Holidays in the Sun

Well, with me being a part-time fitness freak, I first swam twenty relatively leisurely lengths of the pool, enjoying having it all to myself. Then, suitably thirsty, I ignored all of the freely available sun-loungers and plonked my wet ass on a tall bar stool.

Did I mention that poolside was a topless zone? Probably not, but it was. Right then the pool was free of people but at least half of the loungers were occupied by bare-chested women.

Who was I to protest about that!

Topless myself, I smiled at the stunningly attractive barmaid. She was wearing cut-off denims and that sort of crisp white blouse that proclaims authority. This was her territory and everybody knew it.

I ordered a "pint" of the local cerveza, which she served up with a dazzling, glittery smile.

Goodness me, but she was attractive. I had planned to have a drink, swim a few more lengths, have a drink and so on, but Maria was way too beautiful to leave even for ten minutes' pool time. Ditching my best intentions I stayed right there at the bar, making small talk all afternoon. Not that I openly flirted.

Not much, anyway, and who could blame me in any case?

Maria was way beyond gorgeous: dark, Hispanic and utterly stacked. Never mind those teeth, all the rest of her couldn't fail to impress. Her command of the English language was excellent. And those deep brown eyes . . .

I lost count of how many times I fell into them.

Eventually, around five in the afternoon, I felt the need for food. I'd eaten brunch on the plane but was in need of something more substantial. So I asked my new friend where I could find a nice steak.

'The best place for steak on the island is not far away,' Maria assured me.

She named an (unsurprisingly) Argentinian steak house and I picked up my phone and Manuel's card.

Maria rolled her naturally beseeching eyes. 'Oh,' she said, 'he's got to you, has he?'

Frowning, I said, 'Manuel, you mean?'

'Yeah, he'll be still at the airport right now. You'll be waiting for ever. And it's only a five minute walk in the first place.'

'This Manuel's notorious, is he?'

'No, he's my brother. He's only notorious amongst his own family.' Maria chuckled. 'Those cards don't get given out like confetti. Manuel only goes for good-lookers. Like you, obviously.'

I heated up inside at that, secretly glad Maria thought I was a looker. The opinion was very mutual.

In fact I only wished I knew the pros and cons of same-sex on Lanzarote. Did the Church still rule all aspects of sexual behaviour for the locals? Or had the antics of zillions of visiting Brits, Germans and Dutch rubbed off?

Not to mention the squillions of Irish and French.

'I won't call him,' I said carefully. 'If it's only five minutes I'll save the environment and walk. Well, I will if you tell me where I'm going.'

'Out of the main door, straight down the hill and take a right when you hit the main road. You'll find the place not fifty metres away, on this side of the road.'

'Do you want to come with me?' my mouth blurted. 'I'm paying,' I added, wondering if I was blushing.

'I'd love to but I'm here for another two hours. Maybe we can do it some other time.'

I smiled back at Maria, a slave to her attraction. 'Now you've done it. I'm going to hold you to that.'

'Please do. Now go. I can hear your tummy rumbling from here.'

Chapter Four

The steak house was unmissable. It had a big wooden cut-out of a bull hanging over the sidewalk and a pair of unreasonably large horns there over the door. And by large, I mean, very, very large. Anyone running into one of them on its charging, original owner would do well to survive.

And I'd thought billy goats were dangerous!

Dauntless, caring not about being out alone, I went in through saloon-style swing doors.

And I was instantly greeted by a waitress who could have been Maria's twin. Turned out Camila was a genuine Argentinian. She met me with the full force of her beautiful personality, asking me if I'd prefer to eat outside or in. I went for outside and she led me to a table on a terrace; most likely the very best they had, not taking into account me being on my lonesome at a cover for four.

There again, it was still relatively early . . .

'Is it beer or wine?' she asked when I was seated.

I had been drinking beer all afternoon so opted for wine.

'We have a great Pinot noir,' she enthused. 'It's particularly apt for red meat.'

Yet again I marvelled at other nationalities' abilities to speak English. As a vet I knew Latin and, as a schoolgirl, I'd done French. But as a tourist my Spanish was, to say the least, patchy. Truth be told, I wasn't far beyond "muchos" and "gracia".

'I'll go for it if it's apt,' I replied. 'And I'll go for the Big One,' I added, pointing at an entry on the menu.

'Gracious me,' said Camila, beaming widely. 'There's always a hero, isn't there?'

She wasn't joking, either. My meal arrived with great ceremony and had to weigh at least a pound, not counting the chips, which came in a separate bowl, together with another brimming glass of red.

Believe you me, when Camila passed me my second vino I could have kissed her.

There again, I could have kissed her on first sight. How hot was she!

Hot enough to make me linger and swill countless more glasses of vino, that was for sure.

Containing my baser instincts (somehow) I waved my newest favourite waitress farewell and strolled back up the hill to my hotel. And yes, it was only five minutes. Well, it was on the way down. Maybe it was a bit longer on the way back up.

To my disappointment the poolside bar was closed and shuttered (mind you, by then it was getting on eight o'clock and sunshine was no longer an issue). Halfway drunk but still in control, I decided to pay a call into the general bar.

And what a sound decision that was. The barmaid in there was yet another Hispanic beauty, this time one who rivalled Penelope Cruz. No, perhaps she even surpassed the delicious Ms Cruz.

She certainly did later, in my dreams.

*****

Somewhat predictably, I did my best to engage Estela in conversation and didn't do too badly. Estela was younger than me but seemed older, if that makes sense. She clearly knew how to run a bar, even if it was a troublemaker-free bar. She also knew how to mildly flirt with a semi-drunk (as I was by then) and how to fob her off.

Sadly!

Limiting myself to three more drinks I bade the latest Hispanic goddess goodnight, assuring her that I would be back to see her tomorrow. Sozzled as I was, I was still grateful Estela didn't laugh out loud at that. Maybe she was too professional or . . . just maybe . . . she wanted to see me again.

As if she had a lot of choice; what with fourteen days ahead of me and nowhere better to go.

Okay, okay, so perhaps other options were available.

But better than the three I'd just experienced . . . very unlikely.

Make that very, very unlikely indeed.

Staggering a little, I made it upstairs to my room (417, the same as my unpaid general bar bill; the one that would be running up and up for the next fortnight).

Cue minor miracle! My key-card worked first time. Locking the door behind me I went to the bathroom and peed for England. Then I slumped on the bed and wondered why I didn't instantly fall asleep.

Girls were in my head; that was why; lots and lots of girls.

I hate to admit this but, mostly pissed as I was, I masturbated that night. Initially I focused on the sexy airline stewardess who'd served me breakfast and two vodka and oranges. She might have lasted as long as five minutes and was then replaced by Maria.

Now I do feel guilty in saying that. Compared to a nameless stewardess it seems unfair to identify one very specific person.

In fact it seems like sacrilege.

Yet sacrilege or not, I frigged myself thinking solely about that beautiful poolside barmaid. That lasted for maybe twenty minutes. Then, after three or four minutes of well-deserved recovery time, I frigged myself thinking about Camila. That lasted more like half an hour, giving me pause for thought.

Maria was easily as divine as Camila. How the hell could I cum so quickly thinking about her?

More to the point, why was frigging myself thinking about Estela even longer lasting?

Don't ask me for answers. I'd been in Lanzarote half a day and knew absolutely no-one, apart from a handful of new, exceptionally casual acquaintances.

And they were all straight.

Well, weren't they?

I used the word "guilt" a little earlier. Please understand that I didn't feel any guilt about fantasising; I never have regrets. As far as I'm concerned, focusing on a sexy babe as I do the deed, taking myself to heaven and back, isn't abusive or demeaning to anyone.

Far as I'm concerned it's the highest compliment of all.

Chapter Five

I woke in confusion. That is to say I could recall bringing myself off on multiple occasions and I dearly wished that I could do it all over.

Make that maybe five or six times over.

Yet I'd forgotten to pull the thick blinds and the blazing sun was already high in the sky. I hadn't come here to sleep, had I? Not in a hotel room, anyway. If I was going to siesta I'd do it poolside, on one of those loungers.

Yes, out there, surrounded by lots and lots of bare tits!

Hit by unexpected hunger pangs I hastily showered, pulled on pale-blue denim shorts and a flimsy top then set off on a course for breakfast.

As another aside (yes I know I limited myself to one), my short-notice, cut-price package included one meal: "breakfast". Nice as it was, the hotel's idea of "breakfast" hardly matched a traditional English or Irish version. Unlike all the neighbouring bars, the hotel seemed to think toast and tea was adequate.

I took one look at the "continental" fare on offer and politely walked out, smiling at the beauty there on reception before heading downhill. Strange smelling coffee, weird-flavoured jam and rolls . . .

My ass!

Following the same route as the previous evening I passed the unbelievable steak house and stopped at the first bar/café with a "breakfast" sign written in English (trust me, I did not have to walk very far at all). Taking a table right there at the roadside, shaded by an overhead awning, half-heartedly flapping in an as good as non-existent breeze, I was slightly miffed to be served by a male waiter.

Crap! In my imagination the town was brim-full of dusky goddesses in café's and bars, and I definitely wouldn't have minded meeting another.

No, make that several others.

That said, the guy was polite and cheerful and spoke my lingo like a native of the UK. I ordered fried eggs, sausages (imported from England), bacon, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and real baked beans (also imported from England).

'What would you like with it; tea, coffee or cerveza?'

'Cerveza,' said I without hesitation. It might only be ten in the morning but somewhere in the world the sun was well over the yardarm.

Surely it was.

And after all, I was here on holiday . . .

*****

I'm not going to waste time giving details of those first few days. Let's just say that a pattern emerged. I woke up at nine in the morning and breakfasted in that same bar/café down the road. Then I'd return to the hotel and swim, drink beer and chat to Maria until maybe six in the evening. Then it was time to go visit the steak house, pig out and leer at Camila. After that it was back to the hotel's general bar to run my best chat-up lines past Estela.

As if any of them bore any material results! School report opinion: Must try harder.

And then it was bedtime. Meaning it was time to frig myself half crazy, fantasising about the three new and exceedingly lovely women in my life.

(The air stewardess didn't get a look-in after that first night. She was fading from my memory bank as the others became ever more memorable every time I saw them. And, if anyone is worrying about my diet . . . please don't. I varied the cuts of steak each time and always went for a different side salad.)

Not that I varied the chips. Those Argies seem to have as big a fixation on chips as us Brits! Perhaps even bigger . . . Unless they are deliberately winding us up.

In all honesty my three budding courtships showed little progress in those early days. I had got half a promise of a date out of Maria but little more. Although friendships were definitely being made I didn't have a clue how they may finally work out. I wasn't even sure if any of them were sexually interested. All said and done, the three of them were decidedly people-persons, so it was hard to see beyond the customer-facing façade.

Or maybe I was so badly out of practice I was missing signals.

Worse still, maybe I really was the only unattached lesbian on the whole island.

My nightly self-attentions increased as my uncertainty grew.

I have to do something, somehow, I concluded late Sunday night, before drifting off to sleep.

But in the circumstances, what could I do?

Was there anything I possibly could do?

The questions were soul-destroying.

Then, abruptly, everything changed.

*****

Monday morning I checked out my tan in the bedroom mirror. Big mistake! I regularly use the sunbed in my local gym, keeping myself evenly presentable all year round. But now, after just three and a half days in the Canaries, I was noticeably lighter where my bikini bottoms provided a degree of modesty.

How unfair was that! And how striking was the difference going to be by the end of next week?

Frowning at my reflection, I remembered a story I'd once read. A globetrotting lesbian couple had the same issue with white bits. Their solution was to find a remote Australian beach and sunbathe naked for a month or so.

That's what I'd do. I'd find a remote beach and sunbathe naked for a while. I might even cover my tits and legs to give the sun a better chance of evening things out. A few hours every few days should do the trick. And I could always cram in extra sessions towards the end of my holiday.

Vain of me, I know. But I wanted girls to look at me in the gym showers. And I wanted to look good for them.

So I breakfasted as usual then, instead of going back to the hotel, I walked in the opposite direction. I was on what I considered to be the promenade. Having crossed the (scarily) busy road the beach was to my left and the shops, bars and cafes were over twenty yards away, across a noisy and unremitting two-way tide of traffic, all driving very fast on the wrong side, as foreigners do.

At first the beach was packed. There were sun-loungers and pedalos for hire along with a lot of beach bars open for business. But, as I steadily progressed the number of tourists began to dwindle. Taking that as an encouraging sign I got off the promenade and walked on the hot sand instead.

There were, I believed, naturist beaches on the island. I didn't know where, exactly, and I didn't fancy trying one. Naturist beaches would be full of male pervs out to get an eyeful of pussy. But not mine on this occasion. No way.

I'll spare you the details of my sandy trek. Let's just say that after about an hour there was nobody to be seen. I pressed on for another ten minutes, rounding a headland and finding myself in a cove with a low, V-shaped cliff protecting it.

Perfect! Without further ado I stripped naked and, forgetting to cover other body parts, lay on the sand as naked as the day I was born.

Heavenly; it was heavenly. Maria would be wondering where I was but I could catch up with her later, perhaps drag her out for that long-awaited steak.

A long-awaited steak and maybe, just maybe . . .

Enchanted by the tranquillity of the location, I yawned. But before I could nod off a movement caught my attention; a movement maybe fifty yards offshore.

Puzzled, I raised myself onto my elbows and had a closer look.

Initially I supposed I had spotted a seal (assuming they had seals in Lanzarote). But it was coming my way, whatever it was and, as I watched, I realized it was a human head.

How far out has that nutter been? I thought. Then less curiously: And why has he picked on my patch of paradise? Why can't everybody leave me alone?

Then the miracle occurred. About twenty yards out my unwelcome visitor stopped swimming in order to stand and walk in the shallows. And it wasn't a male nutter; it was undoubtedly a female.

Readers of a certain age may recall the impact Ursula Andress had in one particular James Bond film. For anyone who hasn't seen the clip Ursula (Honey Ryder according to the script) came out of the sea to Sean Connery's utter delight . . . and to the utter delight of millions worldwide, of course.

Back in the day Ursula was clad in a flimsy white bikini and a matching British Army belt with a sheath on it, holding a wicked-looking knife. The vision emerging before me was unarmed and wasn't clad in anything at all.

And she really was a vision. Everything about her was shapely. Her motion was both rhythmic and as assured as if she was choreographed. More to the point, she was sashaying in my direction.

Not that her greeting was as enticing as her appearance. 'What are you doing on my beach?' she said aggressively.

'I found it first,' I protested, immediately aware that I most likely hadn't; that her clothes were probably hidden behind some rock or other.

'I own the bloody thing,' she retorted. 'It's private property. Didn't you see the sign?'

Oh crap, this wasn't going the way I'd hoped!

Thinking on my feet (or rather mostly on my ass) I tried to come up with a placating response. As well as being devastatingly beautiful the girl was only too English. She was younger than me as well. How could this youngster "own" a whole effing beach here, of all places?

Best I could come up with wasn't much. 'If the sign was in Spanish I guess I couldn't understand it.'

To my surprise the vision suddenly laughed. 'Don't worry,' she said, 'I'm not really mad at you. In fact I'm glad to see a new, very pretty face. Fancy a drink?'

Chapter Six

I realized two things as I clambered up to my feet: I was as stark naked as my hostess and I was very visibly aroused. Put bluntly, my nipples were the size of thimbles and my groin was even wetter than it was hot.

'I'm Charley,' I mumbled apologetically. 'I'm pleased to meet you.'

'I'm Isobel,' she replied. 'But you can call me Izzy. I'm pleased to meet you, too. Come on, let's go get that drink.'

I gathered my scattered belongings, casting around the cove as I did so. It was totally deserted. As far as I could remember the nearest bar was a mile away, at least. 'Where precisely are we going?' I said as I made to put on my bikini bottoms and shorts.

'Ah, ah,' Izzy countered. 'This is the age of equality. I'm naked, so you have to be as well.'

'We might struggle to get served au naturel.'

'We're not going to try to get served. We're going to my place.'

'Where is it?' I asked, casting around once more.

'Over there,' said Izzy, pointing to a seemingly sheer rock face.

Intrigued, carrying my clobber, I accompanied her up the sand and was amazed to see a cleft emerge out of the cliff. And, through the cleft, I could see a one-storey building perhaps fifty yards away. In the sunshine it was white and well-appointed, shining dazzlingly, as though it was actually a light source.

'This is where you live?' I marvelled.

'I live in Notting Hill. This is my home from home.'

I studied her anew. She was taller than me (always a turn-on!) and couldn't possibly be thirty yet. She was also still wet from the ocean. Her nipples were slightly shrivelled due to the sea temperature and it was hard to determine her hair colour. I guessed at dark blonde and wondered if she'd been closely examining my nips in return.