Friday, August 03, 2007

Her Cups Runneth Over

A torrid sun; a tropical paradise; a frustrated writer; a cheating wife; a mysterious sultry woman... the ingredients for a forbidden affair? Or the recipe for murder and the perfect crime?

I

She was perfection incarnate. She shouldn't have existed. Mother Nature was always tinkering, experimenting to achieve perfection. Had she finally succeeded?

The azure firmament, the deeper blue-green shades of the ocean and the golden sands appeared pale, muted in comparison. As she moved in sensuous gait along the shoreline the advancing fingers of the sea seemed reluctant to impede her course, instead receding before each footfall, and only after her passage moving forth.

Feigning reading my book, I tried not to appear obvious as my eyes peered over the frame of my Blue Blockers. Though I didn't realize it at the moment, I was hopeful that no one noticed that the book clutched in my hands was upside down propped on my abdomen. I shouldn't have worried, as every head, male and female alike , followed her movements.

The sway of her hips, the graceful stride of her long legs, and the gentle undulations of her breasts were a symphony playing upon my senses. While it was more likely than not resurrected from my subconscious, I thought I could hear the bossa-nova-like beat of Sergio Mendes. The lyrics escaped my lips as I moistened them with my tongue:
"Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from Ipanema goes walking,
And when she passes, each one she passes goes ahh."
Her Barbie Doll figure was bare save the tiniest blue bikini, that while it covered her essentials, did little to shelter the charms hidden beneath. What normal man would not wish to seek asylum in the confines of those secreted places?

She slowed her pace and turned her head as if just realizing she had an audience. My heart skipped a beat and my pulse quickened. Was she looking in my direction? In those large green pools that were her eyes, I guess every male must have dared to think the same thoughts. I risked a brief agonizing moment to take my eyes off her to see who might be near me in her line of sight. There was no one within twenty feet of where I was seated.

When my eyes fell once again upon her she was standing still looking over her shoulder. Is it possible for a woman to look both wanton and demure at the same time? I dare say I was witness to such a vision. Her lips which had been pursed in a playful pout suddenly stretched and parted slightly into an inviting smile.

Her next sensual move produced a feverish stirring within me. In a deliberate but synchronized motion, one hand slipped the blue material from her breasts as the other strategically took its place. The bra of her bikini dangled loosely from her fingers as she once again began to walk along the water's edge. Again the tide driven foam of the sea gave way as she passed.

Before she turned there was wink in her eye and a nod of subtle invitation for me to follow her. Placing my hands on the arms of the chaise lounge I started to rise to comply to her perceived wishes, but then I forced myself back into it. The book I had been reading was serving another purpose ... as a shield. I was in no condition to stand, albeit to walked across the beach in such a state.


II



Even later, as I was seated before my laptop, the image of her was etched in my brain. Inexplicably, she had become a predominate character in the last chapter I had been committing to screen for my novel. I scrolled back over the product of the last two hours. What in the world? One sentence in particular perplexed me: The sway of her hips, the graceful stride of her long legs and the gentle undulations of her breasts were a symphony playing upon my senses.

I wrote that? It wasn't my style. I have never used metaphors like that in my previous novels. As I read again that sentence, I began to feel that certain heated stirring, the same that had held me prisoner in the beach chair. The same that had prevented me from following her.

I had to clear my thoughts. I needed to purge the woman from my mind. I had a deadline. I had two weeks to complete my latest novel or answer to the wrath of my publisher. A month at this tropical resort had seemed like a good idea at the time. It was supposed to afford me time to relax and to escape the daily grind of what was my normal life. Yet, here I sit halfway through that month and only halfway through the book.

I caught her reflection on the chrome plated surface of my cigarette lighter. Holding it in my hand it served as a mirror and I was able to see behind me. She had just taken a shower and as usual emerged from the bathroom naked. I have to admit that the word voluptuous is as good as any adjective to describe my wife Eve's body. Already aroused by my thoughts and vivid memory of the mysterious woman on the beach, I pulled my chair closer to the desk. I didn't wish her to see me in that state. I didn't want her to think that she had brought about my excitement. I didn't want to give her that satisfaction.

Don't get me wrong, my wife is a very desirable woman. Our marriage of ten years, however, has been a loveless charade. Sure, there were those times that she would acquiesce to my advances, but I'm certain that she only did so when her nightly excursions had been fruitless. I've known she's been unfaithful for some time. At first I was crushed. Then I faced feelings of inadequacy, for like any man I didn't want to think that I couldn't satisfy my own wife.

Over time I had to accept the fact that she was either insatiable or quite simply didn't want to be the carnal object of just one man. Since, I have become a successful author, my last two novels becoming best sellers. Now commanding sizable advances on my future works, the money has been rolling in and as such we have been able to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

The access to those circles elite has only further fueled Eve's infidelities. Because of the whispers and rumors of her indiscretions, I had considered divorce. When I did bring up the topic a few months ago, she went ballistic. It seems that she likes the existing arrangements too much. She told me that she would destroy me and take everything I had. I decided that at this point in my life, I didn't need the grief and the misery that a divorce would inevitably bring. I guess in a masochistic sort of way, our arrangements aren't so bad.

From the surface of the lighter I watched as she pulled the leather miniskirt over her bare lithe legs. She knew I was watching and reveled at the show she was putting on for my benefit. She turned so that she was facing in my direction. The bitch wanted to make sure that I was aware of the fact that she was going out sans underwear. I returned the lighter to the desk; I didn't want to watch anymore.

When she was finished dressing she came over to where I was sitting and spun the chair around. The opalesque skin of her breasts, exposed by the generous cleavage created by the tight vee-necked white blouse she'd chosen to compliment her miniskirt and high heels was mere inches from my face. She held that pose for a few seconds before she bent forward and kissed me hard on the lips. When she pulled away she noticed my aroused state and giggled.

When the door closed behind her, I lowered my head and rested it in my hands. Many times I had thought about trying to stop her. Many times I had wanted to beg her not to go, to stay with me. I could never bring myself to do so. She would've only thought me a sniveling jealous husband.

Then there were those times that I thought about placing my hands around her beautiful neck and squeezing ... and squeezing until she could leave no more. No, I didn't have it in me to harm her, much less to kill her. On the other hand, I did find myself silently wishing that something would happen to her, but at the hands of another. Those thoughts, in the end, always left me riddled with guilt.

I turned my laptop off and closed the lid. I knew I couldn't write anymore tonight. I couldn't stay there - not tonight. I had to get out of there, if only for an hour or two.


III

I made it no further than the hotel lounge. What the hell, I thought, why waste valuable drinking time looking for a place to drink when I didn't even have to leave the premises? The lounge was a dark subterranean hideaway that belied the fact it was part of a luxury hotel complex.

I chose a barstool that offered the greatest distance from the nearest denizen. I nodded as the bartender placed the glass of amber liquid on the napkin before me. There is a certain comfort level when a bartender begins pouring your drink when he sees you walking through the door. I had been there often enough for that perk, but I was not a regular. He didn't know my name, and I intended to maintain that arrangement.

The bartender let out a sudden low whistle. I turned to follow his gaze in the direction of the lounge entrance. It was her! I froze as the vision of sensual perfection strolled in as if on the runway of a fashion show. A hush had fallen over the place, as if her presence alone had stilled every conversation. I never realized until that moment just how deafening absolute silence could be.

She appeared to be looking for someone. Her eyes seemed to come to rest upon one point in the room, a point somewhere beyond where I was seated. To my chagrin I felt a pang of jealousy. How lucky the man she was seeking! She was decked out in a red strapless ankle-length dress, slit almost to her hip. Defying gravity, it seemed that the dress was held in place solely by her half-covered breasts.

Her head turned slightly in my direction. Those green hypnotic eyes met mine long enough for one long-lashed eye to wink as a statement of recognition. Then just as abruptly, she moved in the direction where her eyes had focused only moments before. I didn't follow her course. I didn't want to see the face of the man she was meeting.

Scarcely five minutes had passed when the bartender walked over and placed a fresh drink in front of me. Puzzled, I opened my mouth to say that I hadn't ordered another drink, but he raised his hand. "The drink is from the lady in the back, sir," he said motioning to the back of the room. Then he said in a barely audible whisper, "Lucky bastard!"

I turned and again I found myself looking upon her. God couldn't have created a lovelier, more perfect creature. She was surely His masterpiece. In a slow but provacative motion she crossed her longs legs and raised her glass as an inviting salute in my direction.

Considering the state of my marriage, Lord knows I would be forgiven any thoughts or actions of infidelity. I cursed myself. It was quite presumptuous of myself to think that joining that woman could possibly lead to anything more than innocent conversation. Inasmuch, it was exactly what I wanted and what I needed.

I finished my first drink, picked up the one she had sent me, and rose from the stool. With a contrived swagger I walked to the back of the lounge, not once allowing my eyes to break contact with hers.

(To be continued ... HERE Friday, 8/10/07.)

No.1066

6 comments:

Jack K. said...

The girl from Ipanema is the song Maryann and I have chosen as our special song. It was playing when we first met. It still brings back carnal and other pleasant thoughts.

Now to get back and finish reading this post.

Jack K. said...

I just finished reading the entire posting. When I read the next issue, I will be listening to the song that inspired it. ttfn

Cheri said...

Oh my....such a long wait to read the rest of the post. Excellent writing, you pulled me, I wanted more!! XOXO

Peter said...

A very good start Mike.

Serena Joy said...

The Girl From Ipanema can still inspire, huh? It's a good story, Mike.

jipzeecab said...

Your writing is very "Spillanesque" (as in Mickey) when you describe the women.
Can't wait for the next installment!