How Stella Got Her Groove Back Read online

  “Really,” I say and he is giving me the eye. I am almost ready to burst out laughing because I’m wondering if these young guys here have a thing for older women or is it that they’re just all very friendly because I haven’t been here twenty-four hours and already I’ve been in the company of more men who are paying attention to me than I have noticed in years. It is sort of refreshing.

  “So what do you feel like?” the drummer asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “For dinner, mon.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure.”

  “Could I recommend something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you eat meat?”

  “Sometimes, just not pork.”

  “Why don’t you eat pork?”

  “It’s too disgusting.”

  “Not Jamaican pork,” he says.

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “So how about some seafood?”

  “Seafood sounds good. Is it spicy?”

  “Everything in Jamaica is spicy, mon,” and they all start laughing.

  “Good,” I say, laughing right along with them. “It’s the reason why I came here.”

  “Why’s that, mon?”

  “To add some spice to my life.”

  “Yeah, mon,” the drummer says and leans back in his chair and I suppose he’s thinking he’s the Spice Islands Man.

  When the drink waiter comes I order my staple virgin piña colada and while I’m explaining to the band why I don’t drink alcoholic beverages I smell that citrus ocean and as I turn around to look who but Winston is standing behind me.

  “Hello, Stella,” he says. “Enjoying yourself?” The band members all look up, then back at me and back at Winston. All of a sudden this feels like a dick thang or something, I don’t know.

  “I’m having dinner with the band,” I say.

  “I see that,” he says, stretching these three words out. “But we’re still on for tonight, aren’t we?” and he looks at me with those Phantom of the Opera eyes and I wish he would stop this shit because the blood is rushing to my face and I feel like I just had a shot of tequila which used to be my drink of choice and my God what is that cologne he’s wearing?

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  “Ten o’clock?” he asks.

  “Ten o’clock,” I say as he disappears inside the restaurant where our food is coming from and when I turn toward the band each of them is looking at me like what is this all about? But then they settle down as if they do know and once again I think this has got to be a dick thang but they really don’t know what’s up and it’s not at all what they are obviously thinking. I am going dancing. That’s it. “So what time do you guys start playing tonight?”

  “In an hour’s time,” the drummer says. “But you are going to the pajama disco, I take it?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “It’s big fun if you like to get crazy,” says the young one who is staring at me like I’ve been reincarnated and have come back as this Zoleta person. “But you look like you like to get crazy,” he says and winks at me. “Zoleta liked to get wild too. You remind me so much of her. You can’t even begin to imagine how much.”

  “No, I can’t,” I say.

  I slurp up my drink and they each have two or three shots of something and I sit there with them but every ten or fifteen minutes I turn toward the door to the restaurant secretly waiting to smell him again but I eat my entire dinner and pass on dessert and he never comes out.

  Afterwards I move closer to the stage and listen to the band mostly to kill time even though they are really good but it is only nine o’clock and I am feeling a little restless and I don’t understand this but the next thing I know I’m grabbing my little clutch and am on my way back to my room where I pick up the phone to call Delilah but realize I can’t call her anymore. So then I think about Vanessa but change my mind because I don’t know what I’m going to tell her except that as anticipated Jamaica is beautiful and blah blah blah and oh by the way I’m being pursued by or I am pursuing a twenty-one-year-old boy who has got me throbbing and shit and I’m entirely too old for this kind of shit and as a matter of fact I must be out of my middle-aged mind to even be tripping but how could he do this and where did he get this kind of power, I mean what the hell is going on here?

  I change into my nightgown which seems a little on the long side because it conceals my knees and I put the jacket over it and push up the sleeves and I resemble some black maiden from the nineteenth century and this isn’t exactly the look I was after but it’ll have to do and then I spray on some more FDS and put on a pair of flat gold sandals with no fruit on the toes and to kill more time I watch BET music videos until the clock finally strikes ten and then I jump up from the bed and head out the door.

  I feel ridiculous. I am still not wearing any panties and now I’m wondering if you can in fact see through this thing and when I walk under one of the pathway lamps and look down you can indeed see the silhouette of my body which doesn’t look quite as svelte and hourglassy as I believed it did just an hour ago when I was admiring myself in the mirror. But it’s just too bad.

  I arrive at the door that leads to the disco and standing outside greeting everybody are Norris and Abby. “Stella! You made it! We’re so glad! Go on in! Have a ball!” They open the thick navy blue quilted door and when I walk in I am somewhat amazed at what I see. The room is dark but there is clearly a small dance floor which is filled with white couples all dressed in bustiers and garters and thongs and some of the men are wearing G-strings and boxer shorts and bikini briefs. The music is thumping and “Shy Guy” by Diana King is loud and then that beat starts pounding again and just as I’m wondering if he’s in here I smell that smell and I hear a voice say, “I’m glad you made it,” and when I turn Winston has my hand and is luring me out to the dance floor in slow motion. He is looking at me and smiling when he says, “This is my favorite song,” and I say, “Mine too!” and we somehow know each is telling the truth and boy oh boy he’s wearing black baggy shorts and a stark white T-shirt. His long legs look longer. Hairier. Leaner. His shoulders wider. As we begin to dance he is looking at me and smiling and then he says, “That’s a really pretty gown you’re wearing,” and I say, “Thank you but how’d you get in here wearing that? Doesn’t look like pajamas to me.”

  He laughs. “I came in in just my shorts with my shirt balled up and then I put it back on.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of a shy guy,” he says and I laugh out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” he says and he is in fact blushing.

  I just shake my head and continue dancing until someone taps him on his shoulder and he turns to listen and then he turns back toward me and stops dancing. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He chortles. “I have to go change into pajamas because he doesn’t know how I got in here dressed like this.”

  I laugh again.

  “Look, I’m just going to run back to my room and change and it’ll take me no more than five minutes. Promise me you’ll stay here until I get back. Five minutes’ time is all I’ll be.”

  “Okay,” I say and he is gone. I keep dancing by myself which in this crowd doesn’t really matter. Ben and Sasha are here. She looks like I Dream of Jeannie and he looks like a tall Clark Gable in satin pajama bottoms and when the DJ puts on Montell Jordan’s “This Is How We Do It” the whole place goes nuts and I see Abby who is wearing the hell out of those pink satin hot pants and a tight purple halter top grab a microphone and yell out, “You want to get crazy?” and the crowd screams out, “Yeah!!” and she screams out even louder, “Then get crazy and take it off if it’s too hot in here for you!!” and on that last note I begin to see garters popping open and G-strings being pulled off stockings falling down thighs to the floor high heels tossed and in a matter of seconds half the dance floor is exposed flesh. I can’t believe my eyes and when I look down my nightgown seems to be getti
ng fuller and fuller until it feels like I’m wearing a crinoline slip and a suit of armor or something and I feel old and out of place because I can’t imagine what would possess me to get naked in front of all these people and twirl and swirl my hips the way I normally do when I’m wearing clothes and as each second passes more people slip out of something else and I know in another minute or two their eyes will be on me which is the reason why I flee.

  I RUN AT seven this morning and even though it’s not scorching like it was yesterday, it’s still hot and balmy. Seal is plugged into my ears at a level I’m sure the fish can probably hear and makes me sprint for most of the two-mile stretch. I reach the end of the beach too quickly so I turn around and do it again. I need this rush. This feeling of exhilaration. I run because it makes me feel like I’m in control of my life. Like there is no finish line. I slow down to wipe the perspiration away that’s running into my eyes. My shoulder blades are burning from the sunshine. My entire body is actually throbbing so I stop and stand there looking at the turquoise water. It is so clear and calm and beautiful that I take my sneakers off and run straight in because it feels as if I don’t have a choice, like something is pulling me. By the time I walk out far enough to immerse my entire body under water, my skin tenses then tingles and accepts the coolness. My cotton shorts get soggy quickly and I feel them droop and cling but I do a few strokes anyway and float on my back until my body temperature has dropped and I get out only to realize that I don’t have a towel and the only way to get one is to walk over by the pool right in front of the entrance to the dining room and I really don’t want anyone looking at me sopping wet but I have little alternative and then I think it’s only quarter to eight now and not a whole lot of people will be up.

  But before I get my right foot on the top step by the pool, Winston is standing there as if he’s waiting for me.

  “And good morning to you,” he says, looking indisputably alluring and tall and lean and what is he doing up so early?

  “Good morning to you, Winston. What are you doing up so early?”

  “I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night.”

  He is looking at—no he isn’t—yes he is looking at my wet breasts and I can feel my nipples are hard and I wish they would deflate but when I look at his face he isn’t looking at my breasts at all, he’s looking at my feet, and I’m so glad I got that pedicure before I came here but why am I even tripping, I don’t have to impress this boy!

  “What happened to you last night? I came back and you were gone. You said you would wait. Did I do something?” He almost looks hurt.

  “No, Winston. It wasn’t you at all.”

  “Then what?” he says, looking up at me now.

  “Those people started taking their clothes off.”

  He certainly looks relieved and then he starts laughing. “A lot of them do that. Some come over from He-do-nism and they have a few too many drinks and you know. . .”

  “I didn’t like it.”

  He’s nodding his head up and down as if he understands.

  “But you didn’t have to undress just because those idiots did.”

  “I know that, but I felt old and out of place.”

  “You shouldn’t have felt like that at all. They’re just wild,” he says. “I came back looking for you and Abby told me she saw you leave and that you said you’d be right back so I waited and waited for over an hour but you didn’t come.” He is looking at me so innocently I accept the fact that this isn’t some kind of a come-on. It is not quite as calculated or sophisticated as the brothers in America could do. Sincerity is written all over Winston’s face and in the way his shoulders droop forward and especially in the way he tucks his lips inside his mouth as if to be saying, You said you could come out and play and then you didn’t and my feelings were hurt and I felt silly standing around like that and I thought you liked me. Don’t you?

  I believe I am beginning to feel softer warmer easier-going inside and I would even venture to say subdued but hold it stop the cameras wait just a minute! Exactly what is going on here, Stella? I mean what do you think you’re doing? Come on! Get a grip on yourself, girl. “I’m sorry, Winston. I didn’t know what else to do, so I went back to my room.”

  “But I told you I was coming right back. I thought you wanted to dance with me.” I realize I have in fact offended him.

  “I did want to dance with you, Winston.”

  “Then couldn’t you have waited for me outside?”

  At home if some guy were bugging me like this I would’ve said: “If I wanted to dance with you I would’ve waited for you but I didn’t so how many ways do I have to spell it out before you take the hint?” Winston is waiting for my answer and all I’m thinking is how much I would love to kiss him on those beautiful lips and put my arms around him but instead I say, “I would’ve felt silly just standing around in a nightgown, Winston, and why is it so important?”

  He gives me this exasperated look, like: Don’t you get it? and puts all his weight on one gigantic Birkenstocked foot and if I’m not mistaken his face is saying: Because I like you, Stella, but I’m trying to pretend as if I’m reading this expression all wrong because he’s too young and I’m simply too old to be tripping like I’m in high school or something. “It’s important,”—he sighs—“because we didn’t really get our chance to dance.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Winston, it was rude of me.”

  “No, you weren’t rude. I’m not implying that at all. I was just looking forward to seeing you and I was disappointed when you weren’t there. That’s all. It’s fine. Really.”

  But I can see that it’s not fine. He looks like I feel when I’m making love and my partner comes first and fast and then looks at me hoping I managed to get mine and I lie and say: “It’s fine,” but really I am frustrated as all hell and want to do it again until I get to fall over the edge like he did.

  I am drying. “Well, look, I need to get a towel and go get changed.”

  He is looking at me in a curious manner out of the corner of his eye and if he only knew how sexy he looks but it’s kind of nice that he doesn’t. “Are you coming back for breakfast?” He asks as if he simply wants to know, but he is wearing a look of desire. It’s all over his face. At his age he doesn’t hide or doesn’t know how to hide any of this stuff yet, he puts it all out in the open, and he is beginning to feel like a breeze coming through an open window.

  “I think so. Why?” Now I’m sort of messing with him because I know deep down that this young man couldn’t possibly be trying to hit on me. If I were say twenty years younger I could see it and he would unquestionably be my man of choice.

  “I was just asking,” he says. “I’ve already eaten.”

  Now why I am feeling let down all of a sudden?

  “Have you tried any of the water sports yet?” he asks.

  “No. But I’m supposed to go snorkeling later. How about you?”

  “I don’t like the beach.”

  “And you live in Jamaica?”

  “All my life.”

  “How could you not like it?”

  “Just never have. I don’t like the sand.”

  “Okay. You have a right not to like the sand.”

  “So how are you spending the early part of your day?” he asks.

  “I’m supposed to go horseback riding.”

  He nods. “You should go very soon if possible. The heat can be unbearable.”

  “Well, I’m scheduled to leave at nine-thirty.”

  “So maybe I’ll see you at lunch?”

  “I don’t know, Winston. Maybe. Where are your friends?”

  “What friends?”

  “Norris? Abby?”

  “They’re working. I won’t know until Monday exactly where I’ll be, so I’m just sort of hanging around, helping them out here and there, but I’ve also put in applications at Paradise Grand and Windswept. Something should come up.”

  “Well, good luck,” I say as I begin to walk
past him, and the right side of my body accidentally brushes up against his arm and in that one second some kind of feverish current penetrates my whole body and in a perfect world or if this were like a foreign film I would just turn around and put my hand on the back of his head and pull his face to mine until our noses touched and I would brush my lips lightly across those thick beautiful lips of his and we would put our arms around each other like we’d been dreaming of doing and we would begin to slide to the ground and we would be oblivious to everything around us and simply make love right out here right this very minute.

  “Well, have fun and maybe I’ll see you later,” he says.

  Let us pray, I say to myself, and wave goodbye.

  • • • •

  I am the only person on the van going to Issy’s Riding Stable. The Canadians told me that I had better make my reservations early because sometimes it’s hard to get in even two days ahead but it is worth the fifty bucks for the hour because you get to gallop all along the beach and ride up and deep inside the mountain and it is truly breathtaking.

  I am not exactly impressed by the architecture of Negril as we drive past a packed and dusty marketplace with at least a hundred rickety wooden stalls filled with wooden objects and a kaleidoscope of cloth although red black and green dominate and then we purportedly go through downtown which consists of a bank and a small shopping center and we continue past small but brightly painted cement homes and cafés and outdoor restaurants and I was told that no building here is taller than the town’s tallest palm tree which is an understatement. In fact there is not much to see in the way of sightseeing but Negril is where hippies-turned-yuppies have flocked, as they consider it a wonderful reprieve from the hustle and bustle of urban life in America.

  I am dropped off at the bottom of a dirt road and am greeted by Issy’s brother who’s called the General, because Issy is a bigshot and apparently doesn’t do horses anymore, just owns the place. The General looks and smells as if he has been afraid of water for a long time and does not know what deodorant is. As we walk up toward the stable he says, “You got a smoke?” and I tell him I don’t smoke and he is disappointed.