Dangerous When Wet: A Memoir (8 page)

“See. I told y’all y’all would like it,” Mama Jean said.

We had a steak dinner and were serenaded by a mariachi band and had our photo taken with the band as we raised our salted margaritas. (I got to have a tropical drink or two when we were on vacation.) “You can have one margarita with dinner.
One,
” Mama Jean said. After dinner Jeffrey and I explored a fraction of the 480-acre property. The resort sat on a private beach, and we saw two of the five pools, including a saltwater “lagoon” with a grotto accessed by swimming under a waterfall. Jeffrey dubbed it the Get ’Em Grotto because we saw a couple heavily panting and pawing each other at the entrance.

Mama Jean was right. We didn’t want to leave, and thanks to her, we weren’t going to. “Earl, I’ve got us two rooms here starting tomorrow.”

“Are we going to be stuck paying for the rooms we’ve got?”

“I don’t care. This is where I want to be. Besides, I’m paying for it.”

I was with Mama Jean.

By two o’clock the next afternoon, Jeffrey and I were in room 1010, a white terrazzo-tiled affair with a balcony facing the beach. Mama Jean and Dad were in the same kind of room down the hall. By two-thirty Jeffrey and I were sunning by the lagoon with the Get ’Em Grotto, Mama Jean was shopping for silver, and Dad was reading the paper and having a glass of wine in the lobby bar.

This was Jeffrey’s first family vacation since he’d announced to Mama Jean four years prior that, like her dear friend Henny, he was gay. Even though Jeffrey and Ronny were full-blood brothers and only seventeen months apart, Jeffrey and I were closest. Thin as the wing of a plane and tall as a skyscraper, he had sharp features inherited from his father and almost-black hair inherited from Mama Jean. We didn’t look alike, but when we were younger, Mama Jean liked to dress us in matching outfits. Beige-and-red-plaid bell-bottoms with beige velour tops are the twin outfits that stick in my mind.

Jeffrey was my third parent, mentor, and best friend, and was forever inspiring me to fantasy and make-believe. After he told a six-year-old me about Ann-Margret’s face-crushing fall on a Las Vegas stage, I reenacted the fall dressed in a blanket as my strapless gown. I fell off the bed I used for the stage and rushed myself to the bathroom for plastic surgery. Ronny, on the other hand, was a loner redneck who liked to race dirt bikes and go to Neil Diamond concerts. Mama Jean described him as marching to a different drummer. Maybe Ronny seemed to march to a different drummer because he
wasn’t
gay
.

Jeffrey’s announcement was a double feature. Not only was he gay, but he was leaving the nest to move to Houston. And he was leaving with his boyfriend. I was eleven or twelve. I remember Mama Jean sitting in a burnt-orange wingback chair and crying. She explained to me that Jeffrey was gay and it was breaking her heart. When she asked, “Do you know what
gay
means?” I had a flashback to Mrs. Chambers asking me if I knew what a sissy was. “Yes.” I didn’t say anything else. I just listened with a poker face to mask my fear. Then she stopped talking. Her sobs were the only sounds in the room. I wanted to leave but was frozen in place on the floor at her feet. After she stopped crying and wiped the mascara running from her eyes like spilled ink, she looked down at me with a stare that could freeze lava and asked, “Do you have feelings like that? Because if you do, tell me now. I’ll take you to see a psychiatrist.”

I wanted to say,
If you have to ask…,
but instead I answered with a clipped, high-pitched “Nope” and scurried to my room, where the original-Broadway-cast album of
Mame
was still playing. I’d known the answer to that question for a long time, ever since she’d asked me the first $64,000 question: if I had passed semen. I had.

I was already
interactively
reading the issues of
Penthouse Forum
that Jeffrey had left behind. They had bi and gay stories, so I knew what to do, knew what went on out there. I remember watching a report on television about what was then described as a gay cancer. Shots of shirtless men dancing at a disco were overlaid with a voice talking about how the promiscuous lifestyle of gay men might be spreading the new disease.

“Makes me sick,” Mama Jean said in disgust. I thought to myself,
Don’t stop the fun before I get there!

By the time I hit that deck chair at the Get ’Em Grotto, I was ready. I hadn’t confided in Jeffrey that I looked up to him in more ways than he imagined, and if he was bothered that Mama Jean hadn’t extended an invitation to his boyfriend to join us, he didn’t say. Instead we ordered a couple of pi
ñ
a coladas and simply basked in the sunshine of our Acapulco Princess good fortune. Jeffrey fell asleep on the deck chair. The pi
ñ
a colada that I quickly downed left me restless and ready for adventure. “Jeffrey, are you asleep?” He was. I left him there and meandered down the stone path that led to the other pools.

The first one was all water wings, inflatable sea horses, and shrieks of “Marco!”
“Polo!”
The kiddie pool. Ew. I kept moving. I found the adult pool. The scene there was a party, the pool an aquatic lounge.

I sat on the edge of the cement pond to soak in the scene. I wasn’t afraid of the water anymore, just wisely cautious. The pool was enormous and curved in and out and ended—or began—with a swim-up bar under a thatched roof near a waterfall. The entire pool was shallow, since it was meant for lounging and libations. Every submerged stool at the bar was occupied by men and women holding a rainbow of umbrella-studded tropical drinks: yellow pi
ñ
a coladas, pink strawberry daiquiris, lime margaritas, blue cura
ç
ao Hawaiians. A woman in a macram
é
bikini and floppy hat was making out with a man wearing a gold chain. They both had savage tans. Spilling out from the bar into the chlorinated lake were pairs of men and women holding their drinks high above the water as their heads floated on the surface, besotted hippos. Shrieks of laughter rippled from one end of the pool to the other and back again. It wasn’t that different from the kiddie pool, just another set of games.

Like a cat whose eyes go from lazy indifference to wide-eyed alert as it spots the only two birds in a forest of trees, my eyes zoomed in on the only two men in Speedo bikinis. They were frolicking in the middle of the pool. The one in the lime-green bikini was coquettishly posing for the one in the navy-blue bikini with red and white racing stripes on the side. Limey was tall and lanky like me, with curly brown hair and a light spray of freckles across his face and arms. Racing Stripes, the older one, was stocky, solid muscle, and almost short. A towhead, he had Windex-blue eyes just like my first-grade boyfriend, Eric. In a ricochet of penetrating glances, I caught Limey’s eye, and he caught mine and tossed it to Racing Stripes, who threw the ball back in my court.
Tennis, anyone?

I cocked my head to the side and smiled, with my arms in straight lines behind me, the silhouette pose of a sexy woman on a Mack truck’s mud flaps. I wouldn’t be surprised if I licked my lips. Limey posed for another shot, gazing over his left shoulder at the camera. Just as Racing Stripes cried, “Say cheese!,” Limey pulled down the back of his bikini to expose a bare cheek like the little girl in those Coppertone sunscreen ads. When the camera clicked, he winked and shot his smile straight through me. If a bolt of lightning had struck that pool, I wouldn’t have noticed. I was already electrified.

They got out of the pool and walked over to me. I pumped my legs in the water like Lolita and looked up as their near-naked bodies dripped on me. Racing Stripes took the lead and squatted on his haunches, offering his hand with a Pepsodent smile.

“Hi, I’m Vernon. This is Kelly.” I shook Vernon’s hand and Limey/Kelly squatted down to offer his hand.

“I’m Jamie. Nice to meet y’all.”

“Want to take a walk?” Vernon asked, his head tilted in the direction of the beach.

“Why not?” I said, thinking,
I can’t believe this is really happening
.

They told me that they lived in Kansas and were at the Princess for a company sales conference. “His job,” Kelly clarified, indicating Vernon.
How old are they?
Kelly was probably Jeffrey’s age, twenty to twenty-three.
Vernon?
I don’t know. But they were hot. And they were men. That was all I needed to know.

“I’m here on vacation,” I said, omitting
with my family
.

Making more small talk, we sauntered from the adult pool to the beach.

“Hey, why don’t you stand in the ocean and I’ll take your picture?” Vernon said.

“Okay” was my nonchalant reply, as in
Sure. I do this all the time. I’m used to it.
I walked out to the ocean and turned my back on the waves. “Here?”

“Just a little further back,” Vernon said. “Yeah. That’s it.”

I struck my pose in the broiling sun, wishing I were in a wet bikini instead of my Ocean Pacific trunks—wishing I
had
a bikini.
Someday.

Then I let the pose go as we waited for a parade of souvenir vendors to walk past.

They passed.

“Okay?” Vernon asked.

“Okay.” I struck the pose again and flashed my thousand-watt smile of sparkling braces.

“Say cheese!” Kelly shouted.

“Cheese!” I shouted back.

“Jamie!” Dad yelled.

My smile melted as I turned my gaze from Limey and Racing Stripes to see Dad standing ten feet away from them with popped eyes and raised eyebrows. The adrenaline in my body was still pumping, but it sank from palpitations in my heart to a lump in my stomach. I robotically walked out of the ocean toward Dad, ignoring my new friends from Kansas. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them drift away.

Dad held my gaze as I walked toward him. I couldn’t read his furrowed brow as either a look of shock or worry. Probably both.

“Hi, Dad,” I said as I reached him.

“What were you doing?”

“Just walking on the beach.”

“Who were those guys?”

“I don’t know. Just some guys. They asked if they could take my picture.”

He stared at me, his face frozen in his brows-raised, eyes-popped look, but he didn’t inquire further. “Well, you need to be more careful. Come on.” He walked ahead of me and away from where Limey and Racing Stripes had been standing. I followed and we walked along the beach side by side for thirty minutes in silence. I didn’t know what to say. I guess he didn’t either.

*   *   *

At sunset that evening I found myself draining a frozen margarita back at the deck of the adult pool. Mama Jean was holding out her left wrist to model the collection of silver bangles she had bought that afternoon. Dad, Jeffrey, and I oohed and aahed on cue.

“I could shoot myself for not getting the necklace that goes with these. I’m just sick about it.”

“Well, honey, you’ve already got plenty of silver,” Dad said.

“But not like this. I’m going to have to go back to that store downtown before we leave.”

“How about another margarita, Mom?” Jeffrey asked.

“Yeah. We’ll get it,” I said, taking the opportunity to sneak in one more.

“I don’t know. Y’all might have to carry me upstairs if I have another,” she said with her eyes crossed and her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth.

“Oh, have a second one, honey,” Dad said with a head point toward the bar as he tilted his empty glass at Jeffrey and me. Jeffrey and I scurried off before she could change her mind.

We stood leaning on the circular bar as Jeffrey, to my right, ordered a round of drinks. Out of the corner of my left eye I saw a lightly freckled arm resting on the bar. Limey. I caught his eyes and smiled at him and glanced toward Jeffrey to halt him from speaking.

I turned away from Limey and said to Jeffrey, “Make sure mine is salted.”

“Right.” Jeffrey then called the bartender over to clarify the order.

Limey pushed a drink receipt toward me. I saw that he had scribbled “Room 910” on the back of it. He whispered in my ear, “Here’s our room number. Call us. We’ll be in our room for the next hour.” His hot breath in my ear nearly melted me. I leaned harder on the bar as my left leg shot up behind me, bent at the knee. I turned to Jeffrey just as Limey was pulling away from my ear.

“Thanks!” I said to Jeffrey overenthusiastically. We gathered our drinks and joined Mama Jean and Dad poolside.

Midway through our drinks, I asked Jeffrey for our room key with the excuse that I needed to go to the bathroom. I took the key from Jeffrey and fought the urge to run to the elevator as I caressed the piece of paper with “910” scrawled on it. Jeffrey and I were in 1010, so they were directly below us. I saw this as a good omen. I rang them from 1010.

Vernon answered, “Hello.” His voice went up in anticipation on the
lo
.

He said that he and Kelly were going to a big company dinner that night and then out to the bars downtown.
The bars!

“Oh, I wish I could go,” I said, twirling the phone cord, “but I have dinner plans.”

“Maybe you could come to our room later? We should be back from the bars by midnight.” Each time he said “the bars” I tingled. “Want to stop by then?”

“Sure. Sounds good,” I said with bravado, wondering if I could make it happen.

*   *   *

“You’re not hungry?” Mama Jean asked as I pushed my enchilada
verde
around my plate.

“Too many chips and guacamole by the pool.” I was too excited to eat. I hadn’t been this excited since the day before my first drama tournament in junior high.

“Uh, y’all don’t look now”—Mama Jean leaned her head forward—“but look at the next table.”

We all started to turn.

“I said don’t look. But I want y’all to see this couple at the next table. Okay, look now. But quick.”

We looked. A man was staring intently into his woman’s eyes as he fed her a piece of lobster claw. When she reached the end of the lobster meat, she began fellating his finger and moaning.