Whatever It Takes Pt. 02 - Monday

This is another part of the story of a beautiful American businesswoman (Elaine) who comes to Jamaica to relax and eventually ends up working in an island whorehouse to pay off a debt. The story began when her husband, Paul, and she arrived on the weekend to relax and enjoy some time together before Paul has to leave on a business trip visiting several of the Caribbean islands. While he is gone, Elaine intends to relax and enjoy the sea, sun, and surf. Paul will be gone for a week, during which time Elaine will be on her own on an island that is known for its beauty, violent crime, and brutal treatment of women.

WHATEVER IT TAKES:

WORKING OUT A DEBT IN JAMICA

MONDAY

Til It Happens to You

You tell me hold your head up
Hold your head up and be strong
'Cause when you fall, you gotta get up
You gotta get up and move on

Tell me, how the hell could you talk
How could you talk?
'Cause until you walk where I walk
It's just all talk

'Til it happens to you, you don't know
How it feels
How it feels
'Til it happens to you, you won't know
It won't be real (how could you know?)
No it won't be real (how could you know?)
Won't know how I feel

'Til your world burns and crashes
'Til you're at the end, the end of your rope
'Til you're standing in my shoes, I don't wanna hear nothing from you
From you, from you, 'cause you don't know

'Til it happens to you, you don't know
How I feel...

Written by Stefani Germanotta and Diane Warren; recorded and popularized by Lady Gaga

The day I was drugged, roughed up, and gang raped changed my life forever. It was my own fault. I was stubborn and confident that I could handle any situation. I was wrong. Was I ever wrong!

All major events are the result of many small minor decisions and circumstances. Maybe what happened to me would not have happened if Paul, my husband, had not tried to sodomize me on the public beach last night (Sunday). But then, maybe it would not have happened if I had let him. In any case, Monday started badly and got worse and worse.

The next morning I was still angry with Paul. He knew it and appeared not to care. He uttered not one word of reconciliation. The situation was tense, and he made it worse.

Paul was to take off on Monday and return late Friday night. Before he left, he gave me a 20 minute lecture on why a lone attractive blond North American female tourist could be at risk in Jamaica. He had done some homework on the Internet and began to quote from a New York Times electronic edition how it was an "island of crime" where murder and rape ran rampant. The island's Prime Minister described the situation as "criminal madness" and "a national challenge of unprecedented proportions." Apparently the capital city, Kingston, had army troops patrolling at night because the police could not, or would not, suppress the violence. Even several high profile Jamaicans, including an 80 year old woman that had been an activist for independence from the British, had been killed in a cross fire.

"If it is so dangerous here, why did you bring me? This was your idea!"

He ignored me and continued to read aloud the details of a specific incident in which three young French female tourists got lost, were ripped from their car, held against their will for three days in some shanty, and forced to have sex with up to 50 men each. According to the article, these unfortunate women were "bound to mattresses, raped and sodomized repeatedly." When I heard the word "sodomized," I remembered last night, and my anger increased.

Paul kept lecturing me and that made my back go up even more. He told me that the tourists were found only when word reached the police that the kidnappers had begun to market sex with these women to the surrounding shanty neighborhood for the equivalent of less than $2 U.S. When the police and army arrived, there was a block long line of men who had paid the kidnappers to be "serviced" by the captive women.

Although I would not give my husband the satisfaction of letting him know, the story of the French women scared me and brought goose pimples to my neck. I had this flash vision of them shuddering in absolute fear, men relentlessly moving through the line, while the three pleaded for mercy and got none. Then the three dragged onto and tied down to a soiled mattress. Loathsome, filthy, shanty-dwellers pumping sperm into them while the women knew that that there was a whole line of men still to be accommodated. In my mind I had a vision of this line of men jeering and cheering as one after another as they gang-raped the tourists, sometimes simultaneously two or three on one captive. The women were forced to spread open with black men taking turns, ravaging them orally, anally, and vaginally. I did not see how the victims could ever recover mentally or physically. I became slightly nauseous at the mental image that I had created.

Then, without reason, I became even angrier at him for bringing the whole sordid story to my attention. It was insulting that he thought that I was so stupid that I would get myself into that kind of trouble. I firmly believed that after living in New York City for years that I could anticipate and avoid all problems on the street.

My rejoinder to Paul was that our hotel was in the tourist enclave at Montego Bay which was 70 miles northwest of Kingston. Furthermore, I pointed out that newspapers exaggerated for the purpose of selling their product so we could assume that the situation was less serious than the Times article implied. I continued with my usual aggrieved tone that: (1) he was treating me as a child; (2) I was confident that I could control any situation; (3) I was a graduate of one of the best business schools in the country and worked in a high stress deal environment every day; and (4) he was a chauvinist at heart. I also resolved silently then to do whatever I damn well pleased but had no intention of leaving the Montego Bay enclave.

By 8:00 am, Paul was gone I was too angry to sleep so I went out on my usual beach run and returned to work out in the resort gym that, as usual, was full of beach bums and beach bunnies, showing off to each other like animals performing a mating ritual. I enjoyed the gym attention I received because I needed some positive reinforcement as I worked to shed the weight that I gained during pregnancy. Some of my low bends and holds were orchestrated to draw male attention as my spandex pants pulled tight across my ass and my sports bra drooped to allow some flash of my DD breasts.

I ran through my usual conditioning drill, using weights, machines, and mats. I ended with my yoga exercises, the last one of which I always thought of as a sexual invitation. This is the Standing Straddle Forward Bend in which the yoga practitioner stands with legs pushed apart forming an A with her body. Then she lowers her upper body from the waist, grasping the soles of her bare feet while putting her elbows outside her knees, and bringing her chest and head upside down and as near to her legs as possible. I always try to end this exercise with my butt to the largest collection of male studs in the gym, my head upside down but following the line of my butt, and a huge 'come get me boys' grin on my face I usually imagine this position with a male partner behind me penetrating slowly straight into my vagina...maybe from now on into my ass hole since my husband has discovered a need for anal sex.

By 11 o'clock I was in a chaise and I was tanning by myself in my thong bikini that left nothing to the imagination. I bought it on a dare from one of my girl friends with whom I went shopping a lot in the boutiques on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Since I did not know anyone, I did not care that I was mostly naked by the pool. I had only a tiny sliver of cloth between my ass cheeks expanding to maybe three inches on the front side that covered my crotch but showed some blonde peace fuzz remnant of my "Brazilian bikini wax."

Since this week was my last opportunity to get a tan before going back to work, I wanted to absorb as much as I could of the tropical sun. I considered going topless, but I remained too much the American prude. Yesterday, topless on the beach was as near to naked as I wanted to get in public.

From where I was lying on my chaise lounge, I had a good vantage point to survey just how much female skin was exposed around the pool. One group of three looked French - dark hair, slim bodies, small boobs tanned all over. One of the three had pulled off the bottom of her bikini and lay there nude, seeming oblivious to the stares of the men at the pool. Four chaises away two Hispanic women, maybe my age, shorter and darker than the French but with larger breasts with erect nipples in the middle of dark areolas. The way the two acted - putting lotion on each other, both front and back - gave the impression they were lovers. The final group was another threesome, probably Scandinavians - blond, gorgeous, big breasted, and topless. One of the blondes even had a bareback bikini bottom - a conservative bottom with a short skirt until she rolled over and the back was just a mini-thong running between the cheeks of her ass.

Somehow with Paul gone, the fun of exhibitionism was gone. Consequently, topless was further than I planned to go, but I did lay on my back, untied the bikini straps, and sort of draped the cups over my breasts, trying to cover the nipples but eliminate the tan line for the rest of the breasts - reducing my top to no more than eye patches on my areolas. . This was enough to attract some male attention at the pool - maybe a near naked woman was more exciting to the male animal than a completely nude female. The Jamaican waiters were very attentive, constantly coming over to ask if I wanted something from the bar - and stare at my boobs while they did it. Once again, being only three months out of a pregnancy and having worked hard since the birth to regain my figure, I welcomed the response from the men at the pool. Once when I rearranged the suit, my left nipple was exposed briefly. I thought three guys, including the waiter bringing me lemonade, were about to fall into the pool. I kept my head in a book which served to discourage casual pool-side conversations. I just got mellow sipping two pina coladas the alcoholic island concoctions that taste so good but can put you on your ear if you are not careful.

I even brought the breast pump in my beach bag. I thought, if I was uncomfortable, I would drape a towel across my chest and then pump away. Given the amount of exposed flesh all around the pool, I probably wouldn't even have had to use the towel.

About ten o'clock Heather MacDonald came onto the pool deck dressed in business attire which was substantially more clothing than I had ever see her war. Yesterday was a girl-bonding day for us - she taught me how to give a damn good blow job (using Paul as an instructional aid), led us through a herd of paparazzi who took endlessly photos of us topless, brought me to orgasm several times with her mouth and fingers, and led the two of us to physically take out three college assholes who thought they could blackmail and rape us. It was quite a Sunday!!

"I have been looking for you," she said in a quiet voice. "I have to run over to Miami to see my father. He is getting antsy to hear my insights into why year-after-year this place does not make any money. That is a question to which I do not have a definitive answer, but I am confident that there is substantial skimming here, including padded payrolls and diversion of supplies to retailers here on Jamaica I suspect that there is even more going on but I do not have a handle on the details yet."

"How long will you be gone? I am hoping that we can spend some time together and get to know one another even better." I slowly brushed my tongue around my lips then, pantomiming a woman performing oral sex on another woman. Heather smiled when she caught my meaning.

"Elaine, you have given me an incentive to get back as soon as possible." She hesitated, then continued, "But I doubt that I can be here sooner than Thursday midday. Maybe not even until Friday. I do want to spend time with my Dad, as well as peruse some of the older financials for this place. I just know that somewhere buried in the small print or an obscure footnote will be that one piece of information that will provide a crucial clue as to what is really going on at this resort."

"You will be missed," I said.

"Cannot be helped. Worse case is that I get to New York several times a year so maybe we can hook up there." She smiled and mimicked what I had done, the slow running of her tongue across her top and bottom lips with her mouth opened in an "O". Great minds think alike.

The she added, "Be very careful. For no reason leave the resort compound. Jamaica can be a very dangerous place - especially for an American woman alone. Also remember that those three assholes from yesterday may try to take a run at you, even here on the grounds. Just be careful!"

As a final word of caution, she added, "Be careful what you drink. Rape drugs are rampant on Jamaica. There is the potential for an employee or a guest to slip one into your drink and then an hour later he and four friends will be fucking your brains out and walking you through six or eight pages of the Kama Sutra, none of which you will remember when you begin to come back to earth and try to figure out why you are leaking cum from every orifice."

"Rape drugs? As in date rape?"

She shook her head in the affirmative. She continued, "I am no pharmacist. But my understanding is that the main drugs used have street names like Roofies, also known as Mexican Valium, GBH nicknamed 'Grievous Bodily Harm', and Ketamine or Special K. They all act to calm you down, block memory, raise your pain threshold, and, most importantly, increase susceptibility to follow commands. That last point is most important because if the rape is photographed or put on video, the victim will most likely appear to be a willing participant."

"Do not worry. I got this covered. Here I intend to sit during the day and may even do room service at night. I will stay with the crowd even on the grounds and not leave the resort under any circumstances."

"One last caution. Alcohol is also a drug. It can have nearly the same eefects as rape drugs and is often used to increase and mask the taste of rape drugs."

On that closing admonition, she smiled, bent over to plant a gentle kiss on my lips, then very adroitly pulled my untied bikini top off me and tossed it in the pool. I shrieked, and she laughed as she walked away. Having no choice, with 36DD's bouncing I dove into the pool and retrieved my top as it slowly drifted down and towards the deep end. As I broke water coming away, mild applause rippled through the poolside crowd.

Shortly before noon, I took a walk along the beach. I noticed again the video security cameras. They were everywhere - mounted on fences, on light posts, and even on tall posts at surf side. It crossed my mind that the cameras could have picked up Paul and I having sex on the beach last night. I twinge of embarrassment resulted from a vision of a couple of security guys watching us do it as they drank down a couple of beers. Hope they got hard playing voyeur.

As I walked along, I noticed one 70-something tourist-type following me with a Nikon with a long lens. He was probably one of those who put voyeur photos on obscure Internet sites late at night. I resolved to ignore him - at his age he needed whatever kind of thrill he could find. I wasn't trying to make his day, but in retrospect I probably gave him the opportunity for some good "peeper shots." I bent over at the surf's edge with my butt towards him and only the thong between my ass cheeks. I stood in the surf pushing out my 36DDs with nipples erect due to the combined effect of the breeze, the water, and my intent to tease. Then I leaned down to examine an abandoned sand castle so that my tits swung almost free of the bikini with the areolas and nipples occasionally peeking out. Finally, I whipped off my top, put my hands my head and jutted my breasts out right at that camera lens with a big smile on my face. I hope I made his day, sort of a corporal work of mercy - 'Blessed are they who stiffen the dicks of old men, for they will be rewarded with bountiful children and a sex machine for a husband. Amen.'

Playing to that old voyeur, reminded me that I often thought that I had a bit of the exhibitionist in me. I was proud of my body and, truth be known, I liked to show it off - skimpy bathing suits, tight spandex at the gym, shorts and skirts just a little shorter than proper. The all time peak of my exhibitionism occurred in my senior year of college - Mardi Gras in New Orleans with five of my sorority sisters.

There is a tradition buried in antiquity that in New Orleans in general and during Mardi Gras in particular women of all ages and shapes bared their breasts - and sometimes their butts and crotches - in return for strings of beads. [Don't ask; it doesn't make sense but it happens.] All over Bourbon Street females of all types - hard-faced biker chicks, punk rock types, matrons, well-dressed twentysomethings and thirtysomethings, and college coeds - expose themselves for these beads. The atmosphere is contagious, the police permissive, and the beer and rum drinks almost free. It sure hooked me. I spent four days 'flashing' my D cup breasts up and down Bourbon Street.

On the first two days, I wore a Northwestern sweat shirt and only occasionally would flash, pushing the bra cups out of the way. Half way through the visit, my Chi Omega sisters and I made an alcohol-influenced bet among ourselves as to who could collect the most beads from the crowd. Driven by my usual over achiever desire to win, I went braless for the last two days. On day three (Monday) I put on cut offs and an open weave tank sweater that allowed by nipples to poke through on random occasions. I did well, but ran behind one of my sorority sisters, Gabrielle D'Alemberte, who discovered that she got more beads for dropping her Levis and showing pubic hair and/or her tight butt than for boobs alone. Gabrielle finished day three in first place with the other four and me not-too-close seconds.

The whole experience was amazing. The crowd was 50-50 men and women, and the men - many just teenagers - were high on whatever so when I flashed I would get pinched and groped, some even made an attempt to suck my nipples while I was distracted trying to catch beads. My breasts were black and blue after about eight hours of drinking and flashing and drinking and flashing. The tank sweater was ready for the rag bin what with my hauling it up and down together with all the male hands groping and pulling. In fact, by the end of the day I wore so many beads that I used them to hide my boobs and had the tank sweater up to show them off. That goes to show what the combined impact of alcohol, peer pressure, and mob behavior can do.

Heading into the final day of Mardi Gras in second place, I knew that I had to 'go for the gold' and try something different. I had noticed that those women who were well dressed and had to be 'cajoled' into flashing tended to get more beads. Therefore, on the last day of Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, I wore heals, a red leather skirt with slits up the side of my thighs, and a low-backed stretch silk/nylon/spandex sweater that came up around my neck in the front like a mock turtleneck. I dressed more like I was going out to dinner and a show than to Bourbon Street. I also left my bra in our hotel room but wore red string bikini panties covered with mini-roses.