The Botox Diaries, page 12
I was never any good at sports. Which is beside the point. “Preliminary exercises for what? And what kind of therapy is this anyway?”
“I’m the Tantric Sex Therapist,” Manuel says grandiosely. “I have a degree if you’d like to see it.”
Hunter and Lucy are still volleying, only they’ve inched forward so the imaginary ball doesn’t have so far to go.
“I’m sure you know Le Retreat is famous for our sex workshops,” Manuel says helpfully. “We have Jungian, Freudian and for our older clients, what we like to call ‘Viagrian’ therapy.”
I would have thought Hunter was too engrossed in his ball game to be listening, but this catches his attention. “I certainly don’t need the Viagra,” he pipes up, missing his volley.
“No, of course not, honey, you’re already a sex machine,” Lucy coos, also quitting the game. Then she turns to me. “Isn’t it amazing that I got Hunter to do tantric sex? Sounded too touchy-feely for him at first. But it’s really about making our orgasms together last and last and last and last.”
“Tantric sex orgasms can go on for hours,” Manuel says dreamily.
Who has that much time? I have trouble finding twenty minutes to wax my legs.
I glance in the direction of the door and Manuel picks up that he has at least one unhappy camper. “Let’s move right along,” he says, snapping out of his reverie. “We can practice with the beach ball or go right to the group orgasm.”
Now there’s a choice I’m eager to make. But I don’t have to. “The group orgasm,” Hunter says gleefully.
That’s it. I’m outta here. “I’m going to take that walk on the beach,” I say. “I think the tide’s in.” Or out. Who cares.
But Manuel braces his strong arm around my shoulders, anchoring me in place. “No, we need you. It takes four to have a really good group orgasm. And I’m starting to feel a very special vibe in this room.”
He reaches for his beach bag, which apparently isn’t holding towels, and pulls out four black silk scarves. He deftly steps behind me, and so quickly that I don’t have time to protest, ties one of the scarves tightly around my eyes. A moment later Lucy and Hunter are both equally secured—I’m just guessing since I can’t see—and Manuel is preparing us to achieve true sexual ecstasy. Without even taking off our clothes.
“Deep breaths, everybody. And now unleash that orgasmic energy.”
Almost immediately, Lucy, doing the best Meg-Ryan-at-the-deli imitation I’ve ever heard, comes first, moaning and groaning and yelping. Hunter, never to be one-upped, joins in, the grunts of his sexual passion even louder and more out of control.
If this is all it takes to have an orgasm, why did I spend $24.95 on that vibrator?
I feel Manuel’s hand on my back. “Release. Release. Join in the pleasure. Feel the ecstasy, young lady.”
Young lady? I want to tell him that I never have an orgasm with someone who doesn’t know my name. Except for that one time in 1982.
Suddenly there’s a marked change in the intensity of Hunter’s Group Orgasm.
“EEYYOOOW!” he screams.
“That’s good! That’s great!” Manuel screams back.
“NO IT’S NOT!” Hunter hollers.
“It is! Trust me! Go, Hunter, go! Ladies, stop and listen to Hunter. That’s how to have an orgasm.”
“IT’S NOT AN ORGASM!” Hunter screams, so loudly that we all simultaneously rip off our scarves and look at him, holding one leg and hopping up and down on the other. “IT’S A CRAMP, GODDAMN IT!”
Lucy immediately drops to her knees and begins massaging what I hope is Hunter’s leg.
Manuel, flustered, rushes to their side. “Do you need a doctor?” he asks. “There’s always one on the premises. We average four heart attacks a week. But not from the sex therapy,” he hastens to add.
“No, that’s okay, I can handle this. It happens all the time,” says Lucy, still massaging but sounding—could it be?—slightly annoyed.
Hunter’s wailing, Lucy’s rubbing, Manuel’s hovering and I’m exiting. Nobody notices as I scoop up my flip-flops and make a hasty getaway, dashing back up the path to the main building. The concierge is waiting for me when I slip in the back way, and he’s holding the keys to my now-ready room. How did he know I was coming this time? A GPS tracking system for each individual guest? I couldn’t even afford one for my Subaru.
“Delighted you’re back,” the concierge says solicitously. “May I escort you upstairs? Your bag is there and the valet has unpacked.” Who asked him to do that? Now everyone will know that my Lacoste look-alike T-shirts came from T. J. Maxx.
My room lacks the silk chaise and teakwood table of the beach palace, but it does boast the largest bed in the smallest space I’ve ever seen. The king-sized—no, this must be czar-sized—four-poster is luxuriously draped with layers of sheer fabric that look like mosquito netting. I’m hoping they’re there for the romantic effect and not to keep out czar-sized bugs. Since I missed our snack, I follow the sweet scent of fresh papaya over to the fruit basket that Hunter, as promised, has sent. I munch my way through one papaya, two mangoes, three kiwis, one guava, a handful of blackberries and an excessively large bunch of grapes. Lying by myself on the bed and sucking the luscious guava juice is about as sensuous as my three-day stay here is going to get. And frankly, it’s a lot more satisfying than that group orgasm.
But maybe solitude is against the rules at Le Retreat because there’s a knock at the door. I decide to ignore it. Can’t I just sit here by myself with my fruit? And then a second knock.
When I open the door, Lucy glides in. “Hunter’s fine and Manuel’s taken him to the Jacuzzi,” she says, giving me a peck on the cheek. “So I get a whole uninterrupted hour just with you.” She takes in my room with one glance, then strides across to open the terrace door and let in the sea breeze.
“Nice view, but sorry the room’s not bigger,” she says apologetically. “Hunter took care of it. Should I have you moved?”
“No, I like it,” I say, not needing any more favors. “Want a piece of fruit? I have one kiwi left.”
She shakes her head. “Thanks, but I already grabbed a lobster salad.”
Would that be the lobster salad I was dreaming about when Manuel came?
“Come on, we have another appointment back down on the beach,” Lucy says, stepping off the terrace. “Put on your swimsuit and sarong.” She heads over to the blond-wood dresser to assess my wardrobe. I should know by now that Lucy doesn’t trust me to pick out my own clothes when Hunter’s around.
“You won’t find one there,” I say firmly. “I don’t wear them.”
Lucy, misinterpreting, turns in surprise and eyes me appraisingly. “You can wear a bathing suit. Your body’s fine,” she says, in what I assume is meant to be a comforting tone. “Your breasts are still good. And your thighs aren’t that bad. A little cellulite, but we all have it at our age. If you get in the water really fast, nobody notices, anyway.”
Well, that’s a reason to live.
“I’ve got a bathing suit. It’s the sarong that never occurred to me,” I say, peering into a drawer studded with chamomile-scented sachets. More bug protection, or are they there for romantic reasons, too? The stacks of valet-folded clothes are so neat that I handle my fifteen-dollar cotton tees as if they were hand-painted Stella McCartney blouses and gently nudge them aside to pull out my sarong-alternative.
“How about denim cutoffs?” I ask brightly.
She looks at me like I’m talking in Urdu. Clearly denim cutoffs aren’t part of her wardrobe. Or her vocabulary. And since I’m not going to translate, she moves right along.
“Not to worry. I have an emergency sarong right here,” she says, reaching into her Tod’s tote. “Always carry an extra. I hate when they get sandy.”
Me too. I strip down to pull on my alluringly named Miracle Suit, guaranteed to make me look ten pounds thinner. And where exactly do those ten pounds go? Shoved down to my thighs? Or does some poor unsuspecting woman who didn’t buy the Miracle Suit end up with them?
I fumble with my new sarong—cutoffs were easier—and look at Lucy’s, which is elegantly secured at the side in a neat butterfly knot that highlights her sit-up-perfected abs. I try to emulate her impeccable style, but my wrap ends up crumpled and bungled and clumsily held together with a four-square knot that wouldn’t win a Cub Scout any badges.
Back on the beach, Lucy leads me toward two straight-backed wooden chairs sitting high above a low-stepped platform that reminds me of a shoe shine stand.
“Reflexology treatment,” Lucy says, climbing up gracefully into our very high seats. “Sort of like a foot massage, only it’s supposed to be healing. Marianna and Mariella will be here in a sec. I hear they’re amazing. They can get rid of all the toxins from your body.”
And they send those toxins where exactly? The same place as those ten pounds? Someday I just know I’m going to run into that fat, toxic woman who got my giveaways, and she’s going to be mighty pissed.
“Reflexology can cure all sorts of disorders,” Lucy goes on, sounding like an infomercial. “Pick your problem. Any problem. You can ask the therapist to concentrate on the instep, which is good for kidney and liver function, or the toe area to cure allergies.”
I blink hard into the sunshine. “I don’t have allergies,” I tell her. “At least not since I used to break into hives every time I saw Davy Jones. Not the Monkee. The boy who sat next to me in fourth grade.” I pause. Haven’t thought about him in a long time. Wonder if he’s still single. “The therapist can do anything she wants,” I say with a sigh. “Except try to cure my spleen. Don’t have one anymore.”
“Really? What happened?” asks Lucy, impressed.
“Motorcycle accident, second year I was married to Jacques. Remember I told you about it? I’d finally learned how to ride the Harley myself, but I wasn’t so good above eighty.”
“For a sweet suburban mom, you’ve had a pretty adventurous life,” Lucy says.
“Had is the operative word. Not anymore.”
Lucy hears the admonition in my tone.
“Come on, Jess, adventure is what it’s all about, isn’t it? We can’t quit taking some risks just because we’re all grown up. There’s a whole world out there. Live free or die.”
“Isn’t that the motto of New Hampshire?”
“I don’t know. I think I did see it on a bumper sticker somewhere. But it’s right, isn’t it? If you’re not going to do anything new or different for the second half of your life, why live it? I don’t want a straight path for the next forty years. I want some bumps in the road.”
“Well, you’re making them,” I say. “Bumps. Potholes. Construction detours. Jackknifed tractor-trailer trucks. Anything else you’d like to put in your way? Vehicular homicide? Does that make life more interesting?
Lucy straightens up. “Well, excuse me, darling. Feeling a little testy?”
We sit silently in the chairs and within moments, the reflexologists arrive. They’re long-haired, long-limbed and clad in string bikinis that would make a Brazilian blush. “Anything special we can do to help you relax?” asks the girl who introduces herself as Marielle.
Yup. Gain ten pounds. Flash me some cellulite. Put on some clothes.
“No, just the usual. Whatever that is. My feet are in your hands,” I joke.
“First they’ll go in the soak,” she laughs back.
Marielle places my feet in a frothy chamomile bath, rubs briskly with a terry towel until my toes turn rosy, and then with light, staccato movements, begins searching for pressure points.
“Don’t be surprised if you feel some tingling in your chest when I’m massaging the back of your foot,” Mariella says, settling into a cushion at the foot of the stand. “It’s the energy flow. Pressure on the heel stimulates the breasts.”
So that’s why women spend so much on shoes.
Lucy extends her foot as the other therapist kneels down on the sand in front of her. Maybe I should tell Marianna to steer clear of Lucy’s heels—her breasts don’t need any more stimulation.
“Listen, are you upset with me because Hunter’s here?” Lucy asks, squirming in her chair. Wonder which toe did that.
“No, I get it. Hunter. Le Retreat. Something new. Making your life more interesting, right?” I pause. “Maybe that’s what I’m doing with Jacques, too.”
“You see, we’re in the same boat,” she says exuberantly. “I have Hunter, you have Jacques. Great sex for everyone.”
“I’m kind of hoping Jacques is more than a few nights of great sex,” I admit.
“You never know,” says Lucy, who’d been thrilled when I first told her about my night with Jacques. She’d even consulted an editor friend at Modern Bride about whether you wear white to a re-wedding ceremony and called me with the answer: Ecru.
“By the way, I’m sorry if all that with Manuel was a little over-the-top,” says Lucy, “but it might be something fun for you to try with Jacques. Keep him on his toes, so to speak. If Hunter went for it, anyone will. Oh, and about Hunter. Can I tell you what he did with me last night?”
“You could, but no, don’t,” I say just a little too harshly. I’m finished talking about toes, spleens, breasts, tantric sex and whatever the heck else they dreamed up last night. I promised myself I’d tell Lucy what I think about all this, and I’m going to. I take a deep breath.
“Look, I’m not mad,” I say, “but I’ve got to tell you the truth. I’m sure you had fun last night, whatever you did. But I look at you with Hunter and the whole thing’s just wrong. He’s not the guy you’re meant to be with. He isn’t your soul mate.”
“I don’t know about the soul mate thing,” she says, shrugging, “but we have so much fun. I love his life. It’s so different from mine. We go to fancy Hollywood parties. I never thought I’d like that sort of thing, but with him it’s fun. He knows everybody. Did I tell you that two nights ago he took me to dinner at Sting’s house?”
Sting’s house? I wouldn’t have minded eating there myself. Two nights ago I was at the mommy-daughter book club. Whatever Sting served had to have been better than the low-cholesterol Jarlsberg and low-sodium saltines that Cynthia offered up. But Sting’s seaweed-wrapped hors d’oeuvres are beside the point.
“Lucy, you say this is a little fling, but don’t you see what’s happening? It’s totally out of hand. You’re going out in public with the guy. You’re lying to Dan. You’re risking your marriage. You’re being totally self-centered. Plus you’re gaining weight.”
Lucy whips around so fast that I think she’s going to fly off the chair. “Oh damn, am I really?”
“Which part of that worries you?”
“The weight.” She takes her thumb and forefinger and starts pinching her inner thigh. “Maybe I’m just bloated.”
“No, you’re fine,” I say impatiently. “I was just trying to get your attention. Did you hear anything else I said?”
“Of course,” she says, still inch-a-pinching her thighs and moving on to her totally toned midsection.
“You’re not fat. Just stupid.”
Well, that was a bucket of cold water. Her face reddens—not from the sun—and her mouth quite literally drops open. I always thought that was just a figure of speech. Then she swoops around, eyes flashing.
“I’m stupid? I’m stupid? Really? I’m one of the goddamn smartest people I know. I’m a television producer, remember? Important people talk to me. I interviewed Carl Sagan three weeks before he died. Stephen Hawking gave me a full sit-down interview.”
“He always sits down. He’s in a wheelchair.”
Lucy glares at me with an expression that would wither Sting’s rain forest. But I’m not stopping.
“You know, if you had a single ounce of intelligence you’d be kissing Dan’s feet every morning. Rather than whatever parts of Hunter you’re doing I-don’t-care-what with.”
“This has nothing to do with Dan,” Lucy says imperiously.
“Nothing to do with Dan? If you think that then you really are stupid.”
I’m so furious that all I want to do is jump off the chair and storm away, but Marielle has me by the ankles. Who knows what will happen to my energy flow if I jerk my foot around—could end up needing my appendix removed. So I sit back with my arms folded across my chest, fuming. And the best I can tell, Lucy’s steaming, too.
Hours pass. The tide comes in. The sun sets. The leaves change. Stephen Hawking walks. Carl Sagan zooms back on a shooting star.
Or maybe it just feels that way.
Lucy ends the standoff. “If anything’s stupid, it’s this argument,” she says finally, sounding apologetic. “You’re my best friend, Jess. I’m sorry I lost my temper. I know you mean well. It’s just you can’t really understand.”
“What can’t I understand?” I ask, not quite ready to uncross my arms.
“What my life’s like.”
“Not really different than anybody else’s,” I say. But then I pause. “Well, you do have more men than the rest of us.”
We both smile and hell unfreezes. Lucy leans over and rubs my arm. “Jess, stop worrying about me. I know what I’m doing. I love Dan, I really do. That will never change. I’ve got things under control.”
That’s what they all think. I decide to make one last stab.
“Want to hear how it feels from the other side?” I ask, as we slip our totally massaged and relaxed toes back into our sandals and head up the beach. “I’ve never told anybody about this. But you know all those reasons I’ve always given you for why I left Jacques? You know, we didn’t have enough in common. He didn’t want a child. All that? Well, it’s all true. But there was one more. He didn’t think I’d get hurt, either.”
Lucy stops dead in her tracks. “He was having an affair?”
“Yup. It’s not something I’ve ever been able to talk about. Even to you. I was too embarrassed. I thought somehow it was my fault. But Jacques didn’t even think it was a big deal. He said it had nothing to do with me. Wouldn’t change our relationship. He loved me.”
“I bet he did,” Lucy says fervently. “Who wouldn’t love you?”
