Matecumbe (9 page)

Melissa’s first impression of Key West was that it was a cross between Bourbon Street in New Orleans and Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.

Key West’s steamy weather, the narrow streets, and the mix of black and white bodies in various stages of undress—bikinis, Bermuda shorts, and tee shirts galore—put it on a definite par with New Orleans’ French Quarter.

A preponderance of sidewalk restaurants, large yachts berthed just off the main street, and oddly costumed street people were reminiscent of San Francisco’s waterfront.

Joe told her that the best sightseeing plan would be to drive through the most interesting parts of town prior to any walking they might do later. And while they were cruising in the car, Melissa noticed just as many bicycles and mopeds vying for roadway space as there were automobiles.

“Ernest Hemingway lived right over there,” Joe pointed, “in that big house behind the red brick fence. He was a cat fancier, just like you. We can take a tour through the house during our stay, if you like. There are still about fifty cats that roam the grounds. Legend has it they’re all descendants of the pets that Ernest once owned.”

Farther on, in Mallory Square, at the center of the tourist area, Joe drove by the Key West Aquarium, where the featured attraction was a large, open swimming pool for sharks.

Close by the aquarium was the John James Audubon building, which contained an exhibit of colorful and finely detailed bird paintings—all done by America’s foremost ornithologist. Melissa could tell at a glance, from the realism of the feathers, beaks, and eyes, that Audubon had dedicated thousands of hours to bird watching. She also knew that he painted from the carcasses of the birds he had killed.

The easy and informative way that Joe described the importance of the local sites was impressive to Melissa. The more he talked, the more intelligent he seemed. And although the true essence of Key West may be more honky-tonk than haute couture, Joe’s descriptive commentaries—on the early Key West pirates, their jewelry, and their galleons— infused an aura of anecdotal history that rivaled the tales associated with Russia’s Winter Palace, with England’s Tower of London, or with Greece’s Parthenon.

Likewise, his knowledgeable dissertation on Key West’s homesteaders made him appear kin to dozens of scholarly Sunday afternoon lecturers that Melissa had chanced hearing on her casual visits to renowned museums in New York and Philadelphia.

Jutting out from the southernmost tip of the island was a long fishing pier, about five times the size of the Seascaper’s. After Joe stopped the car at the entrance to the pier, he and Melissa began walking toward the far end, arm-in-arm—as if sheltering each other from the increasing strength of the wind. They were treading noisily over the wooden planks when he asked her if she were nervous.

“Not as long as you’re with me,” Melissa whispered, confidently, clutching Joe’s shoulder just a little tighter as she spoke.

When they were alone at the pier’s edge, Melissa and Joe ignored the slapping sounds of the sea. Looking instead into each other’s eyes, they knew, right away, what their plans would encompass for the remainder of the day.

The walking tour of Key West, and other forms of outdoor activity, would be put on hold until tomorrow.

It was late afternoon when they pulled up in front of the Cayo Hueso Motel. Not wanting to wait for a room service order, Joe and Melissa had already stopped at a local wine and spirits shop to purchase two large bottles of chilled champagne—as well as a few snacks.

After checking in as Mr. and Mrs. Jones, they toted their own bags to the room—then wasted no time in breaking out the stash of champagne. While they sipped, they also munched on wheat crackers, brie, and fresh strawberries.

For the next twenty minutes, Melissa and Joe sat on the floor of their room, cushioned by a deep pile carpet. After consuming a suitable amount of food, chased by bubbly, both of them seemed extremely loose and comfortable with each other.

They were smiling and joking now, like the winners of a championship game who were lingering in the locker room long after their victory became official.

The champagne had the effect of producing a lilting, laughing tone in both their voices.

Soon they were looking eye-to-eye and holding onto each other’s hands. Alternately, Melissa would pull Joe toward her, and then he would reciprocate, with a brief kiss punctuating every movement. They also took turns pretending that their bodies were limp. Still sitting, they would close their eyes, pivot on the floor, and then trust each other to provide a soft catch of the partner’s head and torso.

Engaging in such joyous frolic reminded Melissa of her grade school playmate, Clarissa. She and Clarissa were drawn together as friends, most likely, because others in their class would always poke fun at how their names were perfect rhymes. She could still see and hear the bratty little boys in third grade as they distorted their faces grotesquely and shouted, “Melissa-Clarissa, Melissa-Clarissa.”

Melissa and her friend would often dance together, assume the roles of homemaking mothers, play patty cake, or just hold each other by the hands and sway, as Joe and she were doing right now.

Suddenly, in the midst of one of her giggles, Melissa sensed Joe’s curlyhaired head resting on her chest. He started nibbling on the large red stripe of her blouse. And, within seconds, Melissa could feel a pleasurable hardening beneath that blouse.

She placed her head against a pillow and grasped her arms around Joe’s massive back. Then she began to experience a powerful warmth and comfort as his hand slowly started to caress the front of her body, in an exhilarating, circular motion.

The deep hum of pleasure that Melissa exhaled was a natural response. It was also, however, a signal to Joe that he needn’t stop.

“Ooh, that’s good,” Melissa mumbled, quietly, close to Joe’s ear.

Then, deftly, he slid his left hand under her blouse, massaging her bare, taut tummy before edging his fingers slightly higher, to an area where, on most days, Melissa would have been wearing a bra.

Swiftly, his lips moved to hers, commencing a tender kiss. Their tongues met, darting about inside their coupled mouths, seemingly in rhythm now with Joe’s hands, which were passionately squeezing the soft erogenous zone of Melissa’s bust line.

They were strong hands, hardened, she surmised, through the endless gripping of gun barrels, nightsticks, and squad car steering wheels. The very thought of this somehow made Melissa even more excited.

By now, Melissa’s mind had begun to wander somewhere among her long forgotten teenage fantasies. Her womanly desires for Joe were transcending all vestiges of pure thought and proper instinct. At moments like these, she realized, the basic cravings of hunger, thirst, and logical reasoning are like badly beaten also-rans in a long distance foot race.

Melissa wanted dearly to be able to respond—by touching—to Joe’s signals of desire. She reached for his belt buckle, flipped it open, and slid her right hand downward alongside his thigh, skin touching skin.

Compared to Brady, he had much stronger muscles on his legs. There were fewer strands of hair, she thought, but they were smoother to her touch.

Meanwhile, using both his hands in what seemed like one quick motion, Joe proceeded to grasp at the elastic of Melissa’s skirt and panties, yanking downward. He eased his reclining body toward hers and then pulled her clothing skyward over the tips of her outstretched feet.

Tossing this bundle aside, he then used his tongue to tickle her slowly along the upward reaches of her knees.

“I need this, Joe, I need this oh-so badly,” she told him.

After he gently lowered her legs to the carpet, Joe removed his trousers and briefs. He could tell now that she was ready, but he continued with the foreplay.

When Joe felt Melissa starting to tremble, he pressed himself, full length, on top of her. He planted a multitude of kisses on her lips, forehead, cheeks, and nose.

It was soon after they had become one that Melissa, uncharacteristically for her, seemed to begin an immediate climax. As she felt Joe’s warmth envelope her, she lost all sense of time and location. She was unaware that the tips of her fingers were digging deeply into his strongly muscled back.

How many more times, Melissa wondered, would she stare blankly at white ceilings while being covered by this gentle yet muscular man? And how many more times would she sigh inwardly, and scream outwardly, with such consummate delight?

For several minutes after his release, neither of them seemed able to move so much as an eyebrow. Joe seemed to have used every last bit of strength in his successful efforts to please. And though Melissa still tingled with a special excitement, the day’s activities, both indoors and out, had rendered her as exhausted as her newfound lover.

With heads now resting on each other’s shoulders and their breathing still heavy, they clung together tightly, like two inseparable spoons stacked in a drawer full of silverware.

Eventually, Joe stood. Then, reaching down confidently for Melissa’s hand, he led her over toward the king-sized bed.

After sliding themselves feet-first beneath a summery blanket, they caressed and pushed their lips together for one more kiss, summoning sleep.

Paul’s generosity continued.

Mary Ann and the girls selected new wardrobes during an all-day shopping spree in Philadelphia. As well, five new beds were delivered to Mary Ann’s apartment, replacing the beach chairs.

The good times increased, too. The girls always looked forward to those evenings when Paul would take his new “family” out for dinner. As a group, they were adventurous when ordering from their menus—taking foods they had never before eaten, such as lobster and veal, and allowing each of their sisters to share a taste.

During one of Mary Ann’s weekly visits to Paul’s house, she took snapshots of every room so that she could show them to her daughters.

In the early part of May, Paul announced that he would be taking Mary Ann and the girls on a trip during the upcoming Memorial Day weekend.

“We’ll be going to Ocean City, New Jersey, in about three weeks,” Paul shouted, like an enthusiastic coach. “Will everybody be ready for the beach and the boardwalk?”

Although Mary Ann knew she would enjoy the intimacy that would be part of a weekend alone with Paul, she was glad the girls were coming along. She realized that they would have fun, but she was also somewhat relieved that sex between her and Paul would be impossible—since the kids would be staying in the same hotel suite.

In the back of her mind, Mary Ann always feared getting involved with yet another man who would demand sex constantly. Her ex-husband terrified her with his non-stop need for sex. In comparison, she now had a degree of freedom, living the life of an unmarried woman, with no live-in lover. Before Paul came into her life, she would “stray,” as she put it, only once or twice a year.

When she was about ten years old, Mary Ann had her breasts fondled by one of her uncles, but she never told her parents about the incident. In the intervening years, she purposely excluded from her memory all thoughts of male family members, possibly blocking the recollection of additional incidents with the same uncle.

The child abuse in her past, Mary Ann believed, may be the reason she never experienced orgasms such as those she had read about or been told of by other women.

“I’ve never screamed during sex,” Mary Ann admitted to Paul, “and I probably never will.”

The boat ride on the Sunday before Memorial Day was the highlight of the entire weekend—as far as the girls were concerned. Five miles off the coast of Ocean City, they had their first experience with deep-sea fishing.

All told, their group boated two dozen sea bass, a scattering of sea robins and junkfish, and three small flounder.

The next day, their visit with “Lucy The Elephant” excited Mary Ann even more than it did the kids.

“Lucy,” an imposing, three-story-high former hotel adjacent to the beach, was constructed in the shape of an elephant. Inside were antique slot machines that dispensed commemorative coins for every win. With a total investment of six dollars, Mary Ann was able to coax the machines into giving up four of the large, elephant-decorated coins—one for each of her girls.

Whenever they walked the boardwalk that weekend, Mary Ann and the girls would collect armfuls of stuffed animals—as a result of playing wheel spins, coin toss games, and assorted carnival teasers. Paul tried his hand, too, but without any luck.

Melissa was proud of the pink flamingo she won by knocking three bottles off a stand with a single pitch of a softball. The operator of the game tried to give her a larger stuffed flamingo, but Melissa had insisted on the smaller version.

“He has a sad face, Mommy,” Melissa commented. “I’ll make him happy.”

At the conclusion of their vacation, during the long drive home, the girls were busy with their drawing and crayon coloring in the back of Paul’s new station wagon. At least two of Mary Ann’s girls seemed to have legitimate artistic ability.