“You’ll like what you see in Delaware,” Paul advised. “After we stop at the Hagley Mansion and walk along the Brandywine Creek, we’ll visit the gardens at Winterthur. I know you’ve called me a ‘rich’ person several times already, but this DuPont fellow who designed the gardens had so much money that he could afford to collect trees from around the world. He planted hundreds of different types throughout the grounds on his estate.”
And although she found the landscaping at Winterthur to be indeed beautiful, Mary Ann fell in love instead with the magnolia tree that was in full bloom right outside the door of their motel room. She insisted that Paul take her picture as she stood amidst the purple-colored blossoms.
Inside that room, Mary Ann and Paul would make love for the first time, and Mary Ann was prepared—having packed her suitcase with two scented candles. “A special touch,” she thought, for a special occasion.
“Peppermint. They’re peppermint candles,” she told a sniffing Paul, laughingly, as they lay on the bed—hard in each other’s embrace.
Mary Ann giggled again when she told Paul that his large, uncircumcised penis looked like a fire hose. And he, surprised by her frank, childlike commentary, giggled in return. Since she had borne four children, Mary Ann was convinced that even an extra-large penis would not be painful to her.
While she and Paul began their breathtaking, inaugural act of love, Mary Ann’s mind raced back to her early high school days. She and her girlfriend, Sherry, were still virgins when they first fantasized about orgasms. Her coupling now with Paul far exceeded those fantasies.
In their motel the following morning, Mary Ann woke up before Paul. First, she purposefully gazed throughout the room and then walked around busily, tossing the clothing from her suitcase and flipping the plastic pages of her wallet, trying to find something, anything that she could give to Paul at the moment he awoke. An old photograph of her perhaps, or any small, meaningful memento would only help to increase the strength of their growing bond.
She had a craving to please this gentle, thoughtful man to whom she felt she owed the life-tasting rebirth she was now experiencing.
Mary Ann left the room briefly, and when she returned, she sat on the bed alongside Paul’s feet, watching his eyelids while she waited.
“Here, drink this,” she smiled, as soon as he awoke. “It’s a cold glass of water. And if you want a refill, there’s more ice.”
Despite being in Islamorada—a luxurious vacation setting—Melissa spent what she considered a boring day on Saturday. She had gotten used to Joe’s company and accustomed to the way the hours seemed to fly by with him at her side. On this day, though, she found herself staring at her watch—and at various clocks—from dawn until evening. So, even in the face of continued warm weather, it was, figuratively, a day without sunshine.
Her constant thoughts during this contemplative, intervening period centered on the unknown activities that awaited her during the proposed forty-eight-hour visit to Key West—scheduled to begin tomorrow.
Melissa’s daydreaming touched on all aspects of a possible serious relationship with Joe. Primarily, she fantasized about the ultimate— marriage—and whether she could ever consider living with him in Islamorada, or, in the alternative, if Joe would consent to relocating to Philadelphia. True, his uncle, his only remaining relative, lived in nearby New Jersey, but with so many painful memories of Becky linked there, could he handle such a move?
Also putting her psyche on edge was the distinct likelihood of sex in Key West. Did spending the night away from Islamorada mean they would be sharing a single motel room? Would Joe be expecting her to provide sex? Did he purposely give her a day without him so she could have time to convince herself that sex would be an acceptable complement to this overnight vacation within a vacation?
What does Joe hope to gain by taking her to Key West? Is his only motive a one-night stand? Does he flirt with every tourist the same way? A week from now, will he be charming some vacationer from Minnesota and taking her to the same local attractions?
There were questions, many questions. But also, there was hope.
Early on Sunday morning, Joe stopped by the Seascaper to pick up Melissa. As she’d promised him, she was dressed casually. On the left portion of her white blouse was a wide, vertical red stripe that ran from the collar to the belt line. Her short, white linen skirt and white sneakers completed the outfit, giving her the look of a tennis player—or perhaps even a cheerleader.
After they had greeted each other, Melissa fixed her eyes on Joe’s facial expression, looking for smirks that could be interpreted as signs of lust or anticipation of sexual conquest. She could, however, discern no hints of either. In fact, he was able to maintain his gentlemanly smile even after opening the trunk of the car and placing her overnight bag next to his.
“Joe’s probably a very good poker player,” Melissa thought, as she thanked him for holding open the car door. “Putting my bag away would have been the perfect time for a wisecrack.”
Melissa briefly considered a flippant comment of her own, like, “Did you bring the prophylactics, Joe, or should I go back and get some?” She decided, however, to hold her tongue.
Melissa knew, though, that the day ahead would be a much more pleasurable experience if the air were cleared right away about the evening’s sleeping arrangements.
So, almost as soon as the car had accelerated to fifty-five miles per hour on Route 1, Melissa uttered the inevitable question. She offered it in an indirect, casual fashion, letting Joe know that she was aware of the possibilities, but at the same time giving him an opportunity to ask her about her preference—or to provide an option.
“Did you make a reservation for one room or for two?”
“Actually, I made a pair of reservations,” he answered. “The Jones reservation at one motel is for a single room. The Carlton/Tomlinson reservation at another motel is for two rooms. Sometime today, either now or later, you can tell me whether you’d be more comfortable as Mrs. Jones or as Miss Tomlinson.”
“Did you bring the prophylactics?” Melissa asked him, giving an indirect but obvious answer. “Or should we stop along the way and buy a few?”
Joe grinned sheepishly and replied, “I think we’re covered.”
The nearly two-hour drive to Key West took them across what seemed like endless stretches of water covered by hundreds of arching highway bridges, some of which were longer and larger than the islands they joined.
The twenty-odd “major” Keys that form the archipelago were dotted with sparsely populated, New England–type towns, most looking like board-by-board restorations of American fishing villages circa 1950. On Ramrod Key, possibly the most typical, a trailer park and a few tiny bungalows were clustered around a general store that bore a tired, wooden façade.
In each town along the way, almost to a shingle, the centrally located commercial building, which usually bore the sign of a major gasoline company, was bordered on the rear by a bayside dock—with the obligatory fuel pump for servicing local boaters.
Joe stopped the car only once on the way to Key West, about halfway from Islamorada. The spot he picked was on the edge of Marathon, just before the start of the so-called Seven Mile Bridge, the longest span linking the Keys.
Their parking spot off to the side of the highway was at the point where the bridge ramp left the land and began its skyward climb.
As they walked down toward the nearby shoreline, they could see miles of clear water, both blue and bluish-green, in every direction. Faintly visible, near the horizon, was a tiny section of the next nearest island, where this gracefully designed bridge, seemingly bound for infinity, would once again meet highway.
As Melissa’s eyes tracked the westward path of this mammoth steel structure, she thought it similar to a star trail or the flight of a meteor that could splash down anywhere at all in this vast expanse of water but chose instead to settle on a remote sliver of land, far into the distance, that looked t
o be but a tiny toy in God’s gigantic hot tub.
Joe, too, seemed awestruck.
“I love to stop here and gaze at the water,” he confided, with one foot propped on a bulkhead. “I can do it for hours on end. If I ever need a little time by myself to think and to clear my mind, I seek out an ocean, and I just stare.”
“I guess I get the same kind of a high you’re describing when I look into my fireplace on cold and windy winter evenings,” Melissa observed, “or when I travel to the New Jersey shore and sit on one of those boardwalk benches, watching the whitecaps crashing onto the beach.”
“Fire and water are powerful symbols.”
“You’re right, Joe. Maybe that’s why I always come away with a silent confidence, as if I’ve just completed some sort of prayerful penance.”
Hand-in-hand now, they walked back up the sandy incline and kissed, ever so briefly, before continuing their southwestward journey.
Melissa’s first impression of Key West was that it was a cross between Bourbon Street in New Orleans and Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.
Key West’s steamy weather, the narrow streets, and the mix of black and white bodies in various stages of undress—bikinis, Bermuda shorts, and tee shirts galore—put it on a definite par with New Orleans’ French Quarter.
A preponderance of sidewalk restaurants, large yachts berthed just off the main street, and oddly costumed street people were reminiscent of San Francisco’s waterfront.
Joe told her that the best sightseeing plan would be to drive through the most interesting parts of town prior to any walking they might do later. And while they were cruising in the car, Melissa noticed just as many bicycles and mopeds vying for roadway space as there were automobiles.
“Ernest Hemingway lived right over there,” Joe pointed, “in that big house behind the red brick fence. He was a cat fancier, just like you. We can take a tour through the house during our stay, if you like. There are still about fifty cats that roam the grounds. Legend has it they’re all descendants of the pets that Ernest once owned.”
Farther on, in Mallory Square, at the center of the tourist area, Joe drove by the Key West Aquarium, where the featured attraction was a large, open swimming pool for sharks.
Close by the aquarium was the John James Audubon building, which contained an exhibit of colorful and finely detailed bird paintings—all done by America’s foremost ornithologist. Melissa could tell at a glance, from the realism of the feathers, beaks, and eyes, that Audubon had dedicated thousands of hours to bird watching. She also knew that he painted from the carcasses of the birds he had killed.
The easy and informative way that Joe described the importance of the local sites was impressive to Melissa. The more he talked, the more intelligent he seemed. And although the true essence of Key West may be more honky-tonk than haute couture, Joe’s descriptive commentaries—on the early Key West pirates, their jewelry, and their galleons— infused an aura of anecdotal history that rivaled the tales associated with Russia’s Winter Palace, with England’s Tower of London, or with Greece’s Parthenon.
Likewise, his knowledgeable dissertation on Key West’s homesteaders made him appear kin to dozens of scholarly Sunday afternoon lecturers that Melissa had chanced hearing on her casual visits to renowned museums in New York and Philadelphia.
Jutting out from the southernmost tip of the island was a long fishing pier, about five times the size of the Seascaper’s. After Joe stopped the car at the entrance to the pier, he and Melissa began walking toward the far end, arm-in-arm—as if sheltering each other from the increasing strength of the wind. They were treading noisily over the wooden planks when he asked her if she were nervous.
“Not as long as you’re with me,” Melissa whispered, confidently, clutching Joe’s shoulder just a little tighter as she spoke.
When they were alone at the pier’s edge, Melissa and Joe ignored the slapping sounds of the sea. Looking instead into each other’s eyes, they knew, right away, what their plans would encompass for the remainder of the day.
The walking tour of Key West, and other forms of outdoor activity, would be put on hold until tomorrow.
It was late afternoon when they pulled up in front of the Cayo Hueso Motel. Not wanting to wait for a room service order, Joe and Melissa had already stopped at a local wine and spirits shop to purchase two large bottles of chilled champagne—as well as a few snacks.
After checking in as Mr. and Mrs. Jones, they toted their own bags to the room—then wasted no time in breaking out the stash of champagne. While they sipped, they also munched on wheat crackers, brie, and fresh strawberries.
For the next twenty minutes, Melissa and Joe sat on the floor of their room, cushioned by a deep pile carpet. After consuming a suitable amount of food, chased by bubbly, both of them seemed extremely loose and comfortable with each other.
They were smiling and joking now, like the winners of a championship game who were lingering in the locker room long after their victory became official.
The champagne had the effect of producing a lilting, laughing tone in both their voices.
Soon they were looking eye-to-eye and holding onto each other’s hands. Alternately, Melissa would pull Joe toward her, and then he would reciprocate, with a brief kiss punctuating every movement. They also took turns pretending that their bodies were limp. Still sitting, they would close their eyes, pivot on the floor, and then trust each other to provide a soft catch of the partner’s head and torso.
Engaging in such joyous frolic reminded Melissa of her grade school playmate, Clarissa. She and Clarissa were drawn together as friends, most likely, because others in their class would always poke fun at how their names were perfect rhymes. She could still see and hear the bratty little boys in third grade as they distorted their faces grotesquely and shouted, “Melissa-Clarissa, Melissa-Clarissa.”
Melissa and her friend would often dance together, assume the roles of homemaking mothers, play patty cake, or just hold each other by the hands and sway, as Joe and she were doing right now.
Suddenly, in the midst of one of her giggles, Melissa sensed Joe’s curlyhaired head resting on her chest. He started nibbling on the large red stripe of her blouse. And, within seconds, Melissa could feel a pleasurable hardening beneath that blouse.
She placed her head against a pillow and grasped her arms around Joe’s massive back. Then she began to experience a powerful warmth and comfort as his hand slowly started to caress the front of her body, in an exhilarating, circular motion.
The deep hum of pleasure that Melissa exhaled was a natural response. It was also, however, a signal to Joe that he needn’t stop.
“Ooh, that’s good,” Melissa mumbled, quietly, close to Joe’s ear.
Then, deftly, he slid his left hand under her blouse, massaging her bare, taut tummy before edging his fingers slightly higher, to an area where, on most days, Melissa would have been wearing a bra.
Swiftly, his lips moved to hers, commencing a tender kiss. Their tongues met, darting about inside their coupled mouths, seemingly in rhythm now with Joe’s hands, which were passionately squeezing the soft erogenous zone of Melissa’s bust line.
They were strong hands, hardened, she surmised, through the endless gripping of gun barrels, nightsticks, and squad car steering wheels. The very thought of this somehow made Melissa even more excited.
By now, Melissa’s mind had begun to wander somewhere among her long forgotten teenage fantasies. Her womanly desires for Joe were transcending all vestiges of pure thought and proper instinct. At moments like these, she realized, the basic cravings of hunger, thirst, and logical reasoning are like badly beaten also-rans in a long distance foot race.
Melissa wanted dearly to be able to respond—by touching—to Joe’s signals of desire. She reached for his belt buckle, flipped it open, and slid her right hand downward alongside his thigh, skin touching skin.
Compared to Brady, he had much stronger muscles on his legs. There were f
ewer strands of hair, she thought, but they were smoother to her touch.
Meanwhile, using both his hands in what seemed like one quick motion, Joe proceeded to grasp at the elastic of Melissa’s skirt and panties, yanking downward. He eased his reclining body toward hers and then pulled her clothing skyward over the tips of her outstretched feet.
Tossing this bundle aside, he then used his tongue to tickle her slowly along the upward reaches of her knees.
“I need this, Joe, I need this oh-so badly,” she told him.
After he gently lowered her legs to the carpet, Joe removed his trousers and briefs. He could tell now that she was ready, but he continued with the foreplay.
When Joe felt Melissa starting to tremble, he pressed himself, full length, on top of her. He planted a multitude of kisses on her lips, forehead, cheeks, and nose.
It was soon after they had become one that Melissa, uncharacteristically for her, seemed to begin an immediate climax. As she felt Joe’s warmth envelope her, she lost all sense of time and location. She was unaware that the tips of her fingers were digging deeply into his strongly muscled back.
How many more times, Melissa wondered, would she stare blankly at white ceilings while being covered by this gentle yet muscular man? And how many more times would she sigh inwardly, and scream outwardly, with such consummate delight?
For several minutes after his release, neither of them seemed able to move so much as an eyebrow. Joe seemed to have used every last bit of strength in his successful efforts to please. And though Melissa still tingled with a special excitement, the day’s activities, both indoors and out, had rendered her as exhausted as her newfound lover.
With heads now resting on each other’s shoulders and their breathing still heavy, they clung together tightly, like two inseparable spoons stacked in a drawer full of silverware.
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