Beach Reading

She listened to the recording constantly, or so I hoped. I wanted her to play it back to herself dozens of times and re-live those three minutes of ecstasy. Three minutes, because that was all my cell phone would record.

I imagined even then, though we had spent only a few hours in each other's company, that she would want to remember it like I did, and with a kind of foresight I rarely possessed I grabbed my phone, pressed the correct buttons, and then positioned it on the nightstand beside the bed and captured the sound of us together. The next day I forwarded the recording to her number as if she were a co-conspirator in my reckless fantasy. And so I imagined her pushing the buttons on her own phone, holding it to her ear, and then again listening to everything.

There was the bed moving that particular way, painting a clear picture of our motion together. There was the sound of her high heels (which I insisted she keep on) occasionally brushing on the sheets. There was the sound of her breathing that built like a long crescendo, and her sighs that urged me to keep pace and fill her completely with each plunge.

I wanted her to listen to all of it and think about the details: the barely audible squeak in the bed, the waves breaking outside on the beach, and even the air-conditioning quietly whispering in the background.

But what I really wanted her to hear again was the abrupt and unexpected silence just before the end of the recording. That silence was from when I pulled out of her, and then from the startling thing I did next with her...

I knew even at the time it was that damn book at work. That trashy novel I was reading had invaded my thoughts and was making me view her and myself differently. That book, in spite of its ridiculous plot and silly characters, worked and invaded my mind, and so when I stopped, pulled out of her and looked down at her I saw something I didn't expect. In that silence we were both half real, half fiction.

****************************

I was bold and vain in many respects. I felt I was connected to this beauty even before I had a chance to learn her name. The first time I glimpsed the way she sat on the couch in the hotel's lobby and held her book carefully with both hands, I felt I knew something about her. I studied and measured the way she seemed totally focused on the pages of the novel and off in her own dream, and I felt I understood her in way that other people were unable to... I put a carefully chosen phrase to her: She's surreptitiously passionate, I thought.

I sat near her, waiting for my morning coffee to show up, trying not to look in her direction for fear I would break the spell and intrude on her self-contained world. From the short distance away I considered the cover of the book that kept her so absorbed and memorized the title and author's name for reference at some later point. I smiled to myself as I gathered that the two long dark shapes on the cover were actually a woman's legs dressed with fishnet stockings, and the little shimmery ends were some variety of outrageously sexy high heels.

With nothing else for evidence, I jumped to a ridiculous conclusion about her - and what she wanted in a romantic partner. A book with a cover like that was for a particular type of girl. That was what I imagined, anyway.

But the real mystery to me was her solitude. Where was her boyfriend or husband? This was, after all, one of those paradise escapes that couples dreamed of, and it hardly seemed likely that events would transpire to bring someone like her here alone... Her blonde hair did all the more to advertise her presence and set her apart from the others that milled about; she was impossible for me to ignore and I couldn't believe that she was here without company.

My drink arrived, served in a perfect little cup and saucer with sterling-silver accouterments for sugar cubes and cream, just as a person would expect from such a resort. I took in its smell and relaxed, thinking for the hundredth time that this getaway served-up a bewildering assortment of characteristics. I kept waiting for a mosquito or an insect of some sort to land on my arm -- but there were none. That was a benefit of such a small island: it seemed all the negatives were engineered out by man or nature.

My mind was sliding into a meditation then... I listened to the gentle break of the waves, heard an occasional splash from someone jumping into the nearby swimming pool, and tried to detect the language being spoken by a group of young children that scurried through. I dropped a sugar cube into my coffee and stirred. I wondered perhaps if their giggles were tinged with a Russian accent. How out of place, I thought...

Suddenly, I noticed her looking at me from that small distance away, her book to the side for one moment. She gave me a disarming glance, as if she could read my thoughts, and yet I felt that my distracted half-smile in return showed me as a nonevent. There was a polite smile from her and then her eyes were quickly off mine and back to her much more interesting reading material; I had clearly missed a chance to engage her, or at least make a few seconds of harmless tourist-style banter. I might even have learned her name.

The name I did have, however, was the author printed in bright lipstick-red on the cover of the book that consumed all of her energy. I finished my drink, signed the bill thinking that I had budgeted for only one week of this extravagance, and yet I couldn't resist another long glance at her as I left and returned to my room. My curiosity was peaked.

Once I was ensconced behind my desk I flipped open my computer, connected to the Internet and proceeded to find, purchase and download a copy of the book in question -- The Good Girl's Club. The cover image, with the long fishnet clad legs and sexy high heels, suggested the obvious irony of the title. This book was clearly not about good girls.

**********************************

As I read the first chapters I made mental notes. I tried to approach the book from my mystery girl's point of view, though I knew essentially nothing about her or who she was.

Yet after delving into the novel for an hour or so, there was one aspect of the story that was clear to my jaundiced view: Most of the men were not very interesting characters - with a single exception.

He was a rogue, a rake, and a scoundrel. This character was, to put it gently, an aspiring broker of illicit trades. He was the sometimes comedic villain of the story and occasionally gained an advantage over the 'good girls'; he used his guile and wits to further his own agenda, and he described himself as "a 21st century sextrepreneur." How charming and silly, I thought.

He sometimes even wore a fedora, which I read as a nod to the old feathered pimp-hats that sometimes made an appearance in 1970's cop TV shows and movies. I smiled to myself as I slowly digested the pages, sometimes rolling my eyes at the impossibility of the plot: A group of women are exhausted from working difficult jobs and getting nowhere; they decide to go into business for themselves... as escorts.

It was pure tripe of course, but as I read I came to a conclusion -- I was being pulled in because I cared about the girls and what happened to them. They were passionate and lovable. They made mistakes and had flaws I could sympathize with. I also appreciated the way the author described the sex scenes, which constantly made it seem like the girls actually craved the physicality of their work. They took clients based on attraction. They allowed themselves to break their own rules about touching and connection. They did what they wanted with whom they wanted. I was drawn to them; I saw that through the haze of sex it all meant something beyond mere physical release.

As I 'turned' the pages on my computer I thought back to my aloof vixen, sitting on the couch consuming this same book, and I tried to reconstruct how far she was through the story at that moment when I first glimpsed her - how many pages had she turned in her copy of the book?

I wanted to know where she was when I found her with that transfixed stare. Surreptitiously passionate - I again ran that strange phrase through my head. What scene was unfolding and being given life in her head just at that instant?

I returned to the book. The 'good girls' were at this point having an impromptu meeting in a restaurant, strategizing about how much they should charge for certain acts, and holding their conference out of ear-shot from other Jane and Joe Average types. One of the good girls joked - or was she perhaps serious? -- that with the occasional right guy 'sixty-nine' should be free. Her escort name was Pandora, and she was often the immature girl of the group. The other good girls dismissed her frivolity: "This is for money, Pandora, not just pleasure. Never forget that..." I suddenly decided that this frivolous girl, however lackadaisical and guileless in business, was my new favorite character.

My watch and stomach told me it was close to lunch, and so I gathered myself together, taking a quick survey in the mirror before I headed out. It occurred to me that I might not be my blonde mystery girl's type at all, wondering for the hundredth time if I would see her again. I was presumably handsome, but in fact she might not have a type at all anymore -- some lucky man had doubtlessly earned her devotion and taken her off the market. Still, I hopefully ran my hands through my hair, donned my beach ensemble of swimsuit and collared T-shirt, and closed the door behind me.

I devoured the outdoors lunch buffet by the pool without a single sighting of her. Afterwards, I kept my sunglasses on and between catnaps on a lounge calculated the number of miles I would need to swim to burn off the calories I had just consumed. I laughed to myself, thinking that a Family Circle approved wait time of roughly 40 minutes had expired since I had eaten, and I pulled my shirt from my torso and headed for my swim, scanning the ocean for a spot that looked far enough out to be free of other swimmers, or more accurately, other people that merely treaded water and soaked up the warm ocean water and atmosphere.

I found my would-be lane and took long laps back and forth. The ocean had that otherworldly blue color that when photographed often seems it must be a trick of the camera, but in fact the water is even more lush and inviting in-person. I took occasional views towards the land as I rested and floated at the end of a lap and saw the island differently: the palm trees hid most of the buildings, and the beach seemed like a yellow streak splotched with white umbrellas, lounge chairs, and tan and not-so-tan people. I wondered if my mystery girl was now among these beach goers. Sometimes as I swam a wavelet struck my face unexpectedly and the salt stung in my eyes, but I kept going till the simple repetitive act of my breaststroke pushed the idea of her and her book from my thoughts and there was nothing but the hypnotic motion of my arms and legs and the slowly gaining fatigue from the effort.

Back ashore, I lay again on my lounge and let my thoughts swirl around -- this was how life was supposed to be - I let my breathing settle down and felt the exhaustion of my muscles dissipate into the soothing air until I finally felt my normal self return. Yet I was anxious, even here and now. I wanted to see her again - and I also wanted to return to what was becoming 'our' book in my mind.

That was when I saw her, as if I had wished her back into my world. She was picking over the late afternoon remains of the buffet before it was to be cleared away by the staff - something I might have done, just for another sample of pineapple, were I not still lazy from my swim. From a distance all I recognized were vague forms of her appearance. A nervous thrill shot through me as I unmistakably grasped the push of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the fairness of her skin. I walked to the table attempting to seem nonchalant, scanning the scene for a tell-tale man nearby - or instead (with a bit of luck) a gracious and sociable female friend or two, whom she was on vacation with...

"There's not much left." Her voice, complete with a Texas accent, surprised me. I repeated her words in my head and smiled, noting her voice and the instantly open way she engaged me. I had imagined her as an introvert, giving her my own bent for aloofness and shyness, but in an instant I saw how wrong I was. She was effortless and instantly appealing, yet the accent seemed incongruous with the woman I had painted.

"That's okay," I managed. "Just felt like a couple of grapes or something; wash the saltwater from my mouth."

I found her beautiful. Up close I was noticing details: the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, and the way her eyebrows framed an intelligent expression that seemed to test my tenacity. Could I hold a conversation without devolving into the obvious? She was a beauty: stylish and with a natural appeal that doubtlessly drew men to her by the dozens.

We traded a few absentminded thoughts about the food, the weather and the day. They were the usual neutral topics that people share to pass the time and get to know a small bit about the other, and yet as we talked I was only half in the moment, placing her amongst the 'good girls', trying to imagine which one of the characters in the book most spoke to her, or perhaps even lived a fantasy she wanted for herself. How would she feel about Pandora's idea for an occasional freebie?

And then I made a conversational leap and asked a question that I already knew the answer to... It was a small question with a big ulterior motive.

"What book was that I saw you reading earlier?"

I saw her smile self-consciously, as if yes, there was a surreptitious side to her; a secret that wasn't easily shared. "I'm not usually one to read that kind of book," she said by way of introduction. "It's called The Good Girls Club..."

I felt I had that part right: The book was indeed a passage to other places in her mind. She nearly laughed from embarrassment, perhaps - or maybe because the title suddenly seemed ridiculous.

"How is it?" I pried.

"I can't put it down, actually..." She seemed surprised to say this. "I'm not much with books generally -- not enough time - but I knew I'd need to bring something with me. I just picked it off the shelf. Guess I got lucky with my choice." I noticed a tone that said she wanted to be more of a reader, yet for the lack of time for herself, she had to do without the many novels and stories that I kept in my life over the years.

I knew this was the moment to confess and tell her the truth... I had seen her reading that book and found it for myself. I should have told her: The trashy cover was enticing and alluring -- because you were reading it. I decided to find it and read it for myself. I should have told her: I wanted to know why it absorbed you so much.

But I continued to play dumb and I wondered over my silly manipulation and lie. Why did I not share these simple facts with her?

Our conversation drifted, and I learned more about her and she learned more about me, including my chance appearance here. I was coming back from Hong Kong after a short stay for work, and decided to take a self-indulgent stopover before it was back to the old grind. I landed here only yesterday, and was unfortunately soon to be gone. I looked around surveying the scene, breathing in the air. "How often does someone get the chance to visit the South Pacific?" I asked this rhetorically, and she ardently nodded in assent; I liked her more and more by the minute.

It was a chance trip for her too: She was helping put together marketing material for the resort's corporate owner. A few twists of good luck brought her here as well... I wanted to remark at the happy confluence of events that allowed us to scavenge around the remains of the buffet together, but held my tongue, for once wondering if I assumed too much about her and how she approached this simple conversation.

I wanted to rush forward. I wanted to tell her: I know about the guys and girls in that book you're reading, because I'm reading it to... They fall in lust. They devote afternoons to sex -- sometimes amusingly illicit sex. The girls lay back on their couch, turn on the TV, spread their legs and let the men lick and nuzzle them to their heart's content -- all the while they drift in out of ecstasy and glimpses of old reruns of Murder She Wrote playing in the background. It's ridiculously lusty, hedonistic and nearly brilliant. What does that say about us, wanting to read about sex like that?

I kept my distance from her, however. I did my best to play it cool and kept my secret -- our secret -- to myself.

I thought: it's our book, though you don't know it yet. We have a connection, even if it's just words on a page. For all the world to see we were just a man and a woman sharing an innocent conversation by a buffet table. The rest, whatever it might be, I hoped would come eventually.

****************************

We said our "See you later" good-byes after a while. I didn't want to belabor our meeting or try and insinuate my way into her vacation -- I felt like a hopeless romantic thinking that just the quick touch of her hand on my shoulder was enough to last me for days. I was more curious than ever to catch-up to her place in 'The Good Girls Club'; she was hundreds of pages further along than I, so when I hit my room again, it was straight back to the book.

My favorite male character -- complete with ridiculous fedora hat -- was in the midst of hatching his dastardly plan: he was trying to show the good girls they needed him for protection by setting up a fake police sting, expecting that they would cave into his wishes if his ploy worked and they felt their escort business was vulnerable. He had arranged for an underling to pose as an undercover detective and accost one of the girls in a hotel room; he had outfitted his accomplice with a fake badge, but a real gun...

I was amazed at myself for getting pulled into the drama. It bothered me that the good girls were being duped. I wanted to jump in and save them. I hated to admit it, but I was upset: After delivering his own phony 'rescue' and keeping her out of the hands of the police, the fedora hat wearing anti-hero took his reward with Pandora -- my favorite fun-loving girl.

It was a little too real; a little too honest. The innocent fiction of the book was broken when he put his hands on her: I wanted to keep on pretending that the good girls were living in a world where escorting didn't have a dark side. He was using his power over her in a way that was surprisingly ugly. For whatever reason, I wanted him to eventually redeem himself as a 'good guy', but as he maneuvered her into bed with him, it didn't look like that was ever going to happen.

Their scene together in the hotel room was not easy for me to read; it was manipulative sex. My lust-worthy Pandora was indeed giving a freebie 'sixty-nine' style just as she wanted, but not because of any particular attraction to her partner. He brought her hips over his face, and she read the message and moved her mouth to his cock. I read it as a dark turn in an otherwise carefree book.

I stopped myself: I was falling for a girl that was nothing but words on a page; I saw I had misjudged the emotional weight of everything. The good girls' brand of 'work' did indeed mean something beyond mere physical release, and it had a gravity all of its own.

As I read further I looked for evidence that Pandora had been changed for the worse by the encounter - and yet I found none. She continued on, smiling and with a secret lust she wanted to let out of its cage, but with scant opportunity to do so. I let my thoughts go to her: I wondered over her sex scene with Mr Fedora, and went back and re-read it to look for signs that I had tinged it darker than it was in truth...