The Botox Diaries (15 page)

“Therapy? Nah, I’m feeling just fine, thank you,” I tell him. “But I would like a lobster salad for lunch. Hold the mayo.”

“Manuel, come in!” Hunter calls out from behind me.

“No, we canceled!” Lucy shouts, stepping away from Hunter’s embrace. “Didn’t you get the message? Our friend is here now. We’ll have to do this later.”

Manuel looks at me, then at the two of them. “Nonsense,” he says. “We can all work together. I’ll make it part of the experience.”

What experience? I was expecting to experience lunch. Maybe go wild and have a margarita. But now Manuel seems to be on the menu.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Lucy says warily. “Jess missed the first lesson. She’ll never catch up.”

“She looks like a quick learner to me,” Manuel says. “And the more the merrier, to coin a phrase. Come on, let’s get started. We’ll begin with some simple pelvic thrusts.” He demonstrates, bending his knees. Oh no. Don’t tell me this is leading up to group sex. I haven’t even showered. Instead of thrusting, I stand rigidly in place. Make that I stand perfectly erect. No, forget that, too. I can’t get my language—or my body language—right on this one.

“Loosen up,” Manuel says, squeezing my hand. “You don’t have to be embarrassed here. It’s just the four of us.”

Which is what I’m worried about.

Hunter, apparently already loosened, flexes his knees and thrusts his groin forward, calling out, “One … two … three!” He pulls back upright and—oh, please save my soul—takes a deep breath and does the little exercise a second time, this time chanting, “Four … five … six!” How high do we have to get here? Can we please stop at six? Don’t want the man to strain himself.

Lucy also seems to be thrusting and counting—mercifully to herself—and I’ve apparently been forgotten.

I pull my hand back from Manuel. “What’s going
on
here?” I bristle.

“Preliminary exercises,” he says. “Just pretend you’re volleying a Ping-Pong ball back and forth between each other’s groins. I’ll do it with you.”

I was never any good at sports. Which is beside the point. “Preliminary exercises for what? And what kind of therapy is this anyway?”

“I’m the Tantric Sex Therapist,” Manuel says grandiosely. “I have a degree if you’d like to see it.”

Hunter and Lucy are still volleying, only they’ve inched forward so the imaginary ball doesn’t have so far to go.

“I’m sure you know Le Retreat is famous for our sex workshops,” Manuel says helpfully. “We have Jungian, Freudian and for our older clients, what we like to call ‘Viagrian’ therapy.”

I would have thought Hunter was too engrossed in his ball game to be listening, but this catches his attention. “I certainly don’t need the Viagra,” he pipes up, missing his volley.

“No, of course not, honey, you’re already a sex machine,” Lucy
coos, also quitting the game. Then she turns to me. “Isn’t it amazing that I got Hunter to do tantric sex? Sounded too touchy-feely for him at first. But it’s really about making our orgasms together last and last and last and last.”

“Tantric sex orgasms can go on for hours,” Manuel says dreamily.

Who has that much time? I have trouble finding twenty minutes to wax my legs.

I glance in the direction of the door and Manuel picks up that he has at least one unhappy camper. “Let’s move right along,” he says, snapping out of his reverie. “We can practice with the beach ball or go right to the group orgasm.”

Now there’s a choice I’m eager to make. But I don’t have to. “The group orgasm,” Hunter says gleefully.

That’s it. I’m outta here. “I’m going to take that walk on the beach,” I say. “I think the tide’s in.” Or out. Who cares.

But Manuel braces his strong arm around my shoulders, anchoring me in place. “No, we need you. It takes four to have a really good group orgasm. And I’m starting to feel a very special vibe in this room.”

He reaches for his beach bag, which apparently isn’t holding towels, and pulls out four black silk scarves. He deftly steps behind me, and so quickly that I don’t have time to protest, ties one of the scarves tightly around my eyes. A moment later Lucy and Hunter are both equally secured—I’m just guessing since I can’t see—and Manuel is preparing us to achieve true sexual ecstasy. Without even taking off our clothes.

“Deep breaths, everybody. And now unleash that orgasmic energy.”

Almost immediately, Lucy, doing the best Meg-Ryan-at-the-deli imitation I’ve ever heard, comes first, moaning and groaning and yelping. Hunter, never to be one-upped, joins in, the grunts of his sexual passion even louder and more out of control.

If this is all it takes to have an orgasm, why did I spend $24.95 on that vibrator?

I feel Manuel’s hand on my back. “Release. Release. Join in the pleasure. Feel the ecstasy, young lady.”

Young lady? I want to tell him that I never have an orgasm with someone who doesn’t know my name. Except for that one time in 1982.

Suddenly there’s a marked change in the intensity of Hunter’s Group Orgasm.

“EEYYOOOW!” he screams.

“That’s good! That’s great!” Manuel screams back.

“NO IT’S NOT!” Hunter hollers.

“It is! Trust me! Go, Hunter, go! Ladies, stop and listen to Hunter. That’s how to have an orgasm.”

“IT’S NOT AN ORGASM!” Hunter screams, so loudly that we all simultaneously rip off our scarves and look at him, holding one leg and hopping up and down on the other. “IT’S A CRAMP, GODDAMN IT!”

Lucy immediately drops to her knees and begins massaging what I hope is Hunter’s leg.

Manuel, flustered, rushes to their side. “Do you need a doctor?” he asks. “There’s always one on the premises. We average four heart attacks a week. But not from the sex therapy,” he hastens to add.

“No, that’s okay, I can handle this. It happens all the time,” says Lucy, still massaging but sounding—could it be?—slightly annoyed.

Hunter’s wailing, Lucy’s rubbing, Manuel’s hovering and I’m exiting. Nobody notices as I scoop up my flip-flops and make a hasty getaway, dashing back up the path to the main building. The concierge is waiting for me when I slip in the back way, and he’s holding the keys to my now-ready room. How did he know I was coming this time? A GPS tracking system for each individual guest? I couldn’t even afford one for my Subaru.

“Delighted you’re back,” the concierge says solicitously. “May I escort you upstairs? Your bag is there and the valet has unpacked.” Who asked him to do that? Now everyone will know that my Lacoste look-alike T-shirts came from T. J. Maxx.

My room lacks the silk chaise and teakwood table of the beach palace, but it does boast the largest bed in the smallest space I’ve ever seen. The king-sized—no, this must be czar-sized—four-poster is luxuriously draped with layers of sheer fabric that look like mosquito netting. I’m hoping they’re there for the romantic effect and not to keep
out czar-sized bugs. Since I missed our snack, I follow the sweet scent of fresh papaya over to the fruit basket that Hunter, as promised, has sent. I munch my way through one papaya, two mangoes, three kiwis, one guava, a handful of blackberries and an excessively large bunch of grapes. Lying by myself on the bed and sucking the luscious guava juice is about as sensuous as my three-day stay here is going to get. And frankly, it’s a lot more satisfying than that group orgasm.

But maybe solitude is against the rules at Le Retreat because there’s a knock at the door. I decide to ignore it. Can’t I just sit here by myself with my fruit? And then a second knock.

When I open the door, Lucy glides in. “Hunter’s fine and Manuel’s taken him to the Jacuzzi,” she says, giving me a peck on the cheek. “So I get a whole uninterrupted hour just with you.” She takes in my room with one glance, then strides across to open the terrace door and let in the sea breeze.

“Nice view, but sorry the room’s not bigger,” she says apologetically. “Hunter took care of it. Should I have you moved?”

“No, I like it,” I say, not needing any more favors. “Want a piece of fruit? I have one kiwi left.”

She shakes her head. “Thanks, but I already grabbed a lobster salad.”

Would that be the lobster salad I was dreaming about when Manuel came?

“Come on, we have another appointment back down on the beach,” Lucy says, stepping off the terrace. “Put on your swimsuit and sarong.” She heads over to the blond-wood dresser to assess my wardrobe. I should know by now that Lucy doesn’t trust me to pick out my own clothes when Hunter’s around.

“You won’t find one there,” I say firmly. “I don’t wear them.”

Lucy, misinterpreting, turns in surprise and eyes me appraisingly. “You can wear a bathing suit. Your body’s fine,” she says, in what I assume is meant to be a comforting tone. “Your breasts are still good. And your thighs aren’t that bad. A little cellulite, but we all have it at our age. If you get in the water really fast, nobody notices, anyway.”

Well, that’s a reason to live.

“I’ve got a bathing suit. It’s the sarong that never occurred to me,” I say, peering into a drawer studded with chamomile-scented sachets. More bug protection, or are they there for romantic reasons, too? The stacks of valet-folded clothes are so neat that I handle my fifteen-dollar cotton tees as if they were hand-painted Stella McCartney blouses and gently nudge them aside to pull out my sarong-alternative.

“How about denim cutoffs?” I ask brightly.

She looks at me like I’m talking in Urdu. Clearly denim cutoffs aren’t part of her wardrobe. Or her vocabulary. And since I’m not going to translate, she moves right along.

“Not to worry. I have an emergency sarong right here,” she says, reaching into her Tod’s tote. “Always carry an extra. I hate when they get sandy.”

Me too. I strip down to pull on my alluringly named Miracle Suit, guaranteed to make me look ten pounds thinner. And where exactly do those ten pounds go? Shoved down to my thighs? Or does some poor unsuspecting woman who didn’t buy the Miracle Suit end up with them?

I fumble with my new sarong—cutoffs were easier—and look at Lucy’s, which is elegantly secured at the side in a neat butterfly knot that highlights her sit-up-perfected abs. I try to emulate her impeccable style, but my wrap ends up crumpled and bungled and clumsily held together with a four-square knot that wouldn’t win a Cub Scout any badges.

Back on the beach, Lucy leads me toward two straight-backed wooden chairs sitting high above a low-stepped platform that reminds me of a shoe shine stand.

“Reflexology treatment,” Lucy says, climbing up gracefully into our very high seats. “Sort of like a foot massage, only it’s supposed to be healing. Marianna and Mariella will be here in a sec. I hear they’re amazing. They can get rid of all the toxins from your body.”

And they send those toxins where exactly? The same place as those ten pounds? Someday I just know I’m going to run into that fat, toxic woman who got my giveaways, and she’s going to be mighty pissed.

“Reflexology can cure all sorts of disorders,” Lucy goes on, sounding
like an infomercial. “Pick your problem. Any problem. You can ask the therapist to concentrate on the instep, which is good for kidney and liver function, or the toe area to cure allergies.”

I blink hard into the sunshine. “I don’t have allergies,” I tell her. “At least not since I used to break into hives every time I saw Davy Jones. Not the Monkee. The boy who sat next to me in fourth grade.” I pause. Haven’t thought about him in a long time. Wonder if he’s still single. “The therapist can do anything she wants,” I say with a sigh. “Except try to cure my spleen. Don’t have one anymore.”

“Really? What happened?” asks Lucy, impressed.

“Motorcycle accident, second year I was married to Jacques. Remember I told you about it? I’d finally learned how to ride the Harley myself, but I wasn’t so good above eighty.”

“For a sweet suburban mom, you’ve had a pretty adventurous life,” Lucy says.

“
Had
is the operative word. Not anymore.”

Lucy hears the admonition in my tone.

“Come on, Jess, adventure is what it’s all about, isn’t it? We can’t quit taking some risks just because we’re all grown up. There’s a whole world out there. Live free or die.”

“Isn’t that the motto of New Hampshire?”

“I don’t know. I think I did see it on a bumper sticker somewhere. But it’s right, isn’t it? If you’re not going to do anything new or different for the second half of your life, why live it? I don’t want a straight path for the next forty years. I want some bumps in the road.”

“Well, you’re making them,” I say. “Bumps. Potholes. Construction detours. Jackknifed tractor-trailer trucks. Anything else you’d like to put in your way? Vehicular homicide? Does that make life more interesting?

Lucy straightens up. “Well, excuse me, darling. Feeling a little testy?”

We sit silently in the chairs and within moments, the reflexologists arrive. They’re long-haired, long-limbed and clad in string bikinis that would make a Brazilian blush. “Anything special we can do to help you relax?” asks the girl who introduces herself as Marielle.

Yup. Gain ten pounds. Flash me some cellulite. Put on some clothes.

“No, just the usual. Whatever that is. My feet are in your hands,” I joke.

“First they’ll go in the soak,” she laughs back.

Marielle places my feet in a frothy chamomile bath, rubs briskly with a terry towel until my toes turn rosy, and then with light, staccato movements, begins searching for pressure points.

“Don’t be surprised if you feel some tingling in your chest when I’m massaging the back of your foot,” Mariella says, settling into a cushion at the foot of the stand. “It’s the energy flow. Pressure on the heel stimulates the breasts.”

So that’s why women spend so much on shoes.

Lucy extends her foot as the other therapist kneels down on the sand in front of her. Maybe I should tell Marianna to steer clear of Lucy’s heels—her breasts don’t need any more stimulation.

“Listen, are you upset with me because Hunter’s here?” Lucy asks, squirming in her chair. Wonder which toe did that.

“No, I get it. Hunter. Le Retreat. Something new. Making your life more interesting, right?” I pause. “Maybe that’s what I’m doing with Jacques, too.”