Stori
LES CAVES DU Roy is rockin’. We’re in a dramatically lit room of purple and gold, with an oversized mirrored disco ball hanging from the ceiling. The music’s blasting, and the DJ’s spinning some great songs. He’s a master at the juggle, turning the familiar into something new. I’m suddenly partial to French rap, blended with African hip hop. Oliver and I stand on a table that’s barely big enough for the two of us, because the dance floor was too crowded to move. Good thing I wore shorts. Now I’m safe from up skirt pics taken by strangers with cellphones and bad intentions.
I’m at that perfect place on the drinking timeline, between not enough and one too many. The three men are further along, moving towards inebriation. I counted four shots of Tequila and that’s on top of the constant rounds of cocktails. My girl Zarah can outdrink any of us. Caroline and I may be the lightweights of the group, but it hasn’t stopped us from having fun. She’s let her hair down tonight and I like this girl. I’ve lost track of where everyone is at the moment, because it’s a sea of bobbing bodies and they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder.
If it’s possible, Oliver looks sexier than ever, and it’s not the liquor talking. He wears white cotton pants and a soft wine colored top. He’s got on the three leather bracelets we bought in town. We’ve danced before, many times in fact. But somewhere between 1999 and now he honed his skills. The alcohol has loosened him. He’s having to curb his movements because of the space issue, but it hardly matters. I’d say there’s more of an impact because he holds back. Turns out controlled and restrained has lots to say. He’s a male masterpiece who makes me fantasize when I’m standing right in front of him. I’d like to be sucking his perfect penis. The crowd of people be damned. Or I could peel off my clothes and dance naked for his pleasure, wearing only my heels and the huge earrings that brush my shoulders. I may be drunker than I think. I lean into his ear and feel his body heat radiate into mine.
“You’re making me wet, Oliver.”
He gets that pouncing panther look and wraps a strong arm around my waist. His eyes are a little bloodshot and I smell the tequila on his sweet breath. I’m pulled to his body and feel his erection pushing against my leg.
“I wish I was licking it up,” he says, entwining his fingers in my hair.
He runs his tongue up my neck and under my ear. And that’s when I feel the stranger’s clammy hand moving up my calf. In one swift move, it sweeps the front of my thigh and reaches under the edge of my shorts.
“What the hell?” I yell, pushing away from Oliver’s embrace and the interloper’s fingers.
Looking down, I see the watery eyes of a greasy haired thirty-something man with bad teeth. He’s holding a bottle of vodka and he’s laughing, proud of the fact that he copped a feel. In a fraction of a second Oliver leaps off the table and grabs the guy by his knock-off Versace shirt. There are no words said, only the drunken stubborn expression of the predator.
Oliver’s right hook connects with the guy’s face and blood shoots from what must surely be a broken nose. A drop of it lands on the strap of my shoe, barely missing my exposed toes. He goes down. My hand fly’s to my mouth in shock. Now there’s words, and they’re full of anger.
“Like that, asshole? Like when someone touches you without asking?” Oliver yells.
He grabs the guy off the floor by his shirt and brings the bloodied face to his. The asshole tries to break away from Oliver’s grasp, but it’s impossible. He jerks his body in a valiant effort but Oliver has him under control.
“It’s just pussy, man! Let me go, mother fucker!” the man commands in a false show of machismo. For the first time in my life a French accent sounds guttural.
He tries to knee Oliver, but he’s not quick enough. Oliver moves just enough to avoid the connection. The man’s mouth is open because he can’t breathe out of his nose. Leaning his head back to stem the flow of blood, he doesn’t see the uppercut coming his way. It connects with his weak chin and he’s down and out for the count. Oliver backs away. By now a handful of people are aware. The music is still playing, and other than the patrons nearby, the packed crowd is oblivious.
I don’t see the guy’s female friend with the straw-like orange hair coming from behind. Neither does Oliver. She jumps on the back of my surprised champion and starts pulling his hair and shrieking in French like a wild banshee. I don’t know what to do! Now we become the center of everyone’s attention. The music comes to an abrupt stop. I hear an air horn sound into the space and over the sound system an announcement in French. It doesn’t take much to know it’s about us. All at once flashes from cellphones are capturing the scene.
My bird’s-eye view shows the bouncers as they begin to come from every corner. Good. I see Luca and Fig heading our way, followed closely by Zarah and Caroline. It’s Fig who sees my panic and gives me a signal to stay put. He lifts Zarah up beside me and commands her with his finger not to move. She wants to get in on it I think and he must think so too. Luca’s busy muscling his way through the onlookers, making a path for he and the others. I swear he looks happy. Oh Lord. Here we go. I stay on the table, because I’ve seen enough bar fights to know I need to keep clear. It’s best to let Oliver and his friends handle it the way they see fit.
Caroline climbs atop my table and the three of us link arms and watch as Luca tries peeling the fighting mad woman off Oliver’s back. Caroline cheers him on. Fig unlocks the banshee’s legs and releases her crossed arms, and Zarah whistles her approval. Lifting her off and pushing her into the arms of a bouncer who’s as muscular as he is, Luca flashes a satisfied grin. I start yelling my version of the facts, but I doubt I’m being heard. Everyone is talking and yelling at once, including the reawakened asshole. Good thing the twins are multilingual because the guy has suddenly decided to tell his side in French.
Two witnesses set the bouncers straight on what happened, over the objections of the bloody man. The French understand passion better than most as it relates to fights. So, in the end when Fig says we’re just going to get out of here, it’s accepted. The drunken fool wanders off with his wild woman tending to his nose, and we head for the door. As we pass through the crowd, Oliver gets a round of applause for his skills.
Once outside and heading towards the harbor, I’m kissing his bruised knuckles while the rest of the posse are humming the Rocky theme. All except my Oliver, who finds the whole thing embarrassing. God help me, I found his ability to defend me kind of exciting. The hushed voice in me adds, And sexy.
It only takes a few minutes to reach our destination. We climb aboard The Flying Dragoni and Zarah issues her orders.
“Listen here my friends, fight club’s over. It’s time for Talent Night! Your costumes have been delivered to your suites. No backing out!” She points a finger in our direction.
But none of us object. That’s how loaded we are. Oliver looks at me with that I’d rather stay in and fuck you look, and it’s noted by Fig.
“No, no no! We will come to your door, knock it down and drag you two out. Zarah’s counting on all of us.”
“Okay, okay. We’re gonna show up,” Oliver says.
It takes just twenty minutes for everyone to don their costumes and make it up to the main deck, where a fresh round of food and drink is laid out. The warm night air feels wonderful. Stews serve us cocktails. More liquor, just what we need. The wide kiddie pool Oliver and I requested is filled and waiting for our performance. A spotlight is directed on the water.
We look at each other’s choice of dress and laugh at the differences. Luca and Caroline are high school cheerleaders, most likely going to perform one of her old routines. Across their chests are strips of masking tape hiding something. They’re holding big red and black pom-poms.
Fig’s in a pink velour zip up hoodie that’s sizes too small for him, and matching shorts that give him camel toe. He wears a long full brunette wig and big hoop earrings. His lips are glossy pink and lined perfectly. His ass is padded. Zarah has on low slung, long black shorts, and a white wife beater. There’s a huge gold chain around her neck and a white do-rag on her head. Her glasses are pitch black aviators. Both wear white tennis shoes. What they’ll do is anybody’s guess.
Then there’s Oliver and me. I’m wearing my best interpretation of Rachel from “Friends”, with a short wig, crop top and schoolgirl skirt. Oliver wears the white turtleneck Joey wore in the opening credits. His black pants are too full in the legs for modern tastes, but they’re spot on for 1999. We’re barefoot.
Because I have no talent whatsoever, I’m hoping the alcohol makes performing easier. Oliver’s loose as a goose, and he’s having another drink now.
“Get the rest of the crew up here,” Fig says to the nearest Stew.
“So, who’s going first?” Caroline asks.
“Not us!” I say. Already my stomach is churning.
Oliver takes my hand. “It’s going to be great. You have nothing to worry about.”
“The crew’s going to draw names,” Zarah says.
On her words, we’re joined by our judges. Everybody but the captain who I imagine has better things to do besides watching a wonky talent contest put on by drunken guests.
“Okay, let’s start,” says Luca.
The Chief Stew draws a slip of paper from the glass bowl on the table.
“Caroline and Luca,” she announces.
“Grazie, we’re ready,” says Luca.
We take our seats and await our friends ra ra opus. Caroline nods to the bosun who’s controlling the music. She and Luca rip off the tape to reveal the word SPARTANS spelled out across their chests in paper letters. Oh, my God! They stand side by side with their hands on their hips, legs spread. We were anticipating Mater Dei’s fight song, that’s not what we get. Instead, we hear the recorded roar of a school crowd as Caroline and Luca begin to reenact a popular Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri skit from Saturday Night Live, circa 1998. The two are on target portraying the earnest wannabe high school cheerleaders trying to make the squad. Luca’s attempt at an American accent is hysterical. They’re spazzing out just like Craig and Arianna, the original characters, cheering on the sidelines. It’s a half dialogue half cheer bit, and I’d guess they’re following the exact script because it’s too good.
“You’re ugly! You’re ugly, ugly, ugly! You butt ugly!” Cheers Caroline and Luca to the imaginary opposing team.
When they stop, they go into their dialogue.
“Where did you learn to cheer, Arianna?” Luca asks innocently.
“I studied at Camp Paula Abdul, Craig,” she says proudly.
The four of us are laughing uncontrollably, and so is the crew. Most of whom are too young to have ever watched this classic bit of comedy. But just seeing the always-perfect Caroline and her vain husband acting like dorks is enough to make them laugh.
When Caroline tells Luca that despite her bicycle accident she’s still a virgin, Zarrah does a spit take. For their big finale Luca picks Caroline up and holds her over his head.
“Cheer!!” they shout in unison.
We start applauding for their well-delivered performance.
“Oh crap, we’re gonna lose!” says Zarah, punching Fig in the arm.
This makes Caroline and her man so happy they give a little cheer jump for emphasis.
Please God, don’t let us be next.
“Who’s up?” says Fig.
A name’s drawn. “Zarah and Fig!”
Thank goodness.
“Shit! Fuck!” yells the grey-haired fairy.
“Come on honey, you’ll be great,” says Fig.
He reaches out a hand and guides her to the right spot. They each pick up the props they’ve fashioned from cardboard and cheap stones. They bedazzled their paper microphones. Or I should say the crew did.
“Tonight we’d like to perform our latest release, “I’m Real”. We hope you like it.” Fig says with his version of a sexy feminine voice and stare.
We all clap and realize Fig is singing Jennifer Lopez’s part and Zarah Ja Rule’s. It’s hysterical. They look in each other’s eyes and never break a smile. Zarah’s playing the masculine energy perfectly. Their commitment to the roles is what makes it so funny. When Fig hits a high note, he tilts his head and moves his hand just like a woman does. He attempts a seductive gaze and pursed lip expression aimed towards the “man” he’s into. He shakes his booty ala Lopez. When Zarah gets close to Fig, she adjusts her make believe cock. By the song’s end, they’re dancing seductively, and she’s behind Figs back, holding him in her grip.
We all clap and whistle our approval. Even the crew is applauding. Oh no. It’s our turn.
“I don’t want to do this! You guys are better! Ours is lame. And I’m working under a handicap. My partner’s drunk!”
Oliver doesn’t listen to any of my objections. He just chuckles, takes me by the hand, and leads me to the plastic wading pool. We step in and Oliver gives the signal.
The music starts and everyone immediately knows who we are and that we’re reenacting the opening credits for Friends. They all start singing the familiar words of “I’ll Be There”. We’re in our make-believe fountain dancing and happily lip syncing. Oliver imitates Joey’s dancing perfectly. He’s getting into the splashing and by the end of the song we’re both soaked. There’s a round of applause. Oliver takes my hand and leads me out of the water.
“Okay, that was fun,” I say.
“We’re not finished,” he calls to the crowd.
Whistles and yells encourage him on. He places a chair sideways in the center of the kiddie pool then leads me back in.
“What?”
He puts a finger to his lips and quiets my objections.
“Sit.”
Walking over to the crew he whispers something to the bosun. I see the guy nod and walk off into the yacht.
“I ask for your patience my friends. I need different music, and a change in the lighting.”
He looks around the deck, searching for something only he knows is missing. We’re all intrigued, especially me. I have no idea what he’s about to do. He grabs a yachting cap off one of the crew members and plops it on my head.
“Oliver, I don’t know the words to whatever music you’re choosing!” I say.
“No worries, sexy. All you need to do is sit there and watch. No singing required, unless you’re suddenly motivated.”
The lights dim. Only the pool, and the spot where I sit is highlighted. I can’t see my friends’ faces, but I’m pretty sure they’re feeling what I am. What’s about to happen?
Then it begins. The unmistakable beat of Joe Cocker’s, “You Can Leave Your Hat On”. Oliver remembered when I was a teenager I thought this was the sexiest song I’d ever heard. Oh my God he’s going to dance for me! Like a male stripper in a room full of horny women, he gives his audience a mischievous smile. I hear the catcalls and whistles of our friends. I think Caroline is yelling loudest, but it’s in Italian so I don’t know what she says. I’m not even going to look at Luca’s face. I feel a blush rise in me.
He stands facing me in the water with his feet apart, head bowed. Then he leans it back and looks up to the stars. A wave of muscles roll from his chest down to his hips. Oh my. Where did he learn that? And can I have him do it every night? We lock eyes. Slowly, to the beat of the song, he comes towards me. His body is talking, saying everything I want to hear.
He grabs his turtleneck and rips it apart. It’s tossed out of the pool. The women watching are screaming their approval. His hand runs down his torso to the waistband of his pants. Guests and crew are encouraging him. Zarah and Caroline are gathering money and making it rain dollar bills. Just as my eyes are glued to where he rubs, he gives a pelvic thrust that makes my pussy pinch. Joe Cocker asks that I give him reason to live, and so does Oliver as he lip-syncs the line. Oh Jesus, help me.
He goes down into the water, bending an arm behind his waist and holding himself up in a one-armed show of strength. As if he rides a woman’s body, he pumps. The water is splashing out with the effort. Strong and hard and perfectly in rhythm with the beat, he turns over and holds himself up and repeats the hip motion. All the while I’m metaphorically drooling and literally getting wet
I’ve got a smile plastered on my face like an insane clown. Everyone’s hooting and clapping and egging him on. He stands and turns his back to me. He isolates his ass and shakes it as if it’s motorized. Even though he’s wearing those loose pants, I can see. Turning back, he takes my hand and places it on his chest. It’s wet and hard and smooth. I feel his muscles roll beneath my fingers. He moves my fingers slowly down, till they rest an inch above his hard cock. He thrusts. I feel his hardness brush the edge of my palm. Joe Cocker’s telling me to take off all my clothes. I can leave the hat on. I wish. Oliver puts a hand on either arm of my chair and lowers his body close to mine, just inches apart. Then he rolls his hips in an erotic show of sexuality. A spectacular teasing. I love it. I silently vow to have every bit of him tonight.
As the last lyrics are sung and the final note played, he leans into my ear.
“I want to fuck you like an animal,” he whispers.