Annual Leave

by Ben Boswell

  The prices were higher than she’d like. Stores in expensive resorts have never been noted for their sales. Still compared to the price of the rooms, the slinky, little red dress she tried on wasn’t outrageous, and it did fit her exquisitely, a fact confirmed by the surprised expression on the saleswoman’s face when she exited the changing room. She definitely had a cute little tush, she thought to herself as she looked into the mirror.

  If Jeff complained, she’d explain she was a little buzzed when she made the impulse purchase. She didn’t need to mention Damon and his jibes at all. As she paid, it suddenly occurred to her that she’d need matching shoes. If she’d thought of it sooner, she might not have gotten the dress. But she’d already been rung up… so… there wasn’t much selection. The only pair that would really work was the gold pumps. The heel was higher, and spikier, than she usually wore, but really there wasn’t much choice.

  Heather felt that weird mix of guilty and giddy that accompanies a big purchase. Especially with the shoes in the mix, she’d splurged on herself. She almost turned back to the store several times, but then she smiled. The whole purpose of this trip was to treat herself. She might even book herself a massage!

  ***

  She showered and dressed. Her hair was a mess. It was so long since she’d gotten it properly styled – she’d gotten in the habit of Quick Cuts at the mall – that the best she could do was dry it and brush it out. In the process though, she noticed and yanked out a couple of grey hairs. When had those damn things shown up?

  Okay, so there is no such thing as a free lunch. She was walking through the lobby trying to decide which restaurant to try. She felt less underdressed, but now she was conscious of being alone. What kind of woman walks around alone in a resort, in high spiky heels and a slinky red dress? A whore. She’d blown a small fortune and progressed from schlub to hooker. Great.

  She decided to go for sushi. Jeff wasn’t a fan, and after that bacon cheeseburger, she was in the mood for something lighter. She approached the hostess, dreading having to say those saddest of words, “table for one,” when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Nice dress, but….”

  She turned to see Damon, standing behind her. Even in her heels he towered above her. She hadn’t quite realized how tall he was. And again, he somehow managed to convey the image of cool, appropriate elegance, in a lovely, tailored dark grey suit, that he’d made casual by pairing it with a thin, black V-neck tee shirt.

  “But what?”

  He cringed. “Panty lines.”

  She couldn’t help it. Her shoulders slumped of their own accord. She straightened her posture, but it was too late.

  “God, you’re an ass.”

  He looked genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry… Heather?”

  Why did it seem like a small victory that he’d remembered her name. She nodded.

  “That was a mean thing to say,” he continued. “Look, let me buy you dinner.”

  She laughed. “Oh you think I want to spend more time talking to you?”

  He shrugged. “We’re both eating alone. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to eat alone. But she also didn’t want this jerk buying her dinner. Or maybe she did. It was the least he could do for being such a dick.

  “Fine, but I’m ordering the lobster.”

  He glanced around. “Uh, okay, but not sure raw lobster is really a delicacy….”

  She groaned, then laughed. She couldn’t get one over on him.

  “Can you really see my panty lines?”

  He nodded. “I think that dress is meant to be worn with a thong. Or maybe nothing.”

  She blushed. She had been naked beneath when she tried it on in the store, except then it was sheer enough that her, um, grooming habits, or lack thereof, were visible. That was a detail she didn’t plan to share.

  When the hostess returned, Damon requested a table for two.

  Sitting down across from him, she noticed he now had a large diamond stud in his left ear. It was showy and yet he pulled it off somehow. She tried to imagine Jeff trying to pull off that look, a small shudder passed through her.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  She was suddenly self-conscious. Oh God, were her nipples poking through her dress? Those little fucking things were always causing trouble. She was the only small chested woman she knew who wore padded bras not for the illusion of boobs, but just to contain her little nubs that hardened to the consistency of pebbles at the drop of a hat. She looked down and he read her concern.

  He laughed. A deep, joyous, rumble. “I just saw you shiver.”

  “I am a little chilly,” she replied, crossing her arms.

  “How about a little hot sake to warm you up?”

  The waiter arrived and Damon ordered a bottle. Then he turned to Heather.

  “Omakase?”

  “Huh?”

  “Chef’s choice. It’s the only way to have sushi.”

  “Oh.”

  Heather had seen that option on the menu, and dismissed it immediately. At nearly $100 per person, it wasn’t something she’d even considered, even if she knew what it meant. She was thinking more along the lines of a California Roll and maybe a couple of pieces of salmon sushi.

  “So?”

  “Well, it’s a little pricey –“

  “I’m paying.”

  Yeah, but did she want him buying her such an expensive meal? “Well, that’s the thing. I mean –“

  He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m not expecting anything in return. I told you, you’re not my type.”

  She shook her head. “You are, maybe, the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”

  He placed the order with the waitress and then turned back toward Heather.

  “Just ‘maybe’?”

  She wondered what he meant by that. By now, she knew that everything Damon said was calculated. He didn’t let her finish her thought.

  “So why are you here alone?” he asked.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Finally a question she could answer easily.

  “It’s a momcation. You know, the idea that even stay-at-home moms need some annual leave.”

  He laughed.

  “What?” she asked defensively.

  “No, no, it’s a great idea. But the term is weird. Momcation. Mancation. What am I on? A blackcation?”

  She smiled as well. “I didn’t coin the term.”

  “So what drove you over the edge?”

  “Nothing. I mean… okay, well…”

  She told him the story. The baby’s diaper. The dog. The burning doll smell. All the food on the floor, Ally in the fridge. Jeff finding her sobbing. Except instead of reliving a horrible memory, they were both laughing hysterically at the scene. Heather’s cheeks were flushed. She segued into other stories of life with three kids, a dog, two cats, and an overworked husband. Damon was almost crying with laughter. And she was giggling too. Why is it that at the time what now seemed like comedy had seemed like an endless tragedy?

  Damon ordered a second bottle of sake. They ate an amazing selection of fish and other dishes, each flavor more intense and unique than the last.

  “I am never getting married,” he said, summarizing his take from her stories.

  “I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” she replied, though with a twinge of doubt. Truth was, for the last few month she’d been having recurrent fantasies of just chucking it. Running and away, and…. She stopped herself and after a pause redirected the conversation to him, “So what brings you here?”

  “Pussy.”

  “Say what?” she replied, taken aback at the sudden shift in tone.

  “Women. Girls. Hos. You know, a good time.”

  Heather stiffened. “You know… I’m not… This isn’t....”

  He laughed. “I told you, you’re not –“

  “--Your type. So why are we having dinner?”

/>   “You don’t meet women at dinner. You meet them at the pool or the beach, or later at the club.”

  “So, you’re just killing time with me?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what you’re doing too, right? I mean, we’re on the same page. There is no attraction here, right?”

  “No, of course not, I’m happily married.”

  He laughed.

  “What?”

  “I love oxymorons. Jumbo shrimp. Military intelligence. Happily married.”

  She pounced. “I’m pretty sure I read that in a joke book when I was a kid.”

  He put up his hands in surrender. “Okay, that was lame.”

  Still he’d piqued her curiosity. “So really, you go to resorts and, what, just hook up with random women?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “How does that work? I mean, does it work?”

  “I really need to explain casual sex to you?”

  She blushed. “No, but just seems like it’d be hit or miss, you know.”

  He shrugged. “Depends how picky you are.”

  “Well, we know you’re picky.”

  He smiled. “Why, because you’re not my type?”

  “Exactly.”

  He shrugged. “I am picky. But it usually works out.”

  “That’s… that’s amazing, I guess. I mean, good for you.”

  “Condescend much?”

  “You should talk.”

  “I don’t want to fight. It’s been too fun of an evening.”

  She actually agreed, but she didn’t want to let it go. She was actually curious. Damon was a pompous ass, but he was also, she had to admit, a funny, witty, handsome, stylish man, and she wanted an insight into his life.

  “I don’t want to fight either. I guess I just don’t understand the scene. Are there really that many single women here?”

  “Oh sure. Any nice resort is going to have its share of bachelorette parties, weddings, girls’ weekends, whatever. Then you have the college girls vacationing with their rich parents. And, of course, it isn’t just single women.”

  “Uh oh, you sure you’re not hitting on me?”

  He looked at her skeptically as if to say, you wish. “I’m talking about married couples. You know what I mean.”

  “I swear to God, I do not. You come to a resort to have threesomes? Or hook up with married women?”

  “I don’t. That’s not really my scene, but you know the whole fantasy you people have?”

  She laughed. “Please enlighten me about what my people fantasize about.”

  “You know, the whole cuckold, black man thing.”

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “Huh?”

  “Some white men,” he began in a tone one usually reserves for a dim child, “fantasize about seeing their wives have sex with a big, black, man. And I guess I fit the type.”

  “So wait,” she asked, confused, “you have sex with married women to please their husbands.”

  “I don’t, but it’s a thing.”

  “Why don’t you? Are the women hideous or something.”

  “No, no. Some are quite hot. It’s just, who wants to be just a fetish fuck? Plus, most of the time, the guy wants to watch, so now you have a pudgy, white guy circling around you, snapping pictures and telling you how to bang his wife. Weird scene.”

  “So you’ve done it?”

  He shrugged. “Until you try it you can’t know it isn’t your bag.”

  “I’m still not sure I believe you.”

  He chuckled. “God, woman, go on the Internet and check it out.”

  She laughed. “I will.” Then after a moment. “Okay, so ignoring what you don’t do, let’s go back to what you do do.”

  “Huh?”

  “Or who you do do,” she giggled.

  “You’re drunk aren’t you? Look, I’m a good-looking bachelor. I’m just looking for an open-minded young lady to have a little fun in the sun with me. It’s not that weird.”

  “So, after dinner, you’re going to, what, just walk up to random women and try to pick them up.”

  “More or less. Look, if you’re that interested, come along.”

  “Won’t I cramp your style?”

  “Naw. Quite the opposite. You’d be perfect to sarge with me.”

  “Sarge?”

  “Be my wingman.”

  “How would that help?”

  “Because, instead of a big, scary, black dude walking up to them, it’s now a big, scary black dude and a soccer mom.”

  “A soccer mom, eh?” She chuckled. “What would I do?”

  “Anything you want except tell them I’m an asshole.”

  “You don’t want me to pretend we’re, um, an item.”

  He laughed. “An item? No. If you want to tell some woman that we used to be an item and that I was amazing, sure. But otherwise, we’re just friends. Or cousins. Whatever.”

  “Cousins?”

  “It happens.”

  Heather laughed. It was a crazy idea accompanying Damon as he tried to pick up women, but if nothing else it should be fun. And anyway, she wasn’t much in the mood to go back to her room alone… at least not quite yet.

  ***

  They left the restaurant together, and Heather’s self-consciousness returned. She could see people watching them, a tall, stylish black man and the petite, white woman in a red dress. She wondered if they thought they were a couple. She blushed at the thought that other people thought they were having sex. What if they noticed she was wearing a wedding ring, and him not? Would they assume she was one of those cuckolding wives whose husbands fantasize about it? She smirked. She wasn’t even sure she believed there was such a fantasy. Who really knew how much of the stuff Damon said wasn’t just made up?

  She also felt a little self-conscious because of her appearance. Even in her red dress and spiky heels, he was right, she still looked like a soccer mom. Part of it was her hair, though loose and brushed out, it was still a mess, with split ends and no real shape or style. And she’d barely put on any makeup. She hadn’t even brought nail polish!

  Relax. Relax. You’re acting like you’re on a date.

  She took a deep breath. This wasn’t a date. She wasn’t out to impress anyone. She looked just fine to play the part of Damon’s wingman, whatever that meant.

  “Too early to hit the club, so how about we check out the pool lounge for any prospects,” he said.

  He gently guided her to the left, his hand lightly touching her lower back. At first, she startled at being touched, but then forced herself to relax. He wasn’t doing anything untoward, just giving her a little nudge.

  “And how do you know a prospect when you see one?”

  “How do I know a woman I’d like to have sex with if the feeling was mutual? Is that really what you’re asking?”

  She laughed. “No. I meant, is there a science to this? Who to approach?”

  “Not really. Large groups are difficult. Other than that, I guess you look for someone with whom you might have some chemistry.” He paused. “You act like you’ve never met a man in a bar or a party or something.”

  “I haven’t!”

  “Really? No hook-ups? No one night stands back in the day?”

  “I…” she blushed. Was she really going to discuss her past sex life with this stranger?

  “I don’t think that’s an appropriate topic of conversation,” she concluded.

  He laughed. “Oh, I see. When it’s my sex life, you’re full of questions. When it’s yours, it’s inappropriate.”

  Heather tried to think up a good response, but couldn’t. Happily, he let the matter drop as they approached the bar.

  Closed during the day, the Azul Lounge took its name from the blue pool water that bordered the selection of white sofas and standee tables surrounding a raised, back-lit, circular bar.

  They’d spent a surprisingly long time at dinner, Heather realized, so even if it was too early for the club, the outdoor lounge was pretty cr
owded. He led her over toward the bar.

  “What’ll you have?” Damon asked.

  Heather tried to think back to what she used to drink at bars. “Red Bull and vodka?”

  “Not a Jaeger shot?” He laughed. “Let’s make that a cranberry and vodka, college girl. I don’t feel like having to carry you home.”

  He ordered a Johnny Walker Black.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking glasses with her.

  She took a sip from her straw. “So what now?”

  He looked around. Heather did the same. There were a few couples around, but interestingly most of the people there were either with another person of the same sex or part of a mixed group. People who were already paired up apparently had better things to do than hang out at a bar in the later evening.

  “Those two are interesting,” he said.

  He nodded discretely in the direction of two slender women. One was a leggy, blonde in tight, white pants and a sheer, red top that barely seemed to contain her big boobs, the other a stylish Asian woman in a flowered sundress.

  “What makes them interesting? Other than that they’re hot?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” he smiled. “They’re standing, looking around, not locked in some intense conversation. Good chance they are waiting on their dates, but maybe not. Plus, girls in white pants are usually DTF.”

  “DTF?”

  “Down to fuck.”

  Heather scrunched up her face in disgust.

  “Seriously, you need to get out of the minivan once in a while, Soccer Mom. Anyway, what are we here for?”

  “For you to pick up some bimbo dumb enough to give it up on the first night?”

  He smiled.

  “Don’t you worry about, like, diseases?” she asked.

  “Sure. But I get myself tested regularly. Want to see my papers?” He patted his suit pocket. “If a girl’s got her own paper, we’re good to go. Otherwise, I have rubbers.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

  He smiled. “Exactly. Now, don’t cockblock me.”