I’m covered in sweat; it’s time for another bath in the river. I prepare some clean clothes, open the door, and tiptoe into the hall. Almost all the other doors are open, and, when a light breeze sweeps through, I realize it’s not as hot and stuffy as it was in my room. Live and learn: tonight I’m sleeping with my door open to share the draft.

  A dog sleeps by the door of the building, too skinny to be a watch-dog. He opens his eyes, gets up, and wags his tail with so much energy that the rest of his body sways. He comes closer to greet me. I scratch his head, and say “Good morning, Wag-dog. Wanna walk with me to the river? You can watch my stuff while I take my bath.”

  Wow, this small talk thing is growing on me. Wag-dog follows me to the pond. I lift my arm, and smell myself: yuck. Maybe it’s too bad of a smell, even for the dog, because he goes back home.

  I get in at the shallowest part of the river, soak myself entirely, and wash from head to toe. I’m happy with my maintenance-free cut. I dive under the water to rinse my hair, and swim across the pond. It’s a delicious sensation, like soaking in wet silk. I come back up for hair, and Oliver is standing on the other side of the pond. He’s hung his own clothes next to mine. He smiles. I smile back. I take in the broad shoulders, the muscular torso, and a little padding around the waist. I like that he’s not a perfect Y. My eyes go down to his hips, and, shit, he’s naked. And so am I.

  I’m surprised that it bothers me. Before I worked at the lab, I did an internship at the local morgue. Yeah, I know, it sounds freaky, but I had a good reason for it. I was considering a degree in forensic science. During those months, I saw more than a few lifetime-shares of naked bodies.

  I guess the difference is that Oliver’s body is very much alive. He laughs and dives into the water.

  Three strokes later, and he’s by my side.

  “You never answered my question yesterday.”

  His eyes are not black: they’re deep brown, like the melted chocolate of a lava cake.

  Why are all the images that go through my mind food related? Maybe it’s because there’s nothing else that is brown and looks yummy?

  “What made you ask?”

  “What Agatha said. Why would she point out the obvious if it didn’t need to be told?”

  “Right. Good deduction,” I sigh. Thank you Agatha.

  “You must be the oldest virgin on this side of the Mekong,” he says, swimming in circles around me.

  “Possible, but I own it.”

  “So why did you choke yesterday?”

  “Because you took me by surprise.” Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t understand, so I explain. “I’m usually the blunt one… you know, the one that asks inappropriate questions. Even with my lack of social skills, I know that asking a woman of my age if she’s a virgin is inappropriate.”

  He mocks me. “A woman of your age? How old are you, anyway?”

  “I’m twenty-two. I know that’s not old per se, but it’s old not be sexually active. Oh, hell, why am I explaining? You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. So, what happened? You wanted be a nun?”

  “I’m not sure being a virgin is required to become a nun.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “No, I’m not, I’m just thinking out loud. How come I’m still a virgin? I freak the guys away.”

  “You’re kidding me,” he says. He thinks about it for an instant, and then asks, “What do you think scares them?”

  “Too big a mouth, and probably too big of an ass.”

  He’s still swimming around me. It’s getting unnerving. At my back, he says, “Maybe the real problem is that you’ve been around boys, not men.” I can swear he’s looking at my but
t as he says it.

  “You may have a point, there.”

  “What about kissing?” He asks, now treading water in front of me.

  “Ditto.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to try?”

  I look at him. I’m not sure what he’s asking.

  “It’s not a rhetorical question; I’m offering to show you.”

  My brain freezes for a few seconds. I’m doubly stumped. First, there’s my brain; it’s never done that before. It usually processes everything that life throws at me. Second, there’s Oliver. He’s taken me off balance for the second time in two days. No one’s ever done that to me.

  My silence is an obvious consent. He closes in on me.

  I don’t move back. My heart rate is slightly more elevated than usual. I think he sees how tense I am because he jokes to put me at ease, “It’s a first for me, too. I don’t think I’ve ever kissed a virgin, before.”

  He pauses, and reels me in. I’m the one who closes the distance and I can feel that his lips are smiling as they reach mine. The analytical part of my brain sparks for a minute. I’ve finally met someone who I want to kiss, and I’m going to find out what the fuss is all about.

  I shut it out, and concentrate on the sensation. He’s soft and sweet and very delicate. His mouth opens on mine and his tongue caresses my lips. It tickles in a good way, not a funny one. I part my lips open, and I surprise myself. I’m not thinking about germs, or the exchange of bodily fluids. I’m actually enjoying this.

  I enjoy it so much that I forget to move my legs to stay afloat. I start to sink, and he catches me, again. His large hands are on my back, drawing me closer. Well, not that close, because my two air bags are in the way. Strangely, they seem more inflated than usual; maybe it’s their reaction to their scratching against his chest. Hmmm. His hands slide down my back, and I don’t mind … and then he pulls away.

  “So, what do you think?” He asks with a cocky smile.

  I blush and answer truthfully, “I think this could be addictive.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, like crack or heroin.”