Dare to Love (16 page)

She making deep moaning noises like she enjoying it, and it turning me on like hell. I start thrusting into her mouth. She don’t pull back, stay right with me, open up her throat even more. I can feel the pressure building way inside me, like the centre of a volcano. I’m sweating, her mouth slippery, her skin slippery, I feel my control slipping. I’m trying to hold on but she moving her mouth faster and faster. I feel the rush from deep down. I can’t hold it. I make one big thrust and explode in her mouth. She hold me in her mouth till I squirt every drop out.

Then she raise her head and smile at me.

‘You OK?’

I can’t answer. I’m trying to understand what just happen. I’ve never been sucked off like that. No one even come close. Women have spent hours trying to do for me, what she did in a few minutes.

‘You OK?’ she ask again, looking a little worried. ‘Was it OK?’

Before I have time to think of how to put it, I hear myself telling her, ‘I have to confess, that never happen to me before.’

‘Never been sucked off in your car? I don’t believe you.’

‘Never come like this.’

‘You don’t have to say that. I don’t need flattering.’

‘It’s true.’ I still can’t believe it.

She put her head on my chest and cup my limp cock in her hand.

‘Always a first time.’

We breathe deep, synchronised breaths. As I begin to doze, I think, ‘Careful, Grant, she getting under your skin.’

Josi

Celia suggested a tour of the island in a jeep, said I would see places off
the beaten track, away from the tourist attractions, learn some interesting things about Barbados, meet other people. I’m glad I’m doing it today. It will help to take my mind off Grant, hopefully off Richard too.

It’s an early start, eight o’clock, which gave me a good excuse to go to bed early last night. At quarter to eight, I get a call that pick up is delayed by twenty minutes. I’m usually OK with things like that but for some reason I feel irritated. By the time they arrive, forty five minutes late, at the meeting place, I have steam coming out of my ears. I’ve had to put up with standing out like a sore thumb in a shopping centre, the only stationary person in a sea of movement. One gentleman, who looks about seventy, enquires who would be so stupid as to keep me waiting? ‘I wouldn’t keep you waiting.’ Normally I’d take this comment as a harmless compliment but this morning he aggravates an already bad disposition.

‘Some fool,’ I reply.

‘He must be to keep you waiting,’ he smiles, eyeing me from head to toe before making his way into the supermarket.

‘Mrs Meyers?’ the driver enquires. He’s in a khaki safari uniform, shorts, hiking boots, thick socks and a short-sleeved shirt with epaulets. Clean shaven face and head. He looks about thirty but could be five years either side.

‘I’ve been waiting here forty five minutes,’ I retort. ‘I really don’t think this is good enough. And with no indication that you would be this late.’ My frustration finds a vent hole at last. He’s apologetic. There was a problem with another passenger and they didn’t have a cell number to let me know. I feel a little ungracious as he helps me into the jeep. I’m just about seated when his voice comes over the microphone wired into the back of the jeep.

‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the island tour. I see you’ve already started introducing yourself. That’s great. I can see this is going to be a friendly tour.’

‘Too right,’ says one of the male passengers with a strong Canadian accent, and chuckles.

‘Perhaps you can start your introductions again for me so I can get all your names. I’m Tim, and I’m your guide for today.’

So we all introduce ourselves and he repeats each name for his and our benefit. Sandy, Josh, Doug, Walter, Lucille, Renee, Ross, Linda and me. It’s evident that they’re all Canadians from their accents.

‘Josi’s from England,’ Tim says after I introduce myself. ‘She didn’t get off to a good start this morning. Hope we can make it up to you, Josi.’

He begins to outline the route when he’s interrupted by Ross.

‘Never mind the route, driver, when do we get the jungle juice?’

‘Whenever you’re all ready,’ Tim says, ‘just waiting for the word from you all.’

‘Well, now would be a good time for me,’ drawls Ross. ‘Do we have an aye from anyone else?’

‘Aye!’ chorus half the others.

‘What’s jungle juice?’ I ask Ross, who is sitting opposite me. A large man who occupies two seats and whose legs take up his and my space. I have to bend my legs to find a degree of comfort.

‘Rum punch,’ says Irene, who’s been drinking from a coke bottle since I got on.

Tim pulls over and brings two large plastic flagons containing pink liquid, a tower of plastic cups and an ice bucket to the back of the jeep. There’s an impatience similar to that of a queuing crowd when a bar opens late for happy hour.

‘This is more like it,’ Ross says, rubbing his hands in glee, like a small boy getting his bag of sweets.

‘Do you have any water?’ I ask Tim. Nine o’clock is just a little too early for me to be drinking rum punch. Celia didn’t mention this.

Tim continues his tour patter as Ross plays barman and takes orders. Irene declines, she’ll finish her rum and coke first. In between listening to Tim’s chatter about taking us through the nine parishes, past all the parish churches, which also double as hurricane shelters, and all the important buildings he’ll point out, I wonder why Irene needs rum and coke at nine o’clock in the morning, why she couldn’t even wait till the “jungle juice” was brought out.

As the tour wends its way through Christchurch, St George, St Thomas, St James and St Peter, Tim regales us with tales of the paw paw’s use as a contraceptive and the aphrodisiac properties of okras. As he informs us of the importance of Chattel Houses, forerunners of mobile houses, and why frangipani trees are planted in graveyards, the drinking continues unabated. Everyone except me is drinking. The others held out till about ten o’clock.

By the time we reach St Lucy, the gentle banter has descended into something a little more lewd and I’m feeling like, in Leonard Cohen’s words, ‘the shy one at some orgy’. I can’t help looking at my fellow travellers with a professional eye. By St Lucy, I’ve a better understanding of why Irene drinks at nine o’clock in the morning, maybe even begins way before then. She is married to Doug, a good looking man in his forties: his ruddy complexion and red veins are visible under his tan. He runs his hands through his thick, slightly greying hair every two to three minutes like a nervous tic. He’s trim apart from a slight paunch, which gets increasingly pronounced the more jungle juice he imbibes. He began the trip making deprecating statements about himself and, as he gets progressively drunk, he begins insulting and verbally abusing Irene. If I was married to him I too might take to drink, inoculate myself from his constant assaults. Ross, also inebriated by this point, lost his wife to cancer four years ago and doesn’t seem able to accept it. Betty and Ralph are trying to get over the death of their teenage son. Brenda and Walter (brother and sister) are having issues with their other siblings about their late father’s estate and have come to get away from them.

We stop to take in the stunning views from the cliffs. Tim finds me and quietly asks how I’m enjoying the tour.

‘An interesting mix of people,’ I reply. ‘Are they typical of your customers?’

‘No.’ He tries not to be too emphatic but it’s already escaped. ‘That’s why I want to apologise. I notice you’re not drinking. It must be difficult for…’

‘Do they usually get this drunk?’ I’m wondering why they supply alcohol if they know it does this to their customers.

‘This is the worst I’ve experienced, and I’m sorry. In an hour or so we’ll stop for lunch, several of our other jeeps will be there. If you want to complete the tour on another jeep, with another group, that’s something we can offer.’

I’m a little taken aback. I didn’t realise he’d noticed what had been going on because he kept up his tour talk throughout. He reads what I’m thinking and says, ‘I know sometimes it’s only you listening.’ I warm to him as I recognise how skilled he is at what he does. Always polite, gently coaxing Doug back into the jeep after each photo stop, making sure we’re all as informed as we want to be.

‘I’ll see how things go.’ I don’t want to get out of the frying pan and into the fire.

He touches my arm gently. ‘Thanks for being so understanding.’

I sit on a flat expanse of rock in the blazing heat and debate whether to ring Grant. As I’m looking at the phone, it rings. It’s him. I nearly drop it.

‘Hi babes. Where are you?’ He sounds like he’s hoping I’m round the corner, spread out on a bed wearing a tiny black negligee and a thong.

‘In St Lucy. Isn’t it beautiful here?’

‘What time do you get back?’

‘About half three. Why?’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Scenery’s great, guide fantastic, other people a bit dodgy.’

‘Dodgy?’

‘Yeah, they’ve been drinking all day. They’re all drunk now.’

‘Are you drunk too?’

‘Do I sound drunk to you?’

He goes back to negligee voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re like when you get drunk. Do you ever get drunk?’

‘Very rarely.’ I don’t add that, although I don’t get drunk, I’ve been using three or four glasses of Sauvignon Blanc to get to sleep most nights. That I’m closer to understanding Irene than I’d like. ‘Do you?’

‘Only in the right company.’

‘That would be interesting to see.’

‘Well, you must let me…’

‘Sorry, I have to go; we’re getting back on the jeep.’

‘Call me when you get back.’

‘Yes, sure.’

As I sit in the jeep listening to Tim’s tales of rum shops and churches – there are apparently three rum shops within walking distance of each the parish churches – my mind drifts back to yesterday and what happened with Grant. My head is back in Celia’s apartment. The muted voices of Josh, Irene and the others, the background radio noises, the participants in the daily phone in on
Voice of Barbados
.

Richard’s call brings me back to reality. Bursts the little fantasy bubble I’ve just built around me and Grant. Being with him in the sea re-awakened feelings I’ve been suppressing for a long time. I’m ready to open up to him. To let him enter that neglected part of me. I’m still feeling heady from the danger of the sea and his strong protective arms. I want to get back to him quickly, in case the feeling wears off and I go back to thinking too much about being married, respecting my vows and how young he is. I’m full of anticipation as I shower, mentally working out what to wear to impress him, to make him want me. I’m feeling insecure. I’ve been with Richard eleven years. I’ve got used to his ways, his style. He’s got used to mine. What if my style doesn’t suit Grant? What if he’s into new and younger ways of doing things? What if he thinks I’m old fashioned? What if he gets turned off when he sees my naked body, sees that my breasts aren’t as alert and certain as his twenty year old girlfriend’s.

‘What are you doing with this boy, Josi?’ I ask myself as the water massage my shoulders, my slumped breasts. What if you can’t stay wet long enough for him? His girlfriend’s young enough to be your daughter. What are you doing, Josi? What are you doing?

The phone rings. I snatch it up, thinking it’s Grant. It’s Richard. It’s as if he’s sensed my insecurity, my uncertainty, my anxiety. Sensed my yet un-asked question about what this will do to my marriage.

He’s been thinking about me, missing me. He hopes I’m having a good time, hopes we can find some way to recapture what we had. He’s so very sorry. Can I say something, anything, that would give him some hope? He’s missing me like crazy, wants me back in his arms, will do anything I want.

‘I just need some space to think.’ I’m angry with his timing and can’t keep it out of my voice.

‘OK darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put any pressure on you. I’m just missing you.’ His voice trails off and I can picture the pained look on his face. It’s one he’s worn almost constantly since that day. He brings me back to the reality of our situation, the distance we still have to travel back to each other, and I know I won’t be going to any private place with Grant. What I wear ceases to be of any great importance. I’ll go and spend a few hours with him then come back to the apartment. Celia’s finishing early and we’ve agreed to do something together.

When I get into his car, he keeps his shades on. I want to see his eyes, to see if he’s picked up that the energy has gone out of what had happened earlier. I say something about the eyes being the window to the soul and he takes them off. I can’t bear to look at the desire I see there because I know it’s not being reflected back to him.

He can’t come up with anywhere for us to go. I just want to be taken somewhere, anywhere that means I won’t be fighting him off or where I’ll have to deal with his disappointment. We end up going back to the beach. I don’t like the way the car’s pointing straight into the sea from the slope but keep quiet. I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of frightened, over-protective grandma. I’m feeling jittery enough already without worrying about the car rolling into the sea.