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All posts for the month August, 2007

MORE MOSTLY TRUE STORIES

Published August 27, 2007 by jean cohen
 

My week at Hedo settles into a pleasant routine.  I do nude water aerobics every morning at the pool with my new friends.  Vanessa is our bare naked instructor.

 

Winston and I spend most of our time together; we have dinner one evening at Pastafari, the Italian-Jamaican restaurant, and hang at the Piano Bar and Disco.  We go to the Nude Pool every day. 

 

I do meet really nice people, some are swingers, some are not.  Many of them visit the blue boat dubbed ‘The Pharmacy’ which docks every morning at the Nude Beach.  Apparently, in addition to ganja, he supplies every drug imaginable.  Lots of people are wasted all the time.  Perhaps that is why they think it is perfectly okay to have sex in front of 50 or 60 total strangers.

 

By the middle of the week, guests who actually turn off the Playboy Channel and turn on CNN to see if America is still there are starting to mention an approaching hurricane.  The resort staff, with typical Jamaican style, prepares by denying…denying…denying. 

 

Winston is fishing, so I am at the Nude Pool by myself.  A severe thunder storm rolls in, complete with lightening.  The crowd quickly makes for the Grotto, a little pool built into the rocks.  What do 25 mostly drunk and stoned naked people do in a thunderstorm?  Did you have to ask?

 

Everyone is first given a name for the sex games we are going to play.  Mine is ‘Queenie-fuck’.  I had to firmly quash ‘Freckle-fuck’; some asshole really did suggest it.  Everyone’s name ends in ‘fuck’.  I lose my first challenge.  The person to whom I lost gets a forfeit from me.  Chocolate-fuck, who is female, opts to attempt to remove my tonsils with her tongue.  I am surprised; I had heard black men had big penises, but I don’t remember anyone mentioning black women had tongues as long as the hoses at Hook and Ladder Company 55 of the Philadelphia Fire Department.  I lose–  a lot.  I probably should not have taken a few hits off Corvette-fuck’s weed.  It seemed like a fine idea at the time.

 

Hedo’s motto is “Do things you wouldn’t want your mother to find out about”.  This seemed pretty logical to me; after all, that was my philosophy growing up.  I think about my mother.  Could she have been right for once?  She always said when I died I was going straight to Hell.  Apparently, I have died and didn’t notice, and Hell is obviously the Grotto with 25 naked people, all of whom think it’s perfectly okay to touch me.

In my hanging about at various places at the resort, I have only occasionally spotted the Most Beautiful Man in the World.  We don’t seem to go to the same activities, and unfortunately he has not been at the Nude Pool so I can’t report if he’s total perfection or only with his clothes on.

 

I bump into Stefano at dinner (of course I did it on purpose!) and chat for a few minutes.  When I go back to our table, Mark, one of the folks I’ve been hanging with, comments, “Why do you bother talking to the Italians?  They’re all stuck-up and rude.”  I’m really shocked by this judgment.  Of course, Mark is from California.  I think that says it all.

 

I say that all of the Italians seem to be very nice and friendly.  Mostly everybody disagrees with me.  As I am now almost an official Italian citizen, I take this personally.  It is interesting that most of the Americans have never been anywhere besides the Caribbean, and specifically Hedonism, but they all believe they are very sophisticated travelers.  “Nobody from that huge family from Trieste speaks any English” I point out.  Since I am now studying Italian, I speak to them in my broken Italian when I see them.  This sometimes is a problem because I keep mixing up Yiddish and Italian words.   It’s odd that all I remember from my childhood fluently are really foul curse words.  Someone actually says “They shouldn’t come to America if they can’t speak English”.  I point out that we’re not in America and mention Miami.  Nobody in Miami speaks English.  Nada.

 

The next morning, Stefano joins me for breakfast.  Vanessa, the bare naked aerobics instructor who has the hots for him, shoots me dirty looks across the room.  I ignore her bitchily.  I discover that Stefano lives in New York City; he owns a restaurant there.  How convenient is that?  I meet his partner in the restaurant, Alex, who is very handsome, but not the Most Beautiful Man in the World class.   For some reason, I had not noticed Alex at all.  His English is practically non-existent, and he is, after all, only extremely handsome (and short) so I am not terribly interested in simply staring at him for hours. 

 

I debate with myself, and finally say, “You know, people think you’re stuck up and unfriendly.”  Stefano is stunned by this and translates it into Italian for Alex, who is also surprised.  I assure them that they are not at all stuck-up.  Stefano decides that they will meet me on the Nude Beach in the afternoon and be very friendly to everyone.  (I think ‘especially to me?’).

 Wow; a divine mystery will be uncovered when Beautiful Guy takes off his trunks.

 

Nature does not cooperate and it pours all afternoon.  I hang with the girls in a gazebo where we take turns running out for more pina coladas.  When I get back to my room, Stefano has left a message.  He and Alex had shown up despite the rain, but I wasn’t there.  They ask me to have dinner with them.  I know I occasionally tell little fibs, but I am not making any of this up.

 

I meet Alex and Stefano at the Dining Room and we sit down.  Everyone watches us in awed silenzio.  Mark’s partner, Kim, comes over and inquires very seriously how I have managed to single-handedly score Alex and Stefano.  I gloat unashamedly.  Bare naked Vanessa glares at me; little do I know that she will try to exercise me to death the next morning during naked water aerobics.

 

Integrity demands that I clarify it was just dinner, and karaoke, and the disco.  I never did get to see the Most Beautiful Man in the World naked.  Maybe when I go to his restaurant for dinner?

 

 

 

 

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YOU STILL TOUCH ME….COULD YA STOP ALREADY?

Published August 25, 2007 by jean cohen

I think Sting has a lot to answer for.

 

In fact, I am seriously considering kicking him off the Jeano Hottie Index.  Every girl has a Hottie list; it’s the top ten guys whose bones we want to jump.  My Index has seven floating slots, based on my whims, and three permanent slots, filled by Sean Connery, Wes Hopkins and Sting.  I am totally  available if any of the Hotties decide to ring.  Note to Sting:  Don’t bother; I’m washing my hair.

 

What, you may ask, prompted this ‘going off Sting’?  Two words: Tantric Sex.

 

Of course I had heard of Tantric Sex, and Sting’s reputed prowess; I thought it was another one of those Urban Myths.  Not!  Guys feel obligated to outlast Sting.

 

I decide to have sex with a very lucky someone.  Specific details will not be provided.  Okay, at Hedo II it’s hard not to think about it when people are doing it out in the open all the time everywhere. 

 

It starts out very romantic, as long as I don’t look at my goddamned thighs in the mirror over the bed.  Mood music on the CD player, jasmine incense burning … I think you get the idea.

 

The very fortunate man I have calculatedly chosen to do is a talker.  I have never understood why guys feel it is necessary to talk during sex.  Don’t they talk enough the rest of the time?  He asks “What do you really like?”

 

I don’t even have to think.  “Louis Vuitton purses.”  Oh.  Apparently he means sexually.  Undeterred, he just carries on; and babbles on and on.  He has obviously been watching the Playboy Channel a lot.

 

Hour one is pretty nice; hour two is okay.  As hour three starts to wind down, I murmur “Um, the earth moved…quite a while ago.”  Sting Wannabee: “I can go forever!”  Swell.

 

I do not want to bruise his ego, although I think seriously about bruising certain parts of his anatomy. 

 

I settle in and start alphabetizing all 32 teams in the NFL in my head.  I do it by location, ‘Arizona Cardinals…Atlanta Falcons…Baltimore Ravens…’.  Then I do the stadiums, by name, ‘Arrowhead Stadium…Dolphin Field…’    He is still going like the Energizer Bunny, so I list all the head coaches and move on to all the quarterbacks in the Pro Football Hall of Fame by induction class.  I get bored with football, and mentally rearrange all 146 pairs of shoes I own; I make it tough by lining them up by the country in which I bought them.  YAWN.  I meander on to ‘Bob Dylan Song Lyrics’ and wonder if I will ever get sensation back in my legs.  I am a bit testy by the time I am reciting ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ under my breath.  “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…”

 

Finally, he senses that I have checked out, about four hours and twenty-six minutes ago.   Gee, what was the first clue?

 

“Am I boring you” he asks in a pouty little guy voice. 

 

Many, many sarcastic answers come to mind.  “Yeah” I say undiplomatically, ‘Maybe you should think about wrapping this up before Hurricane Dean gets here”,  as I muse “The next time I want four layers of skin abraded off, I’ll just go to the bloody Dermatologist.”

 

He gets miffed for some incomprehensible masculine reason, but thankfully allows Sting to retain his title.

 

As if this wasn’t bad enough, now it’s time for cuddles and the ‘Post Game Wrap Up’.  Obviously, one should ask about any little quirks a prospective partner has before saying yes to sex.  

 

I don’t do cuddles or Post Game Interviews.  We had sex; that’s as far as warm and fuzzy goes.

 

I scoot to the far edge of the king sized bed and light up.  A cigarette.  He doesn’t smoke.  One problem neatly solved.  He stretches out on the other side, watching himself in the mirror on the ceiling.  Sure, he has really toned thighs.  I think meanly that he is probably picturing Sting on suicide watch at a posh mental health facility in the Midlands.

 

“Did you like it when I” he begins smugly and I wonder if murder is a capitol offense in the Caribbean and if my brother-in-law will be miffed when he has to fly down to get me out on bail.

 

“Sorry, what? I was thinking about what to wear to dinner…  I should have packed those red shoes I got in Barcelona.”  No, I don’t actually say this out loud.   Besides, I may have bought those particular shoes in Montreal.

 

I feel obligated to mumble some half-hearted compliments.  Sports analogies seem to work well with most guys.  “When I was in the Red Zone, on the eleven yard line and you tossed that perfect spiral…That touchdown was way more than six points.”   

 

God.  It was just sex, not the After Christmas Sale at Bloomingdales, which scientific research has proven is multi-orgasmic and provides a great deal of fond reminiscing and amusing anecdotes.    

 

Intimacy is awfully hard work.  Okay; at least the sex part isn’t.  But the afterwards part requires being nice for extended periods of time.  I had forgotten about the being nice part; I was married for a long time, so being nice was superfluous.   I decide that I can possibly manage ‘pleasant’ and maybe even ‘interested’, but only for short intervals, so no more tantric sex and, sadly, definitely not Sting.   

 

I am taking a new interest in Major League Baseball, and memorizing ‘Canterbury Tales.”   

  

MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE CEILING

Published August 23, 2007 by jean cohen

So I spent the rest of the week playing Scrabble with a missionary from China.  She thought she was headed to Kingston, Ontario.

 

Ha Ha!  Gottcha! 

 

You didn’t really think I was going to confess anything that I did at the Nude Pool?  I will say that Roger was a Roundhead, Girl Scout Chocolate Mint Cookie Shooters are very sticky, and the Australian Guy was very disappointed.

 

At breakfast the next morning, a very late breakfast, a very nice looking man sits down with me.  We chat and it turns out he’s by himself, too.  I pull out my handy checklist that I wrote on the plane for screening potential sex partners:

 

          Q:  Where are you from?          

A.        Chicago.  (Thank God.  I don’t think I could have sex with someone from, like, Texas or Montana or some place weird like that; especially if they have an accent)

 

Q.        What do you do?

A.          Own a landscaping business.  (Great.  Have your accountant fax your D & B to mine)

 

Q.          Marital Status? (Not that it matters; it’s only for a week)

A.            Single.

 

Q.       This is the tough one:  Please describe your penis.   Why?  ‘Cause I’m not gonna do you if you’re not… you know… circumcised.  Why?  ‘Cause I have a big hang-up on this particular subject.  Note to British readers:  Ask BooBoo Blondie.  She knows the whole story.

A.          Yes.  (Yippee!)  When I was fixed up with Israeli Guy by a friend of a friend, I was told that ‘Jim’ would call me.  In our initial phone conversation, he goes “’Jim’ is my American nickname; my name is actually Moshe; I’m Israeli.”  Well, I cried with happiness as I said “How fast can you get over here?”

 

So Winston (who doesn’t have a handy checklist) and I decide to hook up for the week; at least until he leaves.  He’s leaving a day earlier than me.  Hopefully this will discourage the bartenders, watersports guys and the Egyptian.  Yes, Chicago Guy’s name is really ‘Winston’, after that British guy; Churchill…Winston Churchill.

 

Coincidentally, Winston introduces me to the ‘most beautiful man in the entire world’ from the night before.  Shirtless, in a bathing suit, he is even more incredible.  It’s strange because I am not usually attracted by drop dead gorgeous looks; no load mutual fund portfolios usually catch my interest first. 

 

He is Italian, his name is Stefano.  This is very peculiar; I am usually immediately turned off by connazionali.  He is not very tall (Italians aren’t), very dark, with classic Italian features and grey eyes.  I know it doesn’t sound special, but for some reason, it all went together to create perfection.  The accent didn’t hurt either.

 

I spend a few moments thinking about what all I would like to do to Stefano very slowly.  Then I think of my mother.  I picture her rising from her grave in a little pink tutu and executing four triple salchows and three double axles of pure bliss because I have finally slept with an Italian.  Nah.  I’m not about to make my mother happy at this late date.  Besides, he’s too young and he’s not interested in me.   I will just have to enjoy staring at him and mentally undressing him (unless he hangs at the Nude Beach; Wow!  That was Freudian).

 

Anyway, Winston and I decide to go to the Nude Beach.  We discover that our rooms are right next to each other.  We change into swimsuits, and he knocks on my door.  Okay.  This is bad.  He is wearing a Brian Urlacher jersey, but I cut him some slack.  I do analyze the Super Bowl (what I remember before the shooters with Scotty and James) to remind him that the Bears lost.  He handles it pretty well.

 

I guess this is where I’m supposed to share all the salacious details about Winston and me.  Pretend I did, or make it up.

 

I will tell one story, but it’s about me.  Late that night, I remembered why I hate mirrors on the ceiling.  I remembered a weekend that Jerry and I spent in one of those ‘honeymoon resorts’ with heart-shaped beds and a pool in the room.  There was a mirror on the ceiling.  I, of course, became fixated on watching my thighs from all different angles overhead.  “Shit” I said to Jerry, who was totally disinterested in chatting at this point.  “Are those really my thighs?  They should come with a warning label.”  After five or six more comments by me on the famous Neapolitan Thunder Thighs my cousins and me all inherited, I seem to recall Jerry either banging his head or mine repeatedly into the pink plush headboard; I can’t remember.  He did finally make me just take my contact lenses out so all I could make out was a big white blurry blob writhing around down there on the heart-shaped bed.  

 

 

So I spent the rest of the week playing Scrabble with a missionary from China.  She thought she was headed to Kingston, Ontario.

 

Ha Ha!  Gottcha! 

 

You didn’t really think I was going to confess anything that I did at the Nude Pool?  I will say that Roger was a Roundhead, Girl Scout Chocolate Mint Cookie Shooters are very sticky, and the Australian Guy was very disappointed.

 

At breakfast the next morning, a very late breakfast, a very nice looking man sits down with me.  We chat and it turns out he’s by himself, too.  I pull out my handy checklist that I wrote on the plane for screening potential sex partners:

 

          Q:  Where are you from?          

A.        Chicago.  (Thank God.  I don’t think I could have sex with someone from, like, Texas or Montana or some place weird like that; especially if they have an accent)

 

Q.        What do you do?

A.          Own a landscaping business.  (Great.  Have your accountant fax your D & B to mine)

 

Q.          Marital Status? (Not that it matters; it’s only for a week)

A.            Single.

 

Q.       This is the tough one:  Please describe your penis.   Why?  ‘Cause I’m not gonna do you if you’re not… you know… circumcised.  Why?  ‘Cause I have a big hang-up on this particular subject.  Note to British readers:  Ask BooBoo Blondie.  She knows the whole story.

A.          Yes.  (Yippee!)  When I was fixed up with Israeli Guy by a friend of a friend, I was told that ‘Jim’ would call me.  In our initial phone conversation, he goes “’Jim’ is my American nickname; my name is actually Moshe; I’m Israeli.”  Well, I cried with happiness as I said “How fast can you get over here?”

 

So Winston (who doesn’t have a handy checklist) and I decide to hook up for the week; at least until he leaves.  He’s leaving a day earlier than me.  Hopefully this will discourage the bartenders, watersports guys and the Egyptian.  Yes, Chicago Guy’s name is really ‘Winston’, after that British guy; Churchill…Winston Churchill.

 

Coincidentally, Winston introduces me to the ‘most beautiful man in the entire world’ from the night before.  Shirtless, in a bathing suit, he is even more incredible.  It’s strange because I am not usually attracted by drop dead gorgeous looks; no load mutual fund portfolios usually catch my interest first. 

 

He is Italian, his name is Stefano.  This is very peculiar; I am usually immediately turned off by connazionali.  He is not very tall (Italians aren’t), very dark, with classic Italian features and grey eyes.  I know it doesn’t sound special, but for some reason, it all went together to create perfection.  The accent didn’t hurt either.

 

I spend a few moments thinking about what all I would like to do to Stefano very slowly.  Then I think of my mother.  I picture her rising from her grave in a little pink tutu and executing four triple salchows and three double axles of pure bliss because I have finally slept with an Italian.  Nah.  I’m not about to make my mother happy at this late date.  Besides, he’s too young and he’s not interested in me.   I will just have to enjoy staring at him and mentally undressing him (unless he hangs at the Nude Beach; Wow!  That was Freudian).

 

Anyway, Winston and I decide to go to the Nude Beach.  We discover that our rooms are right next to each other.  We change into swimsuits, and he knocks on my door.  Okay.  This is bad.  He is wearing a Brian Urlacher jersey, but I cut him some slack.  I do analyze the Super Bowl (what I remember before the shooters with Scotty and James) to remind him that the Bears lost.  He handles it pretty well.

 

I guess this is where I’m supposed to share all the salacious details about Winston and me.  Pretend I did, or make it up.

 

I will tell one story, but it’s about me.  Late that night, I remembered why I hate mirrors on the ceiling.  I remembered a weekend that Jerry and I spent in one of those ‘honeymoon resorts’ with heart-shaped beds and a pool in the room.  There was a mirror on the ceiling.  I, of course, became fixated on watching my thighs from all different angles overhead.  “Shit” I said to Jerry, who was totally disinterested in chatting at this point.  “Are those really my thighs?  They should come with a warning label.”  After five or six more comments by me on the famous Neapolitan Thunder Thighs my cousins and me all inherited, I seem to recall Jerry either banging his head or mine repeatedly into the pink plush headboard; I can’t remember.  He did finally make me just take my contact lenses out so all I could make out was a big white blurry blob writhing around down there on the heart-shaped bed.  

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So I spent the rest of the week playing Scrabble with a missionary from China.  She thought she was headed to Kingston, Ontario.

 

Ha Ha!  Gottcha! 

 

You didn’t really think I was going to confess anything that I did at the Nude Pool?  I will say that Roger was a Roundhead, Girl Scout Chocolate Mint Cookie Shooters are very sticky, and the Australian Guy was very disappointed.

 

At breakfast the next morning, a very late breakfast, a very nice looking man sits down with me.  We chat and it turns out he’s by himself, too.  I pull out my handy checklist that I wrote on the plane for screening potential sex partners:

 

          Q:  Where are you from?          

A.        Chicago.  (Thank God.  I don’t think I could have sex with someone from, like, Texas or Montana or some place weird like that; especially if they have an accent)

 

Q.        What do you do?

A.          Own a landscaping business.  (Great.  Have your accountant fax your D & B to mine)

 

Q.          Marital Status? (Not that it matters; it’s only for a week)

A.            Single.

 

Q.       This is the tough one:  Please describe your penis.   Why?  ‘Cause I’m not gonna do you if you’re not… you know… circumcised.  Why?  ‘Cause I have a big hang-up on this particular subject.  Note to British readers:  Ask BooBoo Blondie.  She knows the whole story.

A.          Yes.  (Yippee!)  When I was fixed up with Israeli Guy by a friend of a friend, I was told that ‘Jim’ would call me.  In our initial phone conversation, he goes “’Jim’ is my American nickname; my name is actually Moshe; I’m Israeli.”  Well, I cried with happiness as I said “How fast can you get over here?”

 

So Winston (who doesn’t have a handy checklist) and I decide to hook up for the week; at least until he leaves.  He’s leaving a day earlier than me.  Hopefully this will discourage the bartenders, watersports guys and the Egyptian.  Yes, Chicago Guy’s name is really ‘Winston’, after that British guy; Churchill…Winston Churchill.

 

Coincidentally, Winston introduces me to the ‘most beautiful man in the entire world’ from the night before.  Shirtless, in a bathing suit, he is even more incredible.  It’s strange because I am not usually attracted by drop dead gorgeous looks; no load mutual fund portfolios usually catch my interest first. 

 

He is Italian, his name is Stefano.  This is very peculiar; I am usually immediately turned off by connazionali.  He is not very tall (Italians aren’t), very dark, with classic Italian features and grey eyes.  I know it doesn’t sound special, but for some reason, it all went together to create perfection.  The accent didn’t hurt either.

 

I spend a few moments thinking about what all I would like to do to Stefano very slowly.  Then I think of my mother.  I picture her rising from her grave in a little pink tutu and executing four triple salchows and three double axles of pure bliss because I have finally slept with an Italian.  Nah.  I’m not about to make my mother happy at this late date.  Besides, he’s too young and he’s not interested in me.   I will just have to enjoy staring at him and mentally undressing him (unless he hangs at the Nude Beach; Wow!  That was Freudian).

 

Anyway, Winston and I decide to go to the Nude Beach.  We discover that our rooms are right next to each other.  We change into swimsuits, and he knocks on my door.  Okay.  This is bad.  He is wearing a Brian Urlacher jersey, but I cut him some slack.  I do analyze the Super Bowl (what I remember before the shooters with Scotty and James) to remind him that the Bears lost.  He handles it pretty well.

 

I guess this is where I’m supposed to share all the salacious details about Winston and me.  Pretend I did, or make it up.

 

I will tell one story, but it’s about me.  Late that night, I remembered why I hate mirrors on the ceiling.  I remembered a weekend that Jerry and I spent in one of those ‘honeymoon resorts’ with heart-shaped beds and a pool in the room.  There was a mirror on the ceiling.  I, of course, became fixated on watching my thighs from all different angles overhead.  “Shit” I said to Jerry, who was totally disinterested in chatting at this point.  “Are those really my thighs?  They should come with a warning label.”  After five or six more comments by me on the famous Neapolitan Thunder Thighs my cousins and me all inherited, I seem to recall Jerry either banging his head or mine repeatedly into the pink plush headboard; I can’t remember.  He did finally make me just take my contact lenses out so all I could make out was a big white blurry blob writhing around down there on the heart-shaped bed.  

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

COME TO JAMAICA AND FEEL ALRIGHT

Published August 21, 2007 by jean cohen

Well, okay.  The beautiful, and thin, heroine decided to go to Jamaica after all and go wild. Did I mention she’s thin?  Right; I did.

 

When I get to Montego Bay, I have a moment of alarm as they pop my passport into the little machine.  My passport is filled with unkind messages from those wonderful folks at the British Embassy.  Does Britain talk to Jamaica?  Does Jamaica care that the UK thinks I’m a liar, an over-stayer, a troublemaker, and a terrorist?  I really hate getting locked up, searched and then sent home on the next flight. 

 

I guess not.  Jamaica says “No problem, Mon” and welcomes me in.  As I wait for my transfer to Hedonism, I remember why I hate going to Jamaica; it is chock full of Jamaicans.  I count how many times I have been there before (about 12) and how many times the locals have tried to sell me shit (89,462) before I even get out of the airport.  I am actually nice to the first five ‘sales associates’ who harass me.

 

Hedonism II is in Negril; it is about an hour and a half from Montego Bay.  After a scenic drive through the beautiful countryside at 120 MPH  (the driver obviously trained at Le Mans), past stray goats, tar paper shacks, roadside markets, and scary looking Jamaicans, we arrive at Hedo.  I walk into the lovely open air lobby, and I’m handed a glass of champagne.   As I sip it, a man walks by.  He is wearing a hat.  Nothing else; just a hat.  I gulp the rest of the champagne and quickly accept a refill – a large one.

 

The clerk welcomes me to Hedonism and tells me that my room is on ‘The Nude Side’.  I smile and say, “Are you fucking nuts?  I don’t think so.”   She shakes her head at me sadly, but reassigns me to a room on ‘The Prude Side’.  As I’m shown to my room, the people we pass are all wearing at least a bathing suit with their hats.  I am very relieved.

 

The room is adequate.  Hedo didn’t used to have TVs, but they’ve put them in now.  The most popular channel?  The Playboy Network, of course.  The room has a king sized bed…with a very large mirror on the ceiling.  Hmm.  I wonder what that’s all about?  The room is rather luridly tropical, but it does have a cool Jacuzzi shower, big enough for several people.  I wonder if I will be showering with all the new friends I will be making.

 

I go to the Prude Pool for a while, then back to shower (alone) and dress for dinner.  I go to the bar at the Dining Room and ask for a Zinfy.  This part is true:  Each bartender, six of them, in succession, hits on me.  They have all obviously read “Picking Up White Women Alone on Vacation in Jamaica at a Bar for Dummies” or “How Stella Got Her Groove Back” because they pretty much use the same line.  I am mostly amused.  I think ‘there is not enough Zinfandel in the entire Caribbean’.  Oddly, I think sort of the same thing later in the evening, when the Egyptian guy hits on me;  in that case, I also think ‘not even if you own the Sphinx and the Pyramids personally’.  This may have had something to do with the fact he was an Arab; you know, the Jewish thing.  He was pretty hot though.   I see, across the room, the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my entire life.  Sadly, he does not hit on me.

 

I join an assorted table of people for dinner, and it is pleasant enough, at least until it sinks in that both of the couple from England are hitting on me.  Yes, they were swingers.  I tell Ian that I am gobsmacked that anyone from the UK can get the poker out of his ass long enough to have fun, let alone be a swinger.  I guess I still have a tiny bit of anger in my heart towards all things British.  Fortunately, Ian and Kate take this as a ‘no thanks’.

 

There is a positively dreadful floor show during dinner that reminds me of ‘Club Paradise’ with Robin Williams or a really tacky Carnival Cruise.  After dinner, it’s off to the Disco.  Readers with delicate sensibilities should stop here and wait for the next installment.

 

X-RATED CONTENT

 

At the Disco, I meet Roger, who works at a high level position at Hedo.  He is from India.  Hey, at least he’s not an Arab.  He offers to ‘take me for a walk.’  I discover that we have very different ideas about what a ‘walk’ is.  His is to get me to the first Gazebo (these are little structures dotted throughout the complex with a mattress on a platform; very romantic) and climb all over me.  I am thinking maybe it would be fun to let Roger climb all over me, but he makes a tactical error.  A big one.  He uses the F Word.  Really.  He actually says ‘I find freckles incredibly sexy’.  Yuck.  I don’t understand it.  I have it on good authority that I have drop dead gorgeous big brown eyes.  Do men ever mention them?  No.  They mention the goddamned freckles.  Jerry was only allowed to say the F Word three times a year; his birthday, our anniversary and after breaking the fast on Yom Kippur.  Hey, I don’t tell you how to break the fast or what you should atone for.   

Roger is obviously not getting any nooky, so he talks me into going to ‘see the Nude Pool’.  It is only after we get there that he tells me I have to take my clothes off.  One cannot be dressed there; Roger can be, he’s an employee.  In my defense, he used negative reinforcement.  I did it for the Stars and Stripes.  He gave me a lot of shit about Americans being hung up and all that jazz.  Then he dared me.  I was nude, in the pool, in about three seconds.  It was fun…after several drinks. 

 

Did Roger get some freckley nooky?  Did I participate in the drinking game ‘Pour a Shooter on a Strange Woman’s Tits and Lick It Off’?  Did I go in the hot tub with the Australian Guy?   

 

TO BE CONTINUED  

YEAH IT’S ME . . . BLOGGING

Published August 20, 2007 by jean cohen

First let me say, yes, I absolutely know how long it’s been since I blogged.  Too bloody bad.  I didn’t have anything to say.

 

What has happened since Britain wouldn’t let me in?

 

Not a whole lot.  In no particular order:

 

a)     I somehow lost 115 lbs not even on purpose  (I call it the Deportation Diet) and I’m hot;

b)    Booboo Blondie Sister Wife came over and spent two weeks here;

c)     I filed my papers (finally!) for Italian citizenship- working at Italian Warp Speed, it should be finalized by 2025 easily;

d)    My son-in-law died (this one is not funny) in a freak boating accident; he was MY age;

e)     Britain wouldn’t let me in again… even for a week;

f)      I’m dating an Israeli called Moshe;

g)     I’m dating a guy named Richard;

h)     I’m dating a guy named Winston;

i)       I have some free time if Ewan isn’t busy;

j)       I’m thinking Britain should sink without a trace into the Atlantic; I’m moving to Holland, the men are positively better looking.

 

Anyway, I decided that I needed a vacation.  Living at Scary Fairy’s house and laying out by the pool all day is hard work.

 

It was a difficult decision- where to go?  I have certainly traveled by myself for work, but not on vacation.  Obviously, it has to be somewhere there are other singles and it’s an all inclusive.  Putting on my dusty old Travel Agent’s cap, I decide……..Jamaica……Hedonism II.  It’s supposed to be wild.

 

I call my friend Flora who still works at my old agency, and run it past her.  She thinks I’m insane, but politely doesn’t voice this opinion.  She gets me a great deal, and I book it.  I do a lot of research on the ‘Net.  Okay.  Nude pool and beach; sex; unlimited booze; sex; unlimited food; sex; ganja; sex; activities; sex; watersports; sex.  Sounds good to me.

 

Of course, as my departure gets closer, I totally panic.  I could just not turn up; I can try to break an arm or leg necessitating cancellation (of course I bought insurance); I can tell everybody I went and really descend on Gerry P for a week  (I can make up some awesome shit when I get back).  I’m thinking ‘What was I thinking?’  Yeah, I have no idea either.  This ranks right up there with Computer Guy.  I have a serious talk with myself.

 

“Self” I say sternly, “Get your shit together.  He’s dead.  He’s not coming back.  He won’t mind if you have sex in Jamaica with all the bartenders and watersports guys.”

 

I think about this for a while.  I picture my room at Hedo.  There is a line of dead people waiting to get in and yell at me.  I have to give them bakery tickets.  I am positively gobsmacked to see Tammy Fay, eyelashes and all, waiting to criticize me.  She is right in front of my mother in the line.  I decide to go anyway.  I can always stay in my room the whole week.

 

…TO BE CONTINUED