by Karen Quinn
I spent the rest of the afternoon lolling by the pool in the sizzling heat enjoying Annie, the lone swimmer. She was going down the slide over and over again, laughing and giggling with delight each time. It looked like so much fun that I finally joined her. It was a saltwater pool, which the facialist told me was great for the skin.
After a cool dip, I returned to the chaise lounge, from where I could see that Manny was drinking a Bloody Mary across the pool. I gave him a friendly wave, but he avoided my gaze. Thinking about him and Sydney last night, I wondered why smart, educated people behave like guests on The Jerry Springer Show. Here Sydney had this great fiancé and amazing future ahead of her and she risked it all for what? Manny the manny. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a manny. It’s as respectable as being an airline steward or a male nurse. But Denis King is a five-star catch. I’ve done some pretty dumb things in my life, but playing with the affections of a man as attractive as Denis was something I would never do.
“May I sit?”
I looked up, using my hand to block the sun. There was Denis dressed for a day at the office.
“Of course,” I said.
“Da-deee!” Annie yelled, jumping into his lap, thoroughly soaking him with salt water. “Ha-ha, I got your suit all wet.”
Denis laughed. “That’s all right. It’s drip-dry.”
“Daddy, will you swim with me?”
“Sure,” he said, “but you have to run back to the cabin and get my trunks. Here, take the key.”
“Why’re you so dressed up?” I asked, as Annie skipped off.
“Sydney and I went to Athens today. Her family owns a ten-acre parcel downtown that I’m going to develop. We met with some government ministers.”
“How synergistic,” I muttered, as the horn from the ship sounded. From below, the vague thrumming of engines could be felt.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “So you didn’t get to tour Istanbul?”
“Not this time,” he said. “We’ll have to come back.”
The ship started to move and the voice of Louis Armstrong came over the loudspeaker.
I see trees of green…red roses too…
They always played “It’s a Wonderful World” when we pulled out of a port. It was a lovely ship tradition.
“How’d you get to Athens?”
“My jet. I keep it close by in case I need to get somewhere fast.”
“That’s handy,” I said.
“Waiter,” Denis said. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Lemonade, thanks,” I said.
“Two lemonades,” he said.
“Did you enjoy Istanbul?” Denis asked.
“Loved it,” I lied. “Especially the Topkapi Palace.”
“Here, Dad,” Annie said, holding up a blue swimsuit.
“I’ll go change,” Denis said, standing. “Want to join us?”
“Sure. But where’s Sydney? Doesn’t she like to swim?”
“She’s having a massage. The negotiations in Athens left her all tense.”
That and the fact that seven people saw her screwing Manny the manny last night, I thought.
Peel Me a Grape
ON READING THAT EVENING’STiffany Tattler, I saw that the competition would be fierce among tomorrow’s eleven o’clock activities. Besides attending my provocatively titled lecture, A Peek Inside Panties from Past to Present, passengers could partake in a talent show, cha-cha lessons, a Chagall auction, outdoor yoga, a lecture on Santorini and the Legend of Atlantis, a submarine ride (limit ten), and a cooking class with Enrico Derflingher. I realized I needed to hustle to avoid a repeat of my ill-attended first talk.
In the computer room, the Apple expert slash deckhand slash waiter helped me create a flyer advertising my program. I thought I’d post them throughout the ship, but that seemed lame. I decided to chuck the flyers and make a more dramatic appeal that night.
As passengers enjoyed their dinner, I arrived in the kitchen wearing nothing but my Frette robe. In the rear of the stainless-steel series of rooms, pastry chef Guy Saint Martin gestured for me to make myself comfortable on a silver platter the size of a bathmat. Shedding the robe, I lay on the cold tray, positioning my nude self on its side in as voluptuous a pose as I could.
“Fold your knee over your crotch,” Guy said. “Our dining room is rated G.” With the precision and artistry for which he was widely admired, Guy painted my body with a coat of dark Godiva chocolate in the shape of a sexy corset. The chocolate was warm as he slathered it on and the scent was sweet and rich. The spatula tickled as he applied a thick coat.
“Can you add extra to my breasts?” I asked.
“Ah, so you are modest,” Guy said.
“No, I always wanted bigger breasts.”
“Of course, madam. Consider it done.”
I loved the way they were so customer-service oriented on this ship.
Guy decorated my edible underpinnings with marzipan lace, pink and red roses made from sugar frosting, thin stripes of icing applied in artistic swirls, and strategically placed swathes of fresh whipped cream. He drew chocolate fishnet stockings on my legs and for the final touch, filled the empty parts of the tray with piles of freshly cut strawberries and bananas. After inserting a single peeled grape into my navel, Guy dusted his creation with powdered sugar. Two waiters carefully lowered a vast silver cover over me.
I couldn’t stop giggling when I felt the tray being lifted by the four waiters assigned to carry me to the dining room. As the platter moved through the kitchen doors and into the dining room, my heart pounded madly. It was pitch-black and stuffy inside the serving dish.
The tray came to a halt and was placed on top of a table. I heard the muffled voice of Chef Saint Martin saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we bring you a very special dessert made possible for your dining pleasure by the lovely Holly Ross, who will be lecturing tomorrow morning at eleven in the Galaxy Lounge. Her talk is called A Peek Inside Panties from Past to Present. She invites you all to attend. But tonight she wished to give you a peek at what you would see should you decide to join her. And voilà!” The cover was whisked off and there I was in my naughty chocolate corset glory.
There were gasps and shrieks and giggles and half-open mouths all around. Four waiters lifted the tray and paraded me through the dining room so that everyone could take a closer look or a photograph.
After visiting all the passengers, I was placed on top of a table in the center of the room. The chef spoke. “And now, my dear friends, you are all invited to partake in Holly’s delectable unmentionable confection.” Every man in the room (including Denis) made a beeline toward me, lining up to dip a strawberry or banana or bare finger in my corset. A few curious women even joined the fray and asked if the tasty undergarment was sold in the gift shop.
“So, will I see you tomorrow?” I’d purr, as each guest partook in the thick, rich sweetness slathered over my body. Every single person said “yes” (married people did too). Surrounded by so many chocolate lovers dipping fruit into my corset until little was left but my sticky bare skin, I felt like a star. Tonight, I was the Sting of the Tiffany Star! And I didn’t even need a Trudie Styler. The entire ship had fallen under my spell. It was a new and heady feeling, one I enjoyed shamelessly and desired to feel again.
Puttin’ on the Ritz
THE NEXT DAY WE were at sea, and what a breathtaking day it was. As far as the eye could take in, there was nothing but ocean, miles and miles of azure water that melted into the crisp cobalt-blue sky. Every once in a while, a school of flying fish could be seen swimming along with us.
As eleven approached, the ship was buzzing with activities. By popular demand, my talk had to be moved to the Emerald Auditorium, the largest lecture space on the ship. It seemed that everyone, even those who hadn’t attended dinner last night, had heard about my bold stunt. Gossip travels through this ship faster than a gastrointestinal virus. There was not a soul on board who
didn’t want to know what I would do next.
Naturally, I could not disappoint them. As I made my entrance, the crowd giggled and hooted. I took the mic and gestured to my costume, a pair of the giant silk underpants pulled all the way up to cover my breasts. “Like my bloomers? Cute, huh? Can you believe these are the only panties they sell on this ship? It’s true. Frankly, ladies, I think this calls for a mutiny. Wouldn’t you rather go commando than wear these?” As I stripped off the underwear and tossed them aside, the audience gasped.
Beneath the clown underpants, I revealed my secret weapon. Assistant Chef Dubois had picked up some large fresh fig leaves at the spice market in Istanbul, which I had sewn into a pair of G-string panties and a bra. Being as skinny and daintily proportioned as I was, it didn’t take much to cover my girly bits.
“In spite of last night, let me assure you, I’m not an exhibitionist,” I explained. “No, this is an example of the first pair of underwear ever created, straight from the Garden of Eden.” Never in the history of the Tiffany Cruise Line had a lecturer presented to so packed an audience wearing so little clothing (the speaker, not the audience). It was a pivotal moment in the life and times of Holly Ross.
At my request, Assistant Chef Dubois had created two hundred pairs of mouth-watering panties by sculpting pink and blue cotton candy into the shape of bowls and punching out leg holes. The pants were so thick that they resembled edible adult diapers, but that made them all the more attractive to this crowd. Pops had two pairs in his hands and Carleen had three. I didn’t want to think about how they would put them to use. The important thing was, the talk was standing-room only. Even Captain Paul came for a while. Denis accompanied Lucille. Sydney wasn’t there, probably honing her heinie at the gym.
The audience was surprised by my deep knowledge of all things panty. For example, I asked them, “Did you know there is evidence of underpants existing over five thousand years ago in Egypt?” It’s true.
“But even before that,” I explained, “a frozen body of a man from 5300 BC was found in the Tyrolean Alps and he was wearing an animal-skin loincloth.” The visuals from my laptop accompanied the presentation, although most of the old codgers stared unapologetically at my fig-leaf bra and panties, no doubt hoping they would fall off.
“In early Rome, Egypt, and Greece, the lower you were on the social strata, the less you wore under your clothes,” I explained. “So your slaves usually went commando, while your kings might wear as many as twelve undergarments. In 1352 BC, King Tut, being at the top of the social pyramid—get it, pyramid,” I said, inspiring a few polite coughs, “was buried with one hundred and forty-five pairs of underpants for the afterlife.”
“My wife brought more than that for the world cruise,” a heckler yelled. I laughed to show how good-natured I was.
The audience was intrigued to learn that in Victorian times, open-crotched bloomers were de rigueur (for hygiene purposes, naturally). The style came to an abrupt end after Parisian cancan dancers wore them in the cabaret. One octogenarian even claimed to remember that, and I played along. I discussed the freeballer movement, dedicated to protecting the rights of people who dare to wear nothing but air. The women oohed and ahed and the men sat slack-jawed as I showed my slides of today’s lingerie, from frumpy to latex to thongs to G-strings to fetish undergarments to nasty va-va-voom designs.
“What about men?” a shriveled woman with liver-spotted skin shouted. “Got something to turn on us ladies?”
“I believe I do,” I said, cutting to a photograph of a bare-chested Clark Gable with Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. “When Gable took his shirt off in this scene and he was bare-chested, men across America decided, ‘Well, if Clark Gable doesn’t have to wear an undershirt, neither do I!’ Sales of men’s undershirts dropped seventy-five percent after that. Of course, later, when James Dean was photographed wearing a cotton undershirt in Rebel Without a Cause, sales zoomed back up. It’s really quite astounding how underwear fashion in the movies impacts what people wear in real life.”
Hmm, that would make a great theme for a show at the museum, I thought. We could get Elizabeth Taylor’s silk and lace slip from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Mae West’s sequined corset from Diamond Lil, and Madonna’s Jean Paul Gaultier–designed corselet with cone-shaped cups that started the underwear as outerwear trend. This was an excellent idea, one I would definitely propose when I returned to work. With the original Hepburn costumes safely on board, my future at the museum seemed secure.
After my titillating talk, the audience rewarded me with a shower of applause and a standing (yes, standing!) ovation. I could see Pops telling everyone who would listen that I was his daughter. Then my adoring fans clamored for a piece of me, saying I had given the best speech they’d ever heard (okay, it was a crowd of dirty old men, but still). I’ve never felt so appreciated. Denis King waited until everyone left to congratulate me.
“That was impressive,” he said. “You had them eating out of the palm of your hand.”
I giggled as I slipped on one of Lucille’s bathing suit cover-ups. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Your father was sure proud of you,” he said. “That must have felt good.”
I thought it odd that Denis would notice something like that, but then he was awfully devoted to his own daughter, so maybe not. “It felt wonderful,” I said.
“You are a connoisseur when it comes to fashion history, and an extraordinary showman…show-woman.”
“Yes, thank you, it’s true,” I said, taking a page out of Sydney’s book. “Do you still think I work at a two-bit museum?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I was angry at the time,” Denis said.
“Soooo…maybe you’d reconsider your decision to never give us another dime?”
“Maybe,” Denis said, smiling, “if you’re really nice to me.”
“Why, you flirt,” I teased. “You’d better be nice to me or I’ll tell your fiancée you’re trying to seduce all the pretty girls.”
“Not all the pretty girls,” he said, “just one in particular.”
“You bad boy, you.”
“Please don’t tell the old ball and chain.”
“All right, it’ll be our secret,” I said. “Hey, are those edible undies I see sticking out of your bag?”
“I took them for Annie.”
“Yeah, sure you did,” I said, giving him a playful swat. Denis and I were friends now, maybe even a little more than friends. It was as though I’d never called him Penis in front of a roomful of reporters. The Audrey costumes were safe. Life was good.
Who Can I Turn To?
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the buzz of Pops’ electric shaver. That’s the problem with these penthouse suites. Even the largest ones are tight for two people. The perks of the rich can be such a mixed blessing, I thought, stretching my arms and yawning. For a moment I felt there was something wrong, something I should be worried about. Then I remembered that, no, everything was fine. Finally, I could relax and enjoy the trip.
Smiling, I stumbled toward the balcony and opened the curtains, blinded by diamonds of sunlight glistening on the crystalline blue water. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses and my robe, I went outside and took in the sparkling sea air. We had stopped in a glorious bay broken by the crescent rim of an ancient volcano. The island in front of us seemed to erupt from the ocean to the sky. I had seen this place in every Greek island tourist brochure I’d ever laid eyes on and in at least one American Express commercial. Perched on top of Santorini’s dramatic limestone cliffs were dots of whitewashed houses, cafés, and churches that resembled sugar cubes from where I stood.
“I’m meeting Bunny and Lucille for breakfast,” Pops said, sticking his head outside. “What are you doing?”
“Carleen, Frank, and I are going to ride donkeys to the town,” I said. “You guys taking the tram?”
“Oh, yeah,” Pops said. “I can’t see Bunny or Lucille on a donkey, can you?”
I laug
hed. “No. But, Pops, seriously, please don’t lead all these women on. It’s bound to end badly.”
“I know,” Pops said, “and that’s why I’ve settled on my one special lady. I decided I’m too old to play the field anymore.”
“Really? Which one have you settled on?”
Pops pretended to zip his lips. “I can’t tell you before I tell her, can I?” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “We’ll look for you in town.”
After Pops left, I ordered room service and jumped in the shower. If I was going to meet Carleen and Frank at eleven, I had to hurry. The ship was docked in the middle of the bay, so we’d have to catch a tender to shore and hike up to the donkey rental hut. The only way to get to the town of Santorini from the dock was to traverse a steep cliff by tram, donkey, or foot. Frank was dying to ride up the hill even though Carleen warned us that last time the ship docked in Santorini, a passenger had broken her leg when her animal fell on top of her. But that was unusual, she admitted, having seen it only twice on her many Greek island stops.
There was a knock. “Room service.”
I opened the door to a gaunt blond-haired waiter with bright blue eyes and a rather large head. He set my breakfast down on the table and lifted off the silver cover. “Hash browns, bacon, a soft-boiled egg just as you like it. Allow me to introduce myself,” he said with a bow. “I’m Darwin and I’ll be your butler for the rest of the cruise.”
