I rode the elevator up to the 10th floor, and when I opened door 1018, I was greeted by beautiful ocean views out of the wall of windows. The cool dry air was a wonderful compliment to the thick stack of pristine, crisp white pillows atop a puffy white down comforter. There was a large flat screen tv next to the abundant supply of Starbucks coffee (huge bonus for me, as I am an admitted Starbucks junkie). The fabulous room service menu was placed thoughtfully on top of the desk. It was modern and chic, such a stark contrast to the hotel of piss I stood in just a few short hours ago.
I settled in and called Jen, informing her that my next blog entry had just written itself, and we had a solid laugh over it all. We made plans to meet on the beach the next morning to hang out before her party.
I hopped in the shower in order to wash off the smells of sweaty beach, humid piss, and Haitian halitosis. I threw on a sundress and headed down to the awesome looking Mexican restaurant to dine al fresco Oceanside. Some people may have a problem dining alone, but I have always loved it. I got a great table, ordered a Pellegrino and table made guacamole and settled into the second half of “The Lies Chelsea Told Me” by my hero, the evil genius Chelsea Handler. I kicked my feet up on the chair beside me and laughed out loud, spraying guacamole and chip residue into the sunlight beams on the patio. Families and couples glanced over at me with puzzled expressions, wondering if I was retarded.
After my delightful hour and a half of noshing and reading, I paid my bill and headed out for a sunset stroll along the beach. I lit a cigarette, and halfway down to the water I yawned, thought of the puffy white comforter and the arctic room that I had set to the temperature of a meat locker.
I turned around, got to my room, made a cup of deliciously strong Starbucks coffee, filled out my room service breakfast card for the door, crawled under the weight of the white down comforter and watched the sunset from bed. I think I was asleep by 9.
7:30 am a beautiful black man, the color of mahogany delivers my large pot of coffee and yogurt and granola parfait with all of it’s lovely accoutrements. I lay in bed feeling incredibly grateful and relaxed. Although I miss my kids terribly, I know this is a rare occurrence that I need to milk the shit out of. So milk away I did.
I called Jen at 10 from the beach to tall her where I was. On the private beach in front of the hotel, under a cobalt blue umbrella, front and center on my comfy lounge chair. I sat back and began to write, I had to finish my roast for her party that night and I did not want it to suck.
Just then, a most lovely gentleman walked up to me and asked if I would like a massage? OK, he was really incredibly beautiful. Like, incredibly. I think I blushed. I told him I had been thinking of getting one while I was here and asked if he had a card. Oh no, he informed me, right here on the beach! I am very rarely tongue-tied, and I was tongue-tied. I felt like a gigantic idiot. He said it was $40 for 40 minutes, and I was all…”Oh, haha, I don’t know…” The two older heavyset women behind me, who were clearly from Jersey, said “Do it Hon! He’s the best! You’ll love it! You gotta do it!” Then he went so far as to start rubbing my feet and at that point I was putty in his hand.
So right there, in front of every beach patron, I flipped over on my stomach. He untied my top and slathered on the lotion. I was really uncomfortable and I felt like I was on stage, and I kind of was where I was sitting. But slowly I started to relax. Fuck it, Jersey City was right, it was one of the best massages I have ever had. He gave me 60 minutes instead of 40 too.
Then, you know that weird mental state you’re in after a massage? Like all dreamy and tired and slightly euphoric? I kind of felt like a greased up whore sitting there after it was over. Fuck it, I paid the man, flipped over onto my back and promptly fell asleep.
Jen and her sister-in-law Amy joined me on the beach. I’ll tell you what, I have pretty big boobs, but I feel like an A Cup next to these two. No boob jobs here, just natural robust titties that turn heads like a retard with a pair of pom-poms.
I first met Jen when she was the tender age of 18. It was our freshman year of college at Ringling School of Art & Design in Sarasota, Fl. Here was this gorgeous girl with a stunning smile, beautiful long hair, little sponge bob legs that came straight out of her torso, and breasts that appeared to be full term with what I presumed to be a 9 ½ pound baby in each.
She was such a bubbly little southern bell of seeming perfection. She was all “ha ha I’m Jen Swartzwelder, I’m so cute I’m a great drawer and my boyfriend is Andy and he doesn’t like me to do anything without him and I wear a size 12 slim jean from the junior section and my smile is a perfect caricature of Elizabeth Hurley but better ha ha ha ha…”
But then one night, me and my spiral perm were at a party, and there was Jen in a group of people across the yard. She was all perfect and laughing as usual, and then I watched her take a sip of her beer and let out such a loud and uncensored belch that even over the music people turned to find the source. I’m not kidding, that shit was loud and atrocious. But she just did a weird little kind of lucky charms shuffle, patted her enormous chest and kept right on talking.
It was love at first sight.
We spent an hour or so in the ocean chatting and laughing, with our built-in bobbers. It was hot as hell so we decided to head up to the pool bar for some shade and some lunch. We found 3 shaded stools at the open air bar and ordered some drinks. They each had a beer, and me, being a recovering alcoholic, ordered a club soda with lemon. It cost just as much as if it had Vodka in it. Whateves. I proceeded to have the best, and I mean BEST grouper sandwich I have ever had. I simply cannot be in Florida and not have a grouper sandwich. I even took a picture of it, like a dork.
We sat and caught up on each others lives, peppered with much laughter as usual. Jen is the kind of girl who has always gotten drunk off of 2 beers. She would occasionally get wild and order a buttery nipple shot and get wasted! Whoo Hoo! I never understood her in that way. She’d have 2 beers to my 10 vodka soda’s and have the spins while I was just grabbing my purse to head out the door. Ah yes, alcoholic.
She had 2 beers so I told her to take it easy as she had a party to attend at 7. We said goodbye and I headed back to my room to finish writing my roast.
to be continued…