How Stella Got Her Groove Back (11 page)

To my surprise I feel relieved to have seen him, and to be honest—be honest with yourself, Stella—I really am fucking ecstatic, because why else is my heart beating so fast, so irregular? I get myself set up and see a few of my favorite honeymooners sleeping and slurping and then head back toward the dining room.

His table is empty. My heart plummets and I am suddenly embarrassed because now I am totally aware of what is happening to me: I
like
this boy. I look around as if everyone has just heard what I’m thinking and I shake off the whole notion by piling my plate with pasta and seafood and forcing myself to eat every drop of it without once looking up from my table to see if he will reappear.

He doesn’t.

I spend the next hour or so doing the back and forth sun and water thing and then I fall asleep under a palm tree for what turns out to be close to two hours and I wake up wet and hot and I run into the ocean right past a fuzzy-gray-haired black man who looks just like—I’m not kidding—the Creature from the Black Lagoon, without the scales and fins of course, and he is standing in water just deep enough to cover what appears to be a protrusion of extra skin in front of him and I assume he’s blind because of the way his eyes are sort of crossing.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he says, and since I’m the only one in the water I assume he has to be talking to me.

“It sure does,” I say and go on out a little further, do a few laps and my underwater ritual and then I head back to what is now clearly a deserted beach. It is siesta time for most of the drunks or people like me who get zapped from lying out in the sun all day. The old man is now sitting on the lounge chair right next to mine and I’m thinking I hope this motherfucker
is
blind and it would be nice if he were also deaf but be nice Stella he is old he could be your father but he is not.

As I come out of the water I can see now that he is not blind because his eyes are without a doubt now hungrily searching my body for some lost treasure or something. He should stop before I get sick. I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, hiding everything I can. I take another towel and begin to pat exposed parts dry.

“Hi, I’m Nate McKenzie and you are. . .”

“Stella Payne.”

“How many days you here for?”

“Six and a half more,” I say, gathering up my Walkman books towels.

“Me too. This is my eighth time here in the last three years.”

I want to say, And am I supposed to care? Instead I just nod.

“Yep. Retired from the air force a few years back. Live right outside Pittsburgh but I love it down here.”

I am reaching inside my tote trying to find my shorts because I don’t like the way his eyes feel on my body.

“You been over to the nude beach yet?”

“Excuse me?” I say, turning toward him now. The first thing I notice are those bunions on his rooster-like feet and then that there is blood dripping down the front of his bow legs where he apparently has cut himself and I’m wondering if he’s aware of it. “Do you realize you’re bleeding?”

He looks down over his swollen stomach. “Yeah, fell off a bicycle today. It’s all right. Have you?”

“No I have not been to the nude beach. Why? Have you?” What is he getting at? He reminds me of a dirty old man who probably has to pay for all the pussy he gets. As I look more closely I realize he’s not really ugly but far from appealing and there is something vulgar about him. I think it’s his mouth, which kind of looks like a fish’s—like it stays wet and half open all the time.

“Yeah,” he’s saying like he’s reminiscing or something, and then he comes back to the here and now. “This is my first time at
this
beach actually. You should come over to the nude beach. I think you’d like it.”

“I have no desire to go to the nude beach.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t imagine getting any real gratification or pleasure prancing around in front of a bunch of white folks and dirty old men in particular with my clothes off and besides that I wouldn’t want to give white men the pleasure of seeing my black body considering they used to rape us when we were slaves or did you forget about that little part of our history?”

He wipes his brow as if to say, Damn, you didn’t have to get all deep on me. But then, being the whore that I guessed he was, he says, “Why don’t you come over there with me?”

Before I throw up I say, “I have to return my towels and I’m going over by the pool to get a drink so maybe I’ll see you later, Nate.”

“Wait,” he says, struggling to get up. “I’ll have one with you.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

When I get to the pool I am both delighted and relieved to see Winston treading water. He looks pleased when he sees me which thrills me even more. I drop my stuff on an empty chair and slide into the water before the old man can catch up. I can see him dragging his club feet through the sand and I feel bad for dissing him the way I have but not all that bad because he should find some young girl out here who needs a little extra cash to ring his bell and I am not that girl.

I am now about three feet away from Winston and I whisper loudly, “Would you do me a big favor?” and he swims closer to me gradually emerging from the water and wow he has hair all over his chest and his shoulders are broader and wider than I thought and damn his body looks quite a bit like a real man’s and now his face is less than a foot from mine and I can smell that scent again and without thinking I say, “What is that cologne you’re wearing, Winston?” and he says, “Escape,” and I mumble, “I wish I could,” and he says, “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you,” and I say, “Boy, does it smell good,” and then I see the old man and I say, “Winston, would you just stand here and talk to me for a few minutes because that old man behind you but don’t look is trying to hit on me.” He turns to look anyway and then back at me and says, “I don’t blame him,” and I look at him like did you hear what you just said and I say, “Winston, please,” and he says, “What?” and I look at him and he is looking into my eyes again like he could walk right inside them and it feels like I am moving closer to him but I really can’t be sure because now his shoulders are somehow touching mine and this water is getting hot and I see the old man jump into the pool and head this way and I move closer to Winston which I can tell is a mistake because now I am beginning to feel as if I’m under the influence of something and whatever it is is pulling me toward this young man but I get a grip on myself and say, “What do you mean?” and he says, again, “Who can blame him?” and when I look at him he is looking at me for real like a man and I’m finding this all rather surreal and I say, “Winston, if I weren’t in my right mind I’d swear you’re trying to hit on me too,” and he says, “And you’d be right.” I let my head plummet under the water because I don’t even know how to respond to this and so I blow air bubbles and then I see his face appear in the transparent blueness and he smiles at me underwater and nods his head up and down as if to say yes it’s true it’s true and it’s okay it’s okay and then we both come up for air and I wipe my face and catch my breath and say, “Winston, I know you can’t be serious,” and he says, “Do I look serious?” and I look at him and damn is he sexy and it doesn’t seem as if he’s trying to be, this is simply who he is, and he is looking at me not like that old man with the watering lips but so tenderly as if he would really just like to kiss me on the cheek or something and I swear this water is beginning to boil and I’m trying my hardest to digest what is happening here and then I hear myself say, “Hold it. Wait a minute. Stop.”

“What?” he says again.

“You are serious, aren’t you, Winston?”

“Very much so.”

“Okay,” I groan, since I’m in this now. “Let me ask you something. What’s the oldest woman you’ve ever been with, Winston?”

“Twenty-four.”

And I say, “Well, you’d have to turn those numbers around for me, sweetie,” and he says, “So?” and I see he is somber, I mean there is this What is the problem? look on his face in his eyes, and I say, “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight,” and he is smiling deeply at me again as if he knows what I am about to say and even I don’t know what I’m about to say but he is clearly ready to respond and I take the first of a series of hyperventilated breaths and force out, “Are you saying that you would like to sleep with me, Win-ston?” and I look at him to see his reaction to that one and without blinking he says, “Absolutely,” and he gives me a Don’t look so surprised look, and out of the corner of my eye I glimpse the old man watching us and Winston pushes his right hand under the surface of the water and I can feel his long fingers just barely graze my waist and when I look into his eyes this time my body quivers and shudders and I can’t believe it when I hear myself say, “Okay.”

He is grinning fiercely and blushing at the same time and he says, “Really?”

And I look at him and say, “Really.”

“You won’t change your mind like last night, will you?”

“I don’t think so, Winston, but I’ll tell you something: I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t believe what I just said to you—there’s something illegal about this, isn’t there?”

He is giving me a very comforting look. “There is nothing illegal about this and I don’t quite understand what would make you say something like that.”

“Winston.” I sigh.

“What?” He sighs back, and he truly does look clueless.

“I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“But you’re not my mother.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t look like my mother. You don’t act like my mother. And you certainly don’t feel like my mother,” he says.

I must admit he is rather convincing. But this is totally scandalous, Stella, and you know it. The waitress comes over and sets one red drink and then what looks like my usual virgin piña colada down by us near the edge of the pool. Winston says thank you to her and offers me the glass. “When did you order this?” I ask.

“When I saw you headed in this direction.”

“But how did you know I was going to have a drink with you?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “It was wishful thinking.” He is looking in my eyes doing that hypnotism stuff again and in order to get myself together I turn my head a little to the left and I see old Nate staring at us his mouth watering with envy and I feel sorry for him all of a sudden and when I turn back toward Winston I cannot believe that this beautiful tall young man has said he wants to touch me wants to get close to me wants to make love to me and I am wondering what am I doing and did I really just tell this boy that I would fuck him and yes Stella you did and well if I do nobody really has to know it could be our little secret and I’m thinking he is so sweet and gentle and sexy I really don’t want to just
fuck
him I mean I can’t picture us like doing the nasty because I think I really want to make
love
to Winston I mean I think I’d like to give him something tender something soft and warm and beautiful something that resonates so that afterwards the next morning or next month or next year he’ll have known what it felt like to make love to a real woman and not like he screwed me or I screwed him like these young hoochies out there who fuck by numbers and think that the harder you do it the harder you come which of course is not true so I am surprised once again when I hear myself say, “So, Winston, do you think you’d like me to teach you something or do you think there’s something you can teach me?”

He takes a sip of his strawberry daiquiri and looks over the glass and he is certainly not the least bit afraid to look me in the eye, that much I do know, and he says, “Probably both,” and I almost choke because now I can’t wait I want to do it right now in this pool.

“Will you have dinner with me and then could we go dancing for real tonight first?” he asks.

“Is that how you want to do this?” I ask, shocked because with one of his older counterparts we’d be on our way to my room like ten minutes ago. This is—he is—certainly refreshing.

“I like you, Stella, and I want to spend as much time with you as I can while you’re here.”

“But why, Winston?”

He sighs again. Shifts his body weight and rubs his hands over the top of his head and down to the nape of his neck. “I like talking to you and I find myself smiling so much when I see you and I like the way that feels.”

“But Winston.” I sigh.

“What?” He sighs back.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Why is it so hard for you to accept the fact that I think you’re pretty and nice and I can’t help it if I’m attracted to you and ever since I saw you walk into the dining room yesterday the whole place kind of came alive or like the fans started going faster or something but all I can say is you made my day when you spoke to me and you should not be worrying at all about my age or your age because they are only numbers and don’t worry I won’t disappoint you,” he says, glaring at me in such a way that I believe him.

“I’m not worried about that, Winston.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“Me,” I say, and set my drink down and start heading out of the pool. I reach for my towel and while I stand on the edge old man Nate is clearly looking at my ass and I want to say watch that young one down there and see how it’s really done but instead I look at Winston and say, “What time is good for you?” and he dives under the water like those dolphins who perform at Marine World USA do and when he comes back up to the surface he grins at me and says, “You tell me.”

I hold up seven fingers.

He holds up six.

M
AYBE THEY ACCIDENTALLY
put some booze in my drink is what I’m thinking as I stagger back toward my room. I feel like I’ve jumped inside somebody else’s dream. I mean I know I’m in Jamaica. I’m in Negril. I think I just got here day before yesterday but I can’t be sure because a lot has happened since then and when I’m at home weeks months can go by and nothing worth noting happens. But yes. I am walking up the path at the Castle Beach Negril and I have just told a twenty-one-year-old that I will have sex with him tonight. Yes, that seems to be what I’ve gone and done. I press both hands up to my face and cover my eyes and cheeks and sort of sink at the knees and I can see some of the workers wondering if I’m off my rocker so I remove my hands and smile and continue to walk or float toward my room because I still do not believe I’ve consented to something this reckless. But then again, I’m not planning on marrying this boy. I’m just going to have sex with him tonight. And that’s it. It’s that simple. Do it and send him on his way. I’ve got a whole box of condoms. So what is the problem, Stella? I mean he is a consenting adult. He
wants
to do it. But why does he want to do the nasty with me? I wonder. Because I’m old. That’s why. He’s never had any old pussy before. That’s it. He wants to do a comparison study. Does old pussy feel as good as young pussy? I can’t answer that question and I don’t want him to answer that question but he didn’t act like he simply wanted sex, I mean he did ask me to have dinner with him, didn’t he? And then dancing afterwards, didn’t he? Isn’t that like sort of what’s called a date? But why am I even tripping? Why am I going this far? The bottom line is that he is tall and fine and sexy and young and I’m a good-looking middle-aged woman from America and he’s game and I’ll give him something to remember and if I work it right maybe I’ll get off and I hope the boy can kiss because it would be a shame if God gave him those thick juicy beautiful luscious lips and he doesn’t know what to do with them and I hope he’s not one of those sloppy wet tongue-wrestling kissers that make you think you’re really in the dentist’s chair and I hope he knows how to move because I can help guide him some of the way but rhythm is something you either have or you don’t have and it cannot be taught but I’ll do my best and I hope he understands the importance of a woman’s breasts but probably nobody’s shown him how to handle them yet so I’ll give him a five-minute demonstration and since he’s young he should catch on fast and God just the thought of those smooth lips over my breasts okay change the subject Stella because I still have—I look at my watch—three whole hours to go. Lord what am I going to do for three hours besides go crazy? I feel like I want him right now but I am not going in that room and masturbate no way José I am going to save all of this for him and I feel sorry for him really because I hope he’s up for this. I wonder what kind of music I should put on none of that let’s-do-the-nasty music or any begging and pleading or that whining lovesick stuff but then again I don’t want anything too funky and upbeat which means I’m back to Seal again but I also don’t want to go completely off and act like I’m setting up this monumental seduction performance because that’s like so tacky but I do feel kind of silly when I turn around and walk back to the gift shop pretending to need only a
USA Today
when in fact I purchase four of those round scented candles that look like kaleidoscopes on the outside which I place in subtle places around my room like on the headboard on the coffee table out on the balcony and in the bathroom. I feel like I’m cheating, like this was all premeditated and not at all organic or spontaneous, but then again this feels like the smart thing to do. Besides, he’s probably never had so much ambience. Which is why I feel like I sort of owe him this.