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.