Duncan's Diary

by Christopher C. Payne

  The four of us, along with Elvis, spent the next several hours drinking and lightly eating until it reached about 11 p.m. We then decided it was time to head down to the beach. The beach had been worked on all day in preparation for the several thousand visitors, as island locals came down from the hills and tourists ventured out from their rooms. All were bent on spending the evening and early morning hours ringing in the New Year. There were numerous temporary bamboo bars that had been erected through the sandy area, as each restaurant extended its reach in the hopes of reigning in as much capital as possible from the drunken horde.

  As the clock struck midnight, I embraced my friend for the evening. We passionately kissed, as my tongue deeply penetrated her luscious, smooth lips. With our both having been drinking for several hours, it was as much the alcohol as anything, but the feeling of connection roared up inside my loins. I held her tightly, rubbing up against her small petite frame.

  The rest of the evening was a combination of kissing and drinking, as we meandered through the crowds, talking and mixing with various people that we both or at least one of us knew. It amazed me how many people I had become acquainted with over the course of now two short trips. As the evening turned to morning, around 2 a.m., the last thing I remember was seeing an American across one of the temporarily erected beach bars and screaming at him, “I know you.” Not sure if I did or not in retrospect, but he reacted warmly and bought me a shot of tequila.

  That was where my evening went blank.

  Waking up after more than eight hours of heavy drinking is never a fun experience no matter how old or young you might be. As would be expected, I rolled over in my bed with my head exploding in pounding beats. I was mildly surprised that I was in my room and had no recollection of how I had made it back. I was completely naked and lying face down. As I looked around, I noticed that I still had my companion from last night with me and she, too, was 100 percent de-clothed.

  The only thing that I can imagine more unsatisfying than never having made love to a beautifully perfect twenty-year-old when you are in your early 40’s is making love to a twenty-year-old and not remembering a single thing that happened. One might ask how I knew that I had actually taken this young girl and inserted my manliness into her taut, supple body. Well, I guess I couldn’t be sure, but there were no less than three spent condoms strewn about the bed. My guess was they were remnants from the night before.

  I stumbled out of bed and shakily hobbled to the bathroom. After relieving myself from last night’s liquid intake, I stepped into the shower and stood there for 20-plus minutes, letting the warm water wash away as much of the pain from my overtaxed aging body as it could. I then grabbed a bottle of water and decided that I could not let the experience escape me. Even in my taxed state, I felt the familiar rise of excitement as I lay down on top of my gorgeous companion and commenced to arouse her with my fingers hoping for another try down memory lane.

  She continued to be accommodating, but needed a break to the restroom before allowing me another go. It took longer than I would have hoped. My limited energy threatened to give out right before I felt the familiar release spewing forth inside its gloved container deep inside her moist, tight, pleasurable opening. I collapsed, spent, resting my sweaty head on her firm round breasts.

  This I would remember, I thought, as I felt her pushing me off while rolling me to one side. She headed for the shower wiping away my memory from her young, overly used body. I thought about joining her, but realized that I lacked the ability to move and started wondering how I would rise and prepare to leave in just three short hours. That day, Jan. 1, was my departure date. Even though my flight didn’t take off until 5 p.m., my hotel would kick me out at noon. They were not known for allowing you to stay beyond check-out time.

  The most difficult part of vacation is the preparation of going home. You are still in paradise, but you are packing your belongings to leave. Your mind exits before your body does, and you are left with a paradox of emotional turmoil. I started thinking of my troubles and what I would face upon my return, but it was too much for me to handle. I thought how odd it was that I had been here for several days, and my desire to kill had been extinguished upon arrival. If I lived here, would I tire of this place, as well? At some point, would I face the same overwhelming desire, allowing it to consume me as it had back where I called home?

  I tried my best not to think about what awaited me, but focused on gathering my belongings. To the best of my limited ability, I navigated my way back home. Everything was as I had left it. I injected myself back into a routine rather quickly, not understanding the events that awaited and would again alter the course of my life.

  The Waitress (Turning 42)

  The odd thing about returning home from the Dominican Republic is facing reality, a reality so different than vacation paradise. On the island, 20-year-old girls flock to middle-aged men. It doesn’t take many brains to realize that the physical attraction is not the drawing factor, but the enticing aroma of another life where being poor is not a waking reality. Again, no matter how little money you have, it is substantially more than most of the island locals will see in a lifetime.

  The other oddity is conversing with somebody who holds this cavernous age gap. I admittedly do not even understand the language at times. The “dude,” “whatever,” “sick,” and other slang that flows from teens’ mouths is indecipherable. If you are after anything beyond a quick encounter, I wish you luck.

  In the United States, 20-year-old girls look upon middle-aged men for what they are – middle-aged men. No matter how much we in the over-40 crowd might lust after the tight, hard bodies that predominately make up the opposite sex of 20 years younger, we just don’t have that much to offer. I, myself, was now just a few days away from turning 42. With my birthday fast approaching, I was trying to decide how to celebrate my first annual passage as a single man in several years.

  As my working crowd of friends knew first-hand, I looked for any excuse to go out on the town. Being the center of attention was just an added benefit. With that in mind, I circulated an invite, letting the normal drinking group know that it was my birthday. I asked if anyone would like to join me for an evening of drinking and dinner at my local hangout, Straights. The food was average and the crowd was a little on the young side, but by now most people there knew who I was. It was a comfortable environment for me to have a drink now and then.

  Truthfully, the biggest draw that Straights had was a 21-year-old brunette waitress with a killer smile. Her hair was full and wavy, hanging down to her middle back. Her eyes held an inner glow that seemed to hold secrets not normally found in somebody of such a young age. She, as most of her counterparts in the service industry, dressed in tight-fitting shirts and paraded around in skirts that took only a tiny fraction of material to make.

  The two noticeable traits she held upon our first meeting several weeks ago were her smile and the nylon stockings she had worn at the time. Her legs seemed to be endless, as they reached up from her black high-heeled shoes. You traced the dark triangle patterned stockings up until they disappeared underneath the form-fitting miniskirt that barely hid the forbidden treasure underneath. She seemed a little off from the normal waitress and had a wild glint about her that beckoned you to talk to her. Still, you knew her only goal was simply piling on the percentage of tip that you added to each bill she handed out.

  The idea of gratuity in today’s society has taken on a saddened likeness to begging, it seems. No matter where you turn, everyone has a tip jar waiting to be filled, even if they have done little to nothing to service you or anyone else, for that matter. There are tip jars at self-service restaurants, at coffee houses where the serving attendants never move from behind the counter, and a nonstop endless amount of service-oriented establishments. It seems that you have to do very little to request a tip in our materialistic, money-hungry, me-oriented world that has done such a disservice to those who truly do deserve special consi
deration.

  Adriana, the waitress in question, was one of those deserving souls who demanded to be compensated not by her requests or by a jar on a table, but simply by her presence. Allowing us the sheer pleasure of her serving us our drinks pushed the money from my wallet. I showered her with the only thing that seemed socially acceptable.

  She was not the normal physical build that attracts my eye. She was a little overweight: possibly 10 pounds or so. She looked like she lacked a physical desire to keep in shape. Although she possessed healthy curves and an eye-catching body when you looked closely, you could tell that she was soft around the edges and did not possess much muscle underneath her revealing attire. The blessing of being in your 20’s is that even without exercise your body maintains the tightness of age. You don’t have to be a workout fiend to look great.

  She drew me to the restaurant; and without her, my attendance would have drastically declined. Every time I suggested the restaurant, it was met with protests from my fellow employees, as they cited the expensive drinks, average atmosphere, and less than stellar menu items. I continually made excuses and explained why it was the place to go, but on this occasion it would be my turn to pick with limited protests—this was my night out on the town.

  The normal eclectic group had decided to come. George, Samantha, Ingra, Patel, Dan (and his girlfriend of five years), and Camille (who attended at times, but was not a member of the core social drinking club), made up our motley crew of dinner attendees. Camille had started to show an interest in me as of late; and after several months of hinting at an attraction, I admittedly was not opposed to taking our relationship to another level.

  Camille was a petite, Asian girl closer to my age. She was in her mid-30’s. She possessed a spunkiness that would either lead to passion or to many angry, bitter arguments. I agree with the thought that love is closely matched to anger. How can you feel such strong emotions about somebody if they are lethargic and hold no true fire inside them? It is only how people manage that fire and passion that defines who they are as a person.

  The evening started on cue, but threatened to take a wrong turn when the hostess informed me that Adrianna was not working that evening. It was always disappointing not seeing her. The thought of organizing an event with the sole desire of ogling her, forcing everyone to come to my trough of choice, and not having the magnetic force present that drew me here would be a drain on the evening. Luckily, somehow, she was at the bar and through some possible coercion appeared at our table. With that electric smile, she asked us what we would like to start our evening with.

  As was customary, Patel and I ordered scotch on the rocks, while George was a gin and tonic guy. Dan and the ladies ordered a mixture of drinks that held multiple colors. They were garnished with umbrellas and various other oddities that should never adorn a drink in front of a man. Dan had opened himself up for ridicule with his fluffy drink of choice. We ensured that he was properly ridiculed as the night progressed.

  We were placed at a small round table in the corner close to the entrance since we were originally unsure how many people would attend. It was somewhat of a tight fit, but made for cozy conversation as the evening progressed. I had been lucky enough (or strategically managed) to sit next to Camille. She spent a lot of the evening touching my arm and leaning in close to me as she discussed the topics we filtered through.

  The standard subtle signs of attraction that our society has endorsed as acceptable were used with abandon that evening. We are all so tentative to show our cards before the targeted goal shows theirs first. It is odd how we are so insecure and afraid to take a chance without knowing the outcome.

  Flirting is like walking on a frozen pond and slowly inching toward the center. With each step, we look down and around, listening for the signs that the ice might not hold our fragile consciousness. We hope the ice won’t crack and break, dropping us down into the icy fathoms of frozen darkness.

  The humility of rejection keeps so many people apart, as neither party holds the courage to take that first step. I am one of the few who ventures out into the dredges, flirting endlessly with anyone who will allow me to. That attribute is either found attractive or is endlessly annoying to people who become acquainted with me. This night, I was focused on the waitress, while trying to keep my less than subtle advances hidden from my other possible object of affection—Camille. Flirtation with the waitress was fairly safe. I knew my advances would never be reciprocated, but would be rebuked the minute the check had been paid. With Camille, I was unsure.

  It’s relatively easy for me to get to know people. Asking questions and freely giving up personal information is always a sure way to allow people the comfort level needed to divulge information, ranging from who they are to their desires and goals. Adrianna was 21 and her goals at present remained rather simplistic. She spent most of her days and nights working and had no real interests outside of her job. She was attempting to change her occupation and had hopes of working on a cruise ship. She had applied as a bartender/waitress on a couple of the main cruise lines. The job contracts were doled out in six-month increments, and she was hoping to snag one for the next cycle.

  Like most young people, she held a desire to travel and see the sights of the world. But, as with most young people, did not have the needed financial backing that would allow her this luxury. There are so many of us that trudge through life and are not allowed to reach our goals. When we are young, we have energy and passion, but lack the funds to let us explore our desires. As we get older, we have funds, but are saddled with the blessings of raising children. Once our children are grown, we lose the passion and are left with funds, allowing us to find our way, but our energy has been sucked dry by the trials of life.

  I like the recent movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I think it’s called, that explores the possibilities of starting out life as an old man moving into infancy. The backward progression through time gives you the exact opposite perspective on natural tendencies, and you have a diametrically opposed approach to normal life obstacles. How interesting it would be to flitter down life’s path in the completely opposite direction as everyone around you--age and desires offering different perspectives, more than anyone could imagine.

  I have recently been told that I have a great body for somebody my age. My workout regime of the last few months is starting to pay dividends to my outward appearance, but one cannot thwart the natural progression of age. The key words in that compliment are “for my age.” I still cannot be compared to somebody 20 years younger—people in their 20’s naturally have great bodies. The telling signs of wrinkles and gray hair cannot be reduced by riding a bike or doing push-ups each and every morning.

  So, the flirting with my waitress was just that – flirting, and nothing else. As is my normal stance, I must take it to a level where I know for sure, so I did ask her if she was interested in buying me a drink. I like the slight twist in that approach. There is no real rejection to having somebody refrain from buying you a drink. That thwarts the natural progression of advancement. Guys don’t ask girls to buy them drinks.

  Adrianna gave me a flash of her exotically perfect smile and brushed off the request without really acknowledging it. She was, after all, 21. She had no desire to buy me anything and very little interest in talking to me outside of the scope of gratuity that the restaurant atmosphere provided. Alas, I would have to resign myself to admiring her from a distance never having the pleasure of allowing her to fulfill my lustful needs.

  The evening was fun, as is always the case with my working/drinking bunch of misfits. We drank ourselves into a stupor with our boisterous ranting, increasing in volume at every tip of the glass. The evening progressed, and we decided to make way for the cleaning crew with part of the group talking about coming back to my house for a brief visit. Surprisingly, Camille seemed interested in joining the after-hour party and was open to exploring the evening, not ready for it to yet end.

  The crowd stayed
only a few minutes – like most after-hour gatherings at our age once in the cozy confines of a home the eyelids droop rather quickly. Camille was the last one to leave, but had showed her discomfort when she found herself now alone with me in the unfamiliar territory of my home. She lingered by the door as I showed her out, so I decided to test the boundaries of our relationship and see what the possibilities might hold for future encounters.

  I cupped her petite head in my hands and slowly brought my lips to hers, as she readily accepted my advances. We embraced in a passionate, deep kiss. I remember the movie Hitch where Will Smith stated the importance of a first kiss. The idea being that every time a girl kisses for a first time, it could potentially be her last first kiss and what the importance of that moment might mean.

  That is a lot of pressure if you think about it too long or too often. I fortunately was doing little thinking at the moment. I had lost myself in the soft sweetness of Camille’s lips. Her lips were Angelina Jolie-type lips, full, yet soft, seeming to fold in, yet wrap around my own all at the same time. I had not rated kissing at a high level, but I found myself lost in the pleasure of these lips that seemed to embrace mine in perfect sync.

  Too quickly I felt her pull away, as reality seemed to be injecting its claws back to her thoughts. The numbness of alcohol could only sustain our embrace for so long, and she said she needed to go. She abruptly stepped back and then headed out to her car. I realized there was an obvious attraction and now held open future possibilities. I was surprised at the inner desire and warmth that the three kisses we had held for me. I was moved in a way that I had not expected and felt stirrings inside me that were not funneled by the demon that I had become.