by Tara Brent
When all this foreplay had driven us into a raging frenzy of lust, I took a quick peek out the tent flap, to make sure nobody had climbed the pool fence. Nope. Still private, not a soul in sight (although with Curtis on the turntable, we could sure still hear the party). The coast was clear, so we turned on the Jacuzzi, and let the scrubbing bubbles to their thing. When we got back out of the hot tub, clean, horny, and slick as seal pups, it was time to get down to the real action. So we quickly pattered back over to the tent cabana, with an armload of towels.
Not that we were in a mood to slow down and dry off. No, the towels were here to spread over the chaise lounge cushions we had put on the floor to frolic on. Which were now looking like the table cloth after Thanksgiving Dinner at the Parkinson’s clinic.
When our bed of outdoor furniture pads and fluffy towels was laid out, we got down to business. I thought maybe the ‘salad tossing’ would have fit in better back in round one, but let’s not get picky.
Finally, I couldn’t hold off any longer, and begged for Blake to use that baton of rock hard meat to fuck me like he meant it.
He meant it.
We lay in a dreamy limbo, listening to the music, the laughter, the voices raised in joy, that drifted over us from the legion of revelers beyond the pool fence. It sounded like things were going along just fine without any help from me. I figured Jimmy must have the situation well in hand.
We didn’t hear the gate to the pool fence open, but we did hear the quiet clang and click of it closing again. We could make out the kind of tipsy giggles made by trying to tiptoe after a wee bit of champagne. Whoever was creeping up was doing a fairly decent job of stealth. Really, the only sound that we didn’t have to strain to hear was one of them going ‘SHHH!’ and then giggling again. It was plain that the pair was getting closer to us. I was just about to deploy a towel for modesty sake. But they didn’t come all the way up to our tent cabana. They went inside the one that was next to ours.
Now it was our turn to ‘shhh’ ourselves, which we did a much better job of. It did feel just a tiny bit dirty to be audio voyeurs. But it was more in fun than anything else. Or so I told myself.
Through the canvas of the tent walls, we could hear two people whisper, very quietly. Hard as we strained our ears, though, we could not make out a single word from the adjoining chamber. We did hear the pop of a champagne cork, and could even make out (or maybe just imagined) the hissing fizz of the bubbles as it was poured. The sound of two glasses clinking together was unmistakable. There was another minute of muted laughter and some more audible by indecipherable whispering.
Blake and I snuggled together, trying to keep our breath shallow enough not to give ourselves away. It was quiet over there for a little while. Less than a minute, for sure. And then, we heard a sound that seemed sort of like a zipper, but not quite. It had a kind of flappy sound, which came in short bursts, only a couple of seconds. Then quiet. Then more flappy sound. Familiar, too. It felt like a sort of maddening game, like we knew what it was, but the name, the image stayed just out of reach, like that big word on the tip of your tongue but you can’t quite remember it. Then we heard that flappy vpvpvp zipper sound again. And I suddenly had it. I knew what we were hearing. I leaned close to Blake, whispering so low he wouldn’t have heard it if my lips hadn’t literally been touching his ear when I said it...
“I know what it is...”
Blake steered my head in a gentle turn, so he could put his soft, kissable lips against my own ear.
“Yeah. Okay, genius,” he barely whispered. “What are we hearing?”
Shifting ear / lip configuration. I was about to tell him, but I teased it out. “One hint. Picture yourself in Las Vegas again. Sitting at a blackjack table...”
He had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing when it finally dawned on his what the sound was.
Someone was shuffling a deck of cards. Then we could hear the ‘shuff-shuff-shuff of two hands of cards being dealt.
I reached for my clothing, and said to Blake. “Let’s get out of here. Give them some privacy.” And so we did.
Blake wanted to do a waltz with his new sister-in-law. “It’s traditional,” he said. I gave him a quick kiss, suitable for public viewing, and said to go ahead. I wanted to make the rounds, just to be sure everything was ticking along smoothly.
“You’re a workaholic,” he said.
“What I am is a professional. And you’ve distracted me long enough.”
So, I went off on patrol, like the trusty night watchman checking all the doors and windows again. I checked on the cake. Nope, no sinkhole disaster this time. It still looked magnificent. Half the guests had finished eating by now. They’d resumed drinking, talking, laughing, dancing. But there were still lines of people around all the Roach Coaches. Most of them look as stuffed as the Christmas Goose already. But they all had their game faces on. They weren’t going back for seconds of anything. They were still trying sample a little of this, a little of that. And I’ll be Goddamned if they didn’t look as happy as a sixteen-year old-boy alone in the house for the next four hours, and the code to unlock the ‘parental control’ setting on his laptop.
I noticed that two of them were Cici and Mom. Clearly still doing serious damage. And getting almost as much pleasure just watching scores and scores of pampered, snooty, pretentious plutocrats cramming themselves with the rich, earthy, spicy and savory fare normally reserved for the commoners. It was their turn to see how the other half lived. And most of them, until tonight, didn’t even know enough to look.
The mothers, laden with freshly heaping plates, would not even think about getting their hooks out of me, though. I was shanghaied with them to a table – not even a clean table, there weren’t any of those around anymore. While they persisted in force-feeding me little nibbles of this and that, like great, looming mama birds filling a recalcitrant chick, they resumed their story of the Prom Night Follies...
I will show the very minor amount of good taste I possess and spare you the goriest of details. Which I did not want to hear. And would swim the English Channel to get out of my head. And yes, I am aware that chances are I would drown. But it would be so peaceful then.
Remember how my sister Pam and I had our little theory about the kind of teen my mother had been? We were convinced by circumstantial evidence, that being we could never put a single thing over on her. Which convinced us she was no choir girl herself, back in the day?
May I say that we were so short of the mark, it was like we didn’t even know her. Which we didn’t.
Who would suspect that the responsible, protective (okay, overprotective) helicopter mom who had done at least a reasonable job at getting us through high school without landing in the State Reformatory for Wayward and Incorrigible Girls (with a special wing devoted to Teenage Unwed Mothers) – who could even imagine it was my mom who picked the lock to gain access to the school swimming pool? Did Pam and I guess it was even possible that it was Bridgette “Cookie” O’Hara was the instigator of the scandalous eruption of skinny-dipping? That it was she who dared Cici into joining her? That it was my dear old Irish Mother (she was still an O’Hara, not yet a Ricci) who shamed their stammering dates into joining the naked frolic? That it was none other than Mommy Dearest who waved in a dozen more Prom goers? Who dared them into stripping off every stitch? Who grabbed two of the shy young men who were still standing in the shallow end in their underwear by their dicks? Who yanked those shorts off them and tossed them into the Swim Coach’s Office? It was unimaginable that none other than “Cookie” O’Hara had made sure to keep her clothes and purse good and dry, up in the spectator stands. Well, after all, she was holding. She had three fat baggies filled with Panama Red, and was rolling up fatties as soon as she could wipe her hands dry? That my own maternal icon was the person who also picked the lock on the equipment locker? Who brazened, dripping wet in her birthday suit, into that Coach’s Office, stepping nearly around two pair of sopping jock
ey shorts, to turn on the P.A. system used by the swim team to pipe rock music in while that swam endless laps?
Wait, you might be saying. Wasn’t I going to tone down the rating on this saga of wayward debauchery? And well you might ask – unless I told you the rest of the details of what went down that fair spring evening. I can only say, in closing, that it was on that night a legend was born. One that explains so many otherwise cryptic references in the signed yearbook mom kept hidden away (so she thought)?
To this day I have to wonder how much champagne Cici and Mom must have guzzled down in the preceding hours, or how early they had started drinking to get where they got by the time this epic tale was unfurled.
Here is the real kicker though.
That long and sordid tale is not even the most embarrassing moment of this airing of laundry. That they save until Blake, who’s scouring the party to find me after he finishes tripping the light fantastic with Michelle, arrives. Thank God they had just finished the final chapter. He is spared the thrilling conclusion, which includes the image of our two mothers, sprinting naked with their clothes under their arms, manage to evade capture when one of the dance chaperones investigates the music blasting from the swimming pool area, and summons the local gendarmerie.
“Don’t you all look in fine spirits,” says the once-wayward prodigal son. He gives me a wink. “What have these two old reprobates been up to, Kira?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Mom? Mind if I steal Kira for a dance?”
“Sonny,” she slurs. “You better do more than dance with this wonderful, talented young woman. ‘Cookie’ and I have been having a grand old time.”
“Great,” he says, as I hop to my feet.
“In fact, we like this wedding so much, we can’t wait to start planning another one. If you get my drift.”
Her drift, at the moment, is about sixteen degrees to starboard and slipping fast. Still, Cici is practically sober, compared to my Mom, who is dozing lightly with her head on the table.
How fortunate that Igor chances by at this moment. (Although I do not really think it is chance – it is clearly teleportation.)
“Marcel,” Blake says lightly, “Will you be so kind as to see these ladies to their bedrooms?”
“I think my Mom would sleep it off right here, otherwise,” I contribute.
“Absolutely,” says Igor, with the slightest movement that is either a nod, or a bow. Just then, I hear a clatter from Abe Ling’s roach coach. I swear to God, I could not have turned away to look for more than two seconds. But when I turn back, not only has Igor vanished, he has teleported the matrons away with him.
Blake takes my hand, and we amble over to the dance floor. Curtis, bless the little bitch’s heart, has moved on to the slow dance portion of the program. The playlist that is designed to make lovers sentimental, drunks sleepy, and those still on the prowl for a down and dirty hook up start to cut their standards.
As he takes me in his arms, every inch of him feels right. We’ve never even had a chance to dance together, not in the two weeks and change since we set eyes on each other. If only I could tell you he was only a mediocre dancer. And I guess I could. After all, many years ago, Fred Astaire did his first screen test. What the studio genius who reviewed the performance had to say was Can’t act, can’t sing, can dance a little...
But even so, I have not one criticism for my billionaire. He is light on his feet, while I am simply floating on the air.
As Blake waltzes me around, I happen to catch sight of Jimmy. He too is enjoying a first dance with a new lover. And I have to give Harold credit. For a formerly closeted science nerd, he’s not a bad dancer himself.
* * * * *
Epilogue: Three Months Later
It’s September and parents everywhere rejoice, because the kids go back to school and get the hell out of the house.
Even though Blake is very insistent that we ought to start pumping out heirs and scions right away, we only got engaged last week. And so far, we’re keeping it a secret. And I say, let’s not start any buns in any ovens until we decide to tell folks that we are buying a kitchen. I don’t want to be preggers first, and then tell folks we plan to get married. That’s gonna look like it’s an ‘Oooops! now we better get married’. And that’s just not true – we really want to marry. We just don’t want to admit we’re engaged any sooner than we have to. The plan is to set up a simple (what?) beach wedding. And to make sure it stays simple, we don’t want to leave a lot of lead time. If we let our two mothers know we’re going to tie the knot in six months, or next June, or whatever, I shudder to think what they will come up with. Rent Buckingham Palace maybe. Just for the ceremony though. The reception wouldn’t fit there. For that, they would lease Wembley Stadium, and have the R.A.F. parachute in the caterers.
Thanks anyway.
Besides, we have other things to keep the mama-sans busy now. First, the spectacular New Year’s Gala we are putting together. It’s Blake’s idea. Part of his new avocation – but more on that later. Anyway, I made a deal with Blake. Hold off on the procreation project until we can sneak in a wedding first. Instead, we can start training. Really get into shape for the impregnation effort by employing a rigorous program of practice, practice, practice. It takes commitment, but we are willing to make the sacrifice. And I must say, we are getting even better at fucking than ever.
Seb and Michelle loved Maui, and are enjoying the land of cuckoo clocks, chocolate, and bank secrecy. They love how clean it is in Switzerland. Of course they do. They’re Lab Rats. If they had their way, they would establish a sterile field from sea to shining sea.
It’s also interesting to see how “domestic life” has changed Jimmy. He was always efficient. But with Harold to analyze time and motion, and use computer algorithms to streamline the event planning operation, things practically run themselves now. And Jimmy? I always knew monogamy would stabilize his insanely chaotic, and serially tragic love life. As far as Harold, with Seb and Michelle on their sabbatical in the land of Heidi and Riccola, Harold is now running the Okoye Institute here in California. Now I have to laugh every time I hear Jimmy bitch about how Harold stays too late, works too hard, and keeps terrible hours. One is reminded of our frequent pot / kettle dichotomy issues of yore between Jimmy and me. A lot of folks are asking Jimmy and Harold when they plan to marry. But they just push past and ignore it. (Although it would not surprise me to learn I’m not the only one hiding a secret engagement).
And then, there’s good old Mom. From the day after Seb’s wedding, until about a month ago, my Mom was still staying in that North Guest House, driving me insane. As big as the Okoye estate is, her good old bestie, Cici, insisted Mom move into that Guest House permanently. I don’t care how many hectares of Spanish roof tile this joint has, it is still too small for the two of us to live under the same roof. It was getting so bad, I was about to ask Blake if we should move out ourselves. I couldn’t take much more.
But that is before Mom met Marcel’s brother. By which of course I mean Igor’s brother, Pierre. Want to talk charming? Well, speak French when you do, because this man makes Cary Grant look like Mickey Rourke. So imagine my mother’s delight, when after about three weeks of dating, they decided to move in together. (Please, please, please God, let my mother be content with finishing her golden years just living in sin. God save me if she decides to marry this guy. I would rather plan my own funeral than plan a wedding with her.)
Cici and Joseph will be back from their trip to Nigeria (and most of the African continent) in about a week. It has taken them almost two months to tour all the water systems, schools, sewage systems, public transport, job training centers, and micro-loan banks Joseph has funded throughout Africa. It will be great to see them again.
But most of all, I want them to see the changes in Blake’s life. He is making a career of philanthropy now. He sits on the boards of several charities, gives away a ton of the money we don’t need.
But his “baby”, his personal mission almost, is something he got involved with through Dr. and Dr. Conroy, Michelle’s folks. It’s in the “Save Our Oceans” genre, but it’s a lot more than that. Its focus is developing new kinds of aquaculture. Farming the sea, but doing it in ways that scrub carbon out of the air, instead of adding to it. There are two goals: Fight climate change by reducing our carbon “fin-print”. And, to increase the amount of arable “land” to include the three-quarters of the earth’s surface that is not land, but water. In other words, grow enough food to feed everyone on earth. Hey, Blake is an Okoye. He thinks big.
Which is why I am stepping aside to let Jimmy run the wedding business on his own. I am now the “Executive Event Designer” for Blake’s ocean project. No more weddings, but endless gala fundraisers, conventions, program presentations, seminars, retreats, and bowling tournaments. I work just as hard as ever; instead of helping people spend enough money getting married, I work to fund putting kids through college, I feel like I am now working on something that just might make the world a better place.
And yes, I was kidding about the bowling tournaments.
THE END
Book 3: Curvy Dilemma
Chapter 1: Amber
“If you ask me, this is the only bouquet that matters,” Rosie says, turning around to face me with a gorgeous arrangement of baby pink buttercups, chrysanthemums, and lily-of-the-valley. Immediately, I’m jealous of her inherent knack for this kind of thing. Out of the two of us, she’s always been the better one at running the shop.
“Well, now these just feel like trash,” I mutter, glancing down at the tiny arrangement of sweet peas and hyacinths.
“Oh please,” she says, dropping the flowers into a vase. “If you like those, then those are the perfect flowers for your wedding.”
