Spooning (31 page)

To give her credit, she had mastered one of the more difficult routines on the dance video. Feeling more and more confident, she had started to add her own creative dance steps as well. The end result looked something like John Travolta dancing to an Eminem song. Fingers in the air, toes pointed to the side.

Tara and Sage were now up on a little stage dancing with each other and garnering quite a bit of attention. Both had a rhythm unknown to most white girls. They were indulging every man's fantasy and giving a little girl-on-girl action. Trying to be sly, two guys had grooved their way toward them and, using the old sandwich move, were gyrating behind Sage and Tara's backs. Tara, with her male radar, shimmied her butt back
a bit and reached behind her, drawing her new partner closer. He was tall and dark and carried an air of mystery given the fact that he wore black sunglasses in this dimly lit cavern.

After a couple hours of Nelly, 50 Cent, and Usher, we gathered the troops, along with their various dance partners. It took us about fifteen minutes alone to find Syd. Somehow we had overlooked her on the stage. She was off to the side by herself humping a skinny pole with her gyrating hips as if it were Elvis's leg. Tara's original dance partner with the sunglasses had somehow been ditched (surprise, surprise) for a hunkier version. But Mr. Shades had now decided that I was second best.

“You no dance?” he asked me. “
Como se llama
? What's your name?”

“Oh, I'm Roxi,” I said. “With an i.” Gotta maintain some anonymity. I figured that I could have an alter ego here in the Rico. “I dance. But I need a little Britney or J. Lo,” I feebly explained.

“Rrroxi,” he purred. Oh that Spanish rolling r! “I love J. Lo!” he enthused. Hmm, on second thought …

In the casino, the two of us somehow lost the rest of the gang as we discussed how J. Lo had built a formidable empire in such a short time and at such a young age.

“Come. Let's go to the pool,” he said grabbing my hand.

“Oh, no. I don't want to swim,” I began to protest.

“No swim,” he continued, obviously unwilling to take no as an answer. “I get us some food.” This man knew magic words.

Outside was pure perfection. Talk about a tropical paradise. Here I was, a slightly sunburned Charlie Brown, cuddling on a lounge chair with a lusty Latino, with the moon out, shooting stars falling above our heads, palm fronds whispering, and waves crashing in tandem on the beach. To complete the picture,
we had a bowl of plantain chips and guacamole between our legs. My mystery man informed me in broken English that he had some connections at the hotel. He was feeding me a chip when a bit of guacamole tumbled off onto my shoulder.

“Oh, how elegant,” I mumbled, smiling, with food in my mouth. He didn't seem to mind though. He dipped his head and with his tongue, licked the morsel off my shoulder. And he didn't stop there. He wound his tongue up the side of my neck causing me to giggle. (Note to self: Gotta control the ticklishness.) I held my breath as he found his way to my mouth and captured it with authority. I began a mental list in order to rationalize what I knew was about to happen:

1. I'm on an island.
   

2. It's all part of the vacation package.
   

3. He's cute … I think.
   

4. He cares about me—he fed me!
   

5. I've never had sand in my pants.
   

6. What happens in the Rico, stays in the Rico.
   

7. I'm sure he has more than just dance moves.
   

8. He can croon sweet Spanish nothings in my ear.
   

9. Tara would do it!
   

10. Rrroxi with an i would do it!
    

My mental check list quickly ended at number ten due to the fact that I couldn't concentrate any longer. Sunglass-clad Don Juan's tongue had gone from nibbling on my ear down to my navel. Good-bye chips and guacamole. Hello Latin lover. At that moment, I decided to let myself go and settled on rationalization 6: What happens in the Rico, stays in the Rico. Enough said!

T
he next morning by the pool, I kept squirming in my bikini bottoms.

“Nice sunglasses,” Macie remarked about my newly acquired shades.

“You've learned the truth about sand, huh?” laughed Tara.

Following our great romp on the lounge chair (great cushions), my new friend and I had ended up on the sand the night before. It was like
From Here to Eternity
, or a poorer version of it. The tide had made its way in and I had lost one of Syd's sandals. She hadn't thought to ask for them back yet, and I was still basking in my post–hook-up glow, so I wasn't going to tell her. But Tara was right. I had ended up with sand in crevices where sand should never go. Even after a shower this morning, I was still digging sand out of my ears. Plus, as if I hadn't had enough skin irritation already, the sand had rubbed my butt raw! Like an old-fashioned diaper rash, my bottom was pink and not too happy in my wet bikini bottom.

“This … is … going … to … drive … me … crazy!” I forced between my gritting teeth.

“We need to get you a drink,” suggested Sage, raising her white flag.

“Help me, daiquiri gods!” I shouted. “Do we think a daiquiri will freeze my itching ass?”

“Might as well try,” suggested Macie, always rational and positive. She was going to be a great mom.

“Charlie, what do you want?” Sage asked as the waiter approached.

“I need your coldest, largest strawberry daiquiri with an extra shot or two …” I began.

“Rrroxi, how are you this morning?” I lifted the sunglasses off of my eyes.

“Wha …?” I squinted up at the man in the blue and yellow shirt.

“Did you sleep okay?” At this point, the other five girls flipped over onto their backs simultaneously, suddenly wide awake.

“Did I …?” I started.

“It's Hector,” he began to explain, sounding a bit dejected, “from last night.”

“Oh, Hector. Didn't recognize you without your sunglasses,” I said pointing to my eyes as if he didn't understand.

“Those are for night,” he said as if it were obvious.

“Yeah, um, I'm fine, thanks,” I stumbled.

“So R-r-roxi wants a daiquiri, yes?” Now that rolling r sounded like a stutter.

“Yes. Yes, uhm,
por favor
.”

“Be right back,” he said way too cheerfully.

“That is the man of mystery?” laughed Sage.

“They shouldn't be allowed out during the day,” I bemoaned, ready to cry. Really! I thought I'd had a man of mystery, sunglasses and all, and that we'd had a passionate night on the beach, but now some island god thought it was funny to send him back to me in the broad daylight to highlight his pox-marked skin and gel-laden hair, and to show me that he is a waiter—not some son of a rich Puerto Rican mogul like I had envisioned. “And of course he is not wearing sunglasses when he is supposed to wear sunglasses!”

“You said he was attentive, though. And here he is bringing you a drink right now!” Wade said, nodding toward Hector, who was headed back our way.

“But now I feel like a dirty old man on the Hollywood streets too late at night,” I wailed, “because I have to pay for this service. And I have to leave a goddamn fifteen percent hotel-mandated tip!”

T
he next afternoon, the stewardess closed the plane door and proceeded to give the obligatory safety instructions over the PA system. Sad but relieved to go home after a weekend of debauchery, I nestled back into my spacious first-class seat and took a giant sip of my free glass of champagne. What a way to end a sensational trip! Although the rest of the divas were back in coach, Macie and I were in the front of the plane enjoying the good life. We did feel a tad bit guilty for taking the upgrade, but my parents had given me some of those frequent flier upgrade coupons before the trip. And as all young New Yorkers know, one has to take advantage of coupons! To be fair, we'd drawn straws to see who would join me upfront and Macie was the lucky winner. But I promised the other girls that we would bring them each a glass of yummy champagne during the flight. We all know how good it is to have friends in high places, especially if the friend is named Dom Perignon at 35,000 feet.

Somewhere in between devouring the fresh corn-crusted salmon and licking the hot fudge brownie plate, I decided to visit the girls. Macie was raving about the thought put into the overall presentation of the brownies, so I had to go show them. On top of the five or so glasses of bubbly I had managed to suck back, I somehow convinced the flight crew to give me four extra desserts as well. And after hearing where the goodies were going, they even gave me a fancy platter to deliver them with.

Way in the back of the plane I could barely see the girls' heads. They were all clustered together right next to the bathrooms. Poor things! Fortunately, I had something that would cheer them up. Two steps away from presenting them with their first-class treats, I glanced down to find every single one of them sound asleep. Syd's head was planted face down on her pull-out tray. Tara was snoring, her hands tightly clutching her InStyle to her chest, her sunglasses perched on her nose blocking out the cabin lights. Sage, who had an entire row to her tiny self, was sprawled out. But her foot was doing that twitching thing that dogs do when they are dreaming deeply. And although Wade was off in dreamland too, she appeared wide awake. Her eyes were half-open and her body was perched perfectly erect in her chair, poised as always. They didn't look too comfortable, but their poor bodies deserved the rest. Over the course of seventy-two hours, all of us had put ourselves through some serious mental and physical tests. After a weekend of crazy dancing, endless drinking, swimming, laughing, and chitchat we were all exhausted. And we had some good stories to boot. I left the desserts on an empty seat next to Syd and headed back to first class.

A
s the plane made its initial descent into the New York area, I could barely make out the city skyline from my window. I realized that I was actually looking forward to getting back to the city. What's more, I realized that I hadn't thought of Mr. J. P. Morgan once in more than seventy-two hours. I felt that deserved a toast. I motioned to the stewardess.

“Were you beckoning me?” She spit with the
b
in “beckon.”

“I didn't want to wake the others, you know with that pinging
sound,” I apologized, pointing to the call button. “Could I have another glass of champagne please?” She looked at me from underneath her fake lashes. Was she thinking to herself that I didn't look like I belonged in this double-wide, leather- backed seat? Was there a limit on alcohol consumption in first class? As she sauntered back to the kitchen area I quickly skimmed the in-flight magazine to make sure there wasn't an imbibing maximum.

“Miss?” The flight attendant was back holding up two bottles. “We don't have anymore champagne, but we do have white or red wine.”

“Perfect! I'll take … white, please.” Note the dramatic pause as I tried to feign interest in the bottles' labels. Then the seatbelt sign rang. Nuts. It was official. My first-class status was coming to an abrupt end. Good-bye, warm cloth napkins. Good-bye, freshly baked foccacia bread. Good-bye, free bubbly. I closed my eyes in dismay.