Читать книгу The Redneck Riviera - Richard N. Côté - Страница 11

Aboard the FunTastic

Ronald Huntington Pawley, III, was in heaven. Known to his friends as “Ron” and to his ex-girlfriends as “Paws,” he beamed with the pride of ownership and the thrill of commanding the FunTastic’s powerful twin 240-horsepower diesel engines. As he pushed forward the two mahogany-tipped, stainless steel throttles, the sleek sport yacht leaped forward like a scared barracuda, pushing Dolly back deep into the glove-soft white leather seat next to the pilot’s chair.

“God, I love that,” he said to his beautiful, bikinied passenger. “Idle to full plane in eight seconds flat. That’s performance.” Dolly slipped her arm through his as the flared fiberglass bow parted the sea before them. She was as impressed with her new boyfriend as he was with his new boat. Ron was forty-five, fit, and tanned. She had a hunch that Ron’s performance in bed might just match that of his boat. But her long track record of dating men with flash and cash had taught her to go slowly when entering a new relationship.

Today, she sensed from experience, he’d make the big move. But Dolly was determined to give him just the appetizer this weekend and save the entrée until she’d gotten to know him better. She’d had enough little minnows – the short-timers and one-night stands. She had a new standard now: she was only after a big fish. So far, Ron qualified.

The discreet pulsing of the diesel engines sent a tingle through her skin. The feeling of power was contagious.

“Ron, would you like a drink? I think I have the bar in the salon figured out.”

“Sure, Baby, that would be great. I have everything you need for Singapore Slings, Margaritas, Banana Daiquiris and Sex on the Beach.”

“You mean you need a glass for that?” she joked.

He smiled. “You need a glass, vodka, Midori melon liqueur, Chambord raspberry liqueur, grapefruit juice, cranberry juice, ice, and cherries for a garnish.”

“This boat is amazing. I bet cruise ships don’t even stock their bars as well as you do.”

Ron chuckled. “I bought it for relaxing and for entertaining my clients. My business can drive me crazy,” he said. “This helps me get my sanity back.”

His cell phone beeped. “Damn,” he said, then answered it. He listened a moment, covered the mouthpiece, and said, “See what I mean? Can you excuse me for a minute?”

Dolly knew this was the signal for her to leave the bridge and move to the salon, the galley, or the rear deck. “Yeah, Baby, how’re you doing?” she overheard him say as she walked down the steps to the rear deck. She wondered exactly who he was calling “Baby.” Not competition, she hoped.

Down in the sculptured cherrywood galley, she looked up the “Sex On The Beach” recipe in Ron’s mixology handbook. Ten minutes later, she had completed the complicated procedure and proudly served up two drinks in frosted glasses engraved with the boat’s name, FunTastic.

“Thanks, Doll,” he said with a wink. “To sex on the beach,” he said with a wicked grin as he raised his glass. Dolly smiled, clinked her glass, but said nothing about his remark. “Who was on the phone?” she asked.

“Ah, just the wife of a client who wants a condo. Where shall we go ashore for lunch?” he replied. Dolly thought that he’d been awfully chummy with the woman if she was, in fact, the wife of a client. And the quick change of subject seemed suspicious, too. But, she thought, it's a beautiful day, he's a good-looking guy, I'm being treated like a queen on this $250,000 yacht, and why quibble over things I don't know about? I'm not marrying the guy. Yet.

“Captain’s choice,” she said, smiling.

An hour south of Myrtle Beach, Ron throttled back the engines and they glided up to Cape Romain, an isolated island wildlife preserve with no inhabitants. Its beaches were pristine; no fires were allowed.

As Ron dropped anchor in five feet of water, Dolly walked to the water-skiing platform on the stern of the boat and dove in. With summer not yet fully in swing, the coastal water was still refreshingly cool. When she surfaced, she saw Ron talking on the cell phone again.

“When?” He pulled out a P.D.A. and checked his calendar. “OK. What’s the tee time?” she heard him ask. “How’d the caddie auction go? Got good ones?” he said to the caller, a silly grin on his face. “Make sure they’re crowd pleasers. Gotta go. Bye.”

Ron saw that Dolly was bobbing in the water a few yards away. He walked to the stern of the boat with an insulated plastic cooler. “Can you get this to shore OK?” he asked her. “Don’t worry. It’s waterproof. It’s OK if a little water gets on it.”

“Sure, no problem,” Dolly replied, and waded to shore with the cooler. She walked up the beach a few yards and deposited it in the shade of a grove of graceful palmetto trees. Looking back at the boat, she could see that Ron had placed a large picnic basket and a blanket on the ski platform. She watched as he shed his shirt and jumped in the water himself. Reaching up, he placed the blanket on the basket, the basket on his muscular shoulders, and waded ashore.

“And what is a caddie auction?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. Ron gave her a sheepish smile. “Uh, pretty girls who are working as golf caddies for a charity golf match next month. You know, sit there, look cute, drive the golf carts for the guys. I had to set up a foursome for some clients of mine.”

“Do you mean one of the topless golf tournaments like they had last month?” The First Annual Myrtle Beach Topless Golf Tournament had received national attention when the ministers and churches of Myrtle Beach raised a huge stink about the event. The news about the protests made all the national news networks. Community pressure – and the strong opposition to the event by the city fathers – forced the cancellation of the tournament.

However, once the furor died down, the tournament – now with a million dollars’ worth of free national publicity behind it – was quietly rescheduled for a month later. This time there was no public notice, and tickets were available only through the local strip clubs – and then only if you knew whom to ask.

Dolly knew. One of her girlfriends had worked at a club that sponsored the tournament. From what she reported, a few lines of coke and a hundred-dollar tip quickly turned many of the topless caddies into bottomless sex toys long before they reached the last hole.

“Well, more or less,” Ron admitted. “But it’s not illegal, and I have to entertain these guys. They come down here from Canada, New York, and New Jersey, and if I don’t show ‘em a good time, they’ll buy their condos from somebody else who will.”

Dolly wasn’t thrilled with the admission, but at least he hadn’t lied to her. She was realistic enough to know that showing and selling tits and ass was a basic commodity in the Redneck Riviera.

Dolly set out the blanket under the trees and opened the wicker basket. It was lined with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth and filled with linen napkins and an amazing array of delicacies. Dolly could hardly believe her eyes. The feast included so many new foods that she had to ask what they were: shrimp-salad and smoked-salmon miniature sandwiches; small chunks of ahi – Sushimi-grade yellowfin tuna with soy sauce and Wasabi paste; pink ginger root, sliced paper-thin; a chilled mango-and-peach fruit salad; fresh brioche with brie, Camembert, and Edam cheeses; and for dessert, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.

When Ron opened the cooler, Dolly saw the label of her favorite French champagne, Moët et Chandon. It was her favorite because it was the only French champagne she’d ever tasted – courtesy of Ron on their first boating date two weeks earlier.

“What’s the green paste?” Dolly asked.

“It’s Wasabi. Green Japanese horseradish. Cures what ails you,” he said with a big smile. “Use it in very small quantities until you get used to it. But once you do, you’ll be spoiled forever.”

Dolly fumbled with the chopsticks he provided until Ron intervened. “Here’s how to hold them,” he said, placing his hand on hers to show her how to hold and move the sticks. His hand was warm. She smiled. Within minutes, Dolly – the poor country girl from tobaccoland – was picking up pieces of slippery tuna with ease. “Take the ahi and dip it in the soy sauce and then in the Wasabi. Go real easy on the Wasabi. It’ll curl your hair if you take too much.”

Dolly picked up a piece of the dark-pink tuna, dunked it in the soy sauce, and then coated it with the Wasabi paste. Just before she popped it into her mouth, Ron intercepted the morsel, and it dropped into her plate.

“What?????” Dolly yelped in surprise.

“The Wasabi. It’s the best of the best – full strength, right out of the tube. Straight from Japan. Not from powder. A tube of it will power a nuclear aircraft carrier for a year. You picked up a two-week supply on your first bite. A tenth of that will clean out your sinuses for a month.” He scraped most of the green sauce off the chunk of fish and handed it back to her. “Try it this way,” he said.

Dolly shot him a puzzled look, placed the fish in her mouth, and started to chew the succulent morsel. The ahi was delicious – sweet flesh and a delight on the tongue. The soy sauce was a familiar taste. Then, after three chews, the Wasabi’s aromatic vapors kicked in and made their way into her nasal cavities. It was a sensory experience like no other she’d ever experienced. Her eyes crossed. She felt as if steam were blowing out of her ears. Her brain went into overload from over-stimulation. Her mouth didn’t burn – it merged directly with her nervous system, and Dolly experienced her first culinary orgasm.

“Holy mackerel!” she said, looking at Ron in amazement. “What do they put in that stuff?”

“It’s all natural. Just pure horseradish. What do you think?”

Dolly’s jaw was still hanging open, her eyes as big as saucers. It was an amazing experience. She had suffered from a stuffed-up head every spring and summer from pollen allergies. But now, Dolly knew, she had the antidote. Her sinuses were totally clear, and she could breathe freely again. She looked at Ron with astonishment.

“Good stuff, huh?” he asked with a chuckle, leaned over, and kissed her. Dolly barely noticed the touch of his lips. She was still somewhere between shock and heaven. With her previous boyfriends, Dolly was happy if they sprang for a steak, fries, and some red wine before they put the make on her. Whatever other nice surprises this guy’s got prepared for me, she thought, I’m ready.

She looked at the FunTastic, rolling gently twenty yards offshore. “Tell me more about your business, Ron,” she said. “It looks like you’ve been very successful.”

“It’s not very interesting, Dolly, but I earn a good living. Condos. The Grand Strand is a real estate salesman’s dream. We have everything: forty miles of sun, sand, world-class golf, the Pavilion, waterslides, mini-golf, family oriented reviews and stage shows, seafood restaurants, dance clubs, and nightlife,” he said.

Just as he finished his sentence, his cell phone rang. Dolly was dismayed that he had even brought it ashore during their intimate lunch.

“Hi there, beaut..., uh, just a minute, please,” he said to the caller. “Sorry,” Ron said to Dolly. “I gotta take this.”

Dolly sighed. Men, she thought. They’re all obsessed with business, recalling a former lover who stopped in mid-stroke to answer his cell phone two seconds before Dolly would have gone over the top. They never change.

Ron immediately switched his focus from Dolly to the caller, and briskly walked away to the privacy of the palmetto trees to talk to his...who? Her name started with “beaut....,” as in “beautiful,” which is what he seemed to call every woman. Was it another girlfriend? A daughter? Business partner? Wife? Client? Dolly wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

In a few minutes he returned. “Sorry ‘bout that,” Ron said, a conciliatory smile on his face “Let’s see, where were we?”

Well, Dolly thought, we were about to have a romantic lunch and get a little drunk on the champagne. I was going to lay out in the sun. You were going to offer to put some suntan lotion on me. I was going to unsnap the top of my bikini. You were going to rub the oil all over my back. I was going to get horny and roll over. You were going to see proof of how aroused I was. Then you were going to nibble me all over, slip off the bottom of my bikini, nibble away some more, and then screw me silly. Then I was going to roll you over on your back and return the favor.

Dolly gave Ron a noncommittal smile. But those two stupid cell phone conversations with other women in the middle of our romantic rendezvous just torpedoed your love boat, she thought. I hope you enjoyed that fancy cocktail I made for you, Ron, because it’s as close to sex on the beach you’re going to get today. For the rest of this afternoon, all you’re going to get is smiles, polite conversation, and plenty of time to fantasize about what you were soooooo close to having all afternoon: me minus my bathing suit.