Whatever It Takes Pt. 02 - Monday

My defining characteristic may be my optimism. I have always had faith in myself - that no matter what, I can and will succeed and that things will work out just fine in the end. At times, I can be so upbeat that others may find me down right sappy. My Dad taught me and I believe firmly that, if you work hard enough at anything, you will accomplish it. If you think you may lose, then you will lose. To me, only good things can happen if you follow your dreams. Also, when I fuck up, I fix it and do not blame my errors on others.

Even the law favored what I did. Given the laws against 'sexual harassment' in the workplace in the United States, no male would ever touch me or make an inappropriate offer. They would be afraid I would get an attorney, demand hundreds of thousands of dollars, and ruin their careers and/or their marriages. The law emasculated them so I could tease and use without fear of reprisal. It worked well in the States which is all I cared about. The fact that in other cultures, like Jamaica, that women did not enjoy the protection of the law or the current social mores, never really concerned me - if the thought even occurred to me at all.

I never went so far as to trade sex for favors. But I did have one sorority sister that did. Sharon Fields was really beautiful - green eyes, throaty voice, and big boobs. She wanted to be an actress and went the Hollywood route. For Sharon, sex has never really meant nothing more than another transaction. The act was devoid of human commitment. A blow job or a full-fledged fuck the equivalent of a handshake, a letter of introduction, whatever. As an undergraduate, she had sex like another body function, something from which you sometimes derived pleasure, but no big deal, take it or leave it. The last time I met her was at a reunion where she drank heavily even among the heavy drinkers. Very late one night, she described what she had to do to 'succeed' in the flesh market of the movies.

"Elaine, you do not know how many guys that I have had to make it with. Sometimes it is just a hand job, but most of the time it is fucking, one or two at a time. Coupling, plain fucking, riding astride, sixty-nine orally or anally, Greek - a euphemism for anal sex , rear entry doggie style, side-by-side, standing, in public, in pools, married or single, whatever it takes. I call it the concubine circus. I do it with class, with distinction and with style. Guess what - I am successful. Several parts last year, and I am in contention for a couple of big ones this year. Think of it - me a star. You will have to come visit me in Hollywood. Hell, with your looks - plus fucking a dozen men and maybe one or two women - you might be a star." She laughed as she said the part about me being a success in here chosen field. I never did go to visit her...and I never did see her in the movies.

Around 1:00 pm a pool boy showed up with a drink I did not order. He told me it was a "special" pina colada from Mack, the bartender. The boy added that Mack asked that I swing by the hotel bar and say hello when I was finished at the pool. The drink he sent was big and full of rum and the usual mix of pineapple juice and coconut milk. I couldn't taste the liquor; the fruit taste overwhelmed the sense of alcohol.

As much as I love to tan, I get bored sitting under the sun alone for a long period of time, so around 1:30 I decided to go to the hotel bar have a snack and a drink. It was my first time alone in that bar, but I didn't care because I already knew Mack - or thought I did.

"Hey, Mack, thanks for the drink."

"My pleasure," he responded. "How about another? My treat."

"I'll take it, but put it on our room bill." I was the independent type that did not want to owe anyone a favor. Besides, I thought he might be flirting, and I wanted to kill that right away. He was nice - but not that nice - and nothing but a bartender.

He suggested a daiquiri which I accepted. It could have been 180 proof for all I knew because all I could taste was strawberry with a trace of cherry due to the fruit floating in the drink.

"How is your day going?" he asked. I noticed his glance would occasionally go to my chest. It was humorous. Men and mammary glands. I sometimes thought that you could rule the planet with the right size tits.

As I was finishing my drink, Mack brought me another strawberry daiquiri and said the gentleman at a table in an alcove in the back of the bar wanted to buy me a drink. I hesitated and wasn't sure whether I should accept or not. I was feeling tired from the alcohol and the sun, but Mack suggested I take it, turn around and thank the guy for the drink. So I accepted, turned around, and nodded at my admirer. He was a Jamaican, around 40 years old, salt and pepper hair, clean cut, and damn good looking. I continued to drink and chat with Mack. As I was done with that drink, Mack put another daiquiri in front of me and told me the same guy wanted to buy me another one.

"Why not take it? This guy comes here a lot. He does a lot of business in New York, I believe. It might be a good contact for you."

I think, at this point Mack suggested that I should go and thank the man. I was bored - conversation with a bar tender can only go so far. I was ready to go up to the room and take a nap. Without really giving it much thought, I responded to Mack's suggestion and went over to the man's table on my way out of the bar and up to my room. When I walked up to his table to thank him, I saw that he was quite handsome.

"Thank you for the drink," I said.

"My pleasure! I always feel honored to buy a lady a drink, especially one so beautiful as you. By the way, my name is Michael. Where in the States are you from?

"New York City. But I was born in the Midwest."

"Chicago? I've spent a lot of time there on business over the years."

"I went to school in Chicago."

"Well between New York and Chicago, we have a lot to talk about. Sit down and let me buy you another drink. This is Jamaica. There is absolutely no reason to hurry anywhere to do any thing."

Michael was black and large. I'm 165 pounds (including the weight I had yet to lose due to my nine month pregnancy) which is not dainty for a woman, but he dwarfed me. When he stood up to greet me, he had a good six to eight inches on me and weighed in at maybe 260 to 270 pounds. He moved like an athlete and looked like he was in shape, the kind of guy who works out three times a week. Michael clearly conveyed a sense of his own physical power - women sense that kind of thing.

Normally, I would have kept going to my room. But for some reason, I sat down at his table. We started talking, he told me he was an island businessman, with business in NY, and, as a frequent visitor to "the Big Apple," he knew all about NY museums, restaurants, clubs and nightspots. He mentioned the play, Proof, which I had just had a re-run on Broadway. The story concerned a young woman that developed the proof to a complex mathematical theorem. But no one believed that she did it because she was young and female in a man's profession. I remember that Michael understood the message and was sensitive to the woman-in-a-masculine-world problem.

Then we started comparing restaurants in Chicago, and he talked about the Chicago Museum of Art, one of my favorite 'quiet places" where I would go when I was stressed out during my years at Northwestern. Michael was a very interesting person to talk to, well traveled it seemed. That much I remembered. Because of what happened later, the drinks and the drugs, I do not remember anything else about which we spoke in that bar.

But pretty soon the conversation didn't really matter anymore because we were more involved in drinking then talking. I was having a great time - Michael was easy to talk to and Mack kept the drinks flowing. I wore a thin wrap over my thong suit, and I caught Michael looking down the front at my semi-clad tits every once in a while. Given the alcohol, the conversation, an absent husband, Michael's good looks, the exotic island setting, and boredom, I did not mind, and I suspected that Michael knew that I did not really care.

The drinks really began to hit me, more than they should have. There were a couple of drinks at the pool, including Mack's 'special,' and maybe three or so here in the bar. I felt myself getting higher and higher. The effect was that I had this vision as if I was floating on the ceiling of the bar, looking down on myself laughing and carrying on with this black stranger. On occasion, Mack would come in and out of the picture as he ferried drinks over from the bar. I could feel myself being detached from the situation, an effect similar to when they gave me a mild pain suppressant when I went into a prolonged labor period waiting for the birth of our baby.

I did not have a sense of loss of control. I did feel hot and flushed. I began to slow down the drinking and waited for the effects to wear off. The next thing I noticed that people and things around me began to shrink. I felt huge while Michael and Mack looked like dwarfs. It struck me as funny so I laughed out loud. I saw Michael's dwarf head look at me funny so I laughed again. The bar was nearly empty so there was no one to care about the near-drunk American blonde tourist with the distinguished black gentleman.

About that time, I think Michael told me he was going to some friend's house for a traditional island end-of-day cocktail party. I know I had a silly grin on my face as I listened to him and sort of understood what he was saying. There was a buzzing in my head, like the angry hum of thousands of bees. I thought I might be dreaming as I heard him ask me to leave with him. He wondered if I would be interested in going with him to meet some business people from the island.

I don't think I ever really did formally accept his offer. Michael just smiled at me like I did, and maybe I did. I can not remember. I also did not remember the admonition from both my husband and Heather not to leave the hotel grounds. Somehow it came in to my head that it would be fun to meet people and to party.

Michael signaled Mack, and the bartender came over. My mind was slipping in and out of reality as the two talked.

"Elaine and I are going to somewhere else. Let's close out the bill."

Mack waved his hand in front of my face, the usual action taken to see if a person's eyes could focus. I apparently failed the test - sitting there drunk with a thousand yard stare on my face. Mack told Michael, "She's out of it." Mack then reached into the front of my bathing suite, pushed the cup on my left breast aside, and lifted my breast like he was examining a piece of meat. It all seemed to happen in slow motion...like your PC when the office network is congested and every screen change seems to take minutes.

"Not here, Mack," Michael said with an authoritative tone. "Later then," said Mack as he pulled on my nipple, looked me in the eye as if to say 'do-something-about-it-if-you-can,' and then pulled the bikini cup back up. It was a testimony to how far gone I was that I smile through the whole exchange like it was normal for a near-stranger to fondle me in public. In fact, my mind was processing information so slowly that I wasn't even sure whether I dreamed it or Mack actually pawed me.

When I told Michael that I needed to change in my room, he said I could go as I am because there was a swimming pool at the house with the party. Given my suit left me almost naked, it became important to me to change. As only a drunk can do, I locked on changing as important, and I sensed Michael wanted no public fuss. As we exited the bar, Mack told us to "have fun" and "see you later" with a big smirk on his face.

In my room, I put on a white tank top sans bra and a blue denim miniskirt leaving my thong suit in place to serve as panties. For some reason Michael accompanied me to my room even though I could not remember asking him. While I got out of the suit and dressed, I sensed him looking into the bedroom watching me like Michael Douglas did with Sharon Stone in the classic scene from Basic Instinct. Maybe he did watch; maybe he did not. I was so far gone that I could not tell the difference between illusion and reality.

Going down in the elevator, I got increasingly dizzy and had to lean on Michael to keep my balance. Michael and I went through the lobby. I felt good when half the men in the lobby stared at my big boobs in the tank top. Then I realized that my blood red aerolas showed through the white material of the tank top.

"Easy, Elaine, let's not draw a lot of attention. We just want to party."

"Party on!" is all I said with a wiggle of my hips. Had he not propelled me though the lobby, I would most likely have sat down and dozed off in a lobby chair. As Michael steadied me through the lobby with his right arm around my waist, I noticed he "copped a feel" or two or three of my right breast. I was so far in la-la land that I did not raise an objection or brush his hand away. In the parking lot, he had a chauffeur driven stretch limo that was waiting outside, and we got in the back and took off.

Michael offered me a drink from the limo bar, but I had enough sense to decline. We both sat on the back seat, facing the driver. I was on the driver side and could see out to sea as we headed east on route A1.

There were craters in the road. Our driver would swerve left then right to avoid the potholes. Every once in a while we would hit one, and it felt like the car had contracted terminal wheel wobble. Drivers were tailgating us and we them. Angry minivans came up behind us, so close that you would swear that they were going to drive into the back seat. It hit my alcohol-fogged brain that, outside of the tourist areas, Jamaica was primitive and dangerous. I remember feeling both repulsed and attracted, both at once.

Reality kept coming in and out of focus. At one point I must have dozed off. When consciousness returned, Michael had put hiked my skirt up and was rubbing my crotch. Regaining some modicum of control, I used my right hand to hold his left hand about three inches above my knee. The driver watched us wrestle through the rear view mirror and had a big grin on his face. Michael and I must have talked, but I do not remember about what.

The ride lasted about 25 minutes - or at least I think it did. We ended up in front of a big house. The house was down the road from a tourist attraction that had buses out front and a sign that marked it as the Rawlins Great House, part of the British plantation legacy, I assumed.

There were a number of cars in the parking lot. I remember that the house was covered in flowers - hibiscus, camellia, and bougainvillea. The tropical sun, the alcohol, and the brilliant floral colors all combined to overwhelm my senses, and I staggered as I saw nothing but blinding colors, like a kaleidoscope. Michael had to support me as he guided me across the parking lot and into the building.

We walked in to a huge room where there were about 40 to 45 people, mostly couples. The crowd seemed to be mostly locals, some black business types and the rest white expatriates doing business for their home country companies. Some female tourists seemed to be there. The men were a mix of blacks and whites, some young and some old. There was a lot of alcohol in evidence and folks seemed somewhat smashed.

Michael introduced me to the host (Patrick), and went to get us drinks while I talked to Patrick who spent the whole time looking me over like I was a piece of meat. He gave me the creeps with his open stares and undisguised interest in my breasts.

"You are a gorgeous woman, Elaine."

"Cut the bull shit...Patrick was the name, right?" I said it my most condescending tone, something I had picked up over the years as a defense against being hit upon. I also lifted my left hand to show my wedding ring.

I could see him react to my tone. He smile and sipped his drink, a very controlled response and the sign of someone not easy to goad. Also, I sensed that he was sober and only gave the appearance of drinking. I wondered if his drink, in all appearances a gin and tonic, was more or all tonic and little or no gin.

"I deserved that," he said without meaning it. "How do you like Jamaica? Have you gotten outside the Half Moon complex?"

It did not dawn on me at that time that he knew in which hotel I was a guest. "My husband and I have just been relaxing at the hotel and its beaches."

"Where is your husband? I thought you came with Michael." He was playing with me, and, and I sort of knew it in a fuzzy ill-defined way. Before my alcohol-befuddled mind could think of a response, Michael returned with my drink. Upon spoken mutual agreement, Patrick and I broke off our verbal sparring, and he greeted some arriving guests.

As requested, mine was two fingers of Jack Daniels on the rocks. You can only drink those sweet island drinks so long. Patrick suggested that Michael introduce me to some of the guests.

Michael waltzed me around the room. There followed lots of "nice to meet you" comments as Michael steered me from group to group, always holding tight to my left arm. I could not remember the names which was uncharacteristic of me. I got the impression that they thought I was an air head blonde slut, the trophy of the black stud that was holding me up and steering me. Michael was clearly known and popular. I was the outsider, as were several of the tourists, all of whom where female and many of whom gave off an 'I am available' signal. It did not dawn on me that I probably gave off a similar sign.

I heard a voice say, "Elaine, what are you doing here?" I did not recognize her at first. I only wanted to forget the Friday night experience with customs at the airport so I even suppressed the name of the girl whom I met on the flight down. "I'm Camille...Camille Williams. We met Friday night on the flight down from New York." Before I could react, she crossed the two paces that separated us and gave me a girl kiss on the cheek. She also gave Michael a kiss, but that one was on the lips and more intimate.

"Hello, Michael, where did you two hook up?"

"At the hotel. Mack introduced us, and I thought it would be good for her to meet some of the people from the island, not just tourists."

She smiled and turned back to me. She looked gorgeous with an elegant, but simple, minidress that was low cut, but not trashy. The dress had split sleeves so it was both long sleeved and appropriate for the tropics. Her breasts were loose under the dress, probably only a B cup so she could do it without flapping udders like my DDs. The dress was snow white against her coal black skin. I felt underdressed and frowzy. Also, I had had so much to drink that keeping her in focus was an effort. I can not remember if I remembered my suspicion that she betrayed me at the airport.

"How are you enjoying your stay here?"

I mumbled something that I hoped sounded intelligent. Then Michael intervened and moved me over to a sofa in a corner. I looked over my shoulder at Camille. She smiled and waved, just as she had at the airport.

We sat in the far corner of the room then he asked if I wanted to smoke some "Jamaican weed." I never said either yes or no. I just stared into space trying to focus on the crowd, trying to regain control of a situation that was now way, way out of control

I did not refuse it when Michael handed me the lit joint. It seemed I had no control - just this constant sense of being there and not being there all at the same time. I smoked marijuana on occasion in my teenage years through college, but had smoked any in almost ten years. Marijuana always hit me hard, and it was absolutely the wrong thing to combine with too much alcohol and too much sun. After a couple of puffs on the joint, I was like a rag doll, just leaning over on Michael who put his arm around me and began to openly fondle my right breast through the tank top. I had this alcohol-induced humorous vision of him squeezing the nipple and getting a handful of milk since I had not drained my breasts yet today. I still had this strange floating sensation, a dream in which I was a giant and the others mere pygmies.