How Stella Got Her Groove Back Read online

  “What?” he says again.

  “You are serious, aren’t you, Winston?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Okay,” I groan, since I’m in this now. “Let me ask you something. What’s the oldest woman you’ve ever been with, Winston?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  And I say, “Well, you’d have to turn those numbers around for me, sweetie,” and he says, “So?” and I see he is somber, I mean there is this What is the problem? look on his face in his eyes, and I say, “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight,” and he is smiling deeply at me again as if he knows what I am about to say and even I don’t know what I’m about to say but he is clearly ready to respond and I take the first of a series of hyperventilated breaths and force out, “Are you saying that you would like to sleep with me, Win-ston?” and I look at him to see his reaction to that one and without blinking he says, “Absolutely,” and he gives me a Don’t look so surprised look, and out of the corner of my eye I glimpse the old man watching us and Winston pushes his right hand under the surface of the water and I can feel his long fingers just barely graze my waist and when I look into his eyes this time my body quivers and shudders and I can’t believe it when I hear myself say, “Okay.”

  He is grinning fiercely and blushing at the same time and he says, “Really?”

  And I look at him and say, “Really.”

  “You won’t change your mind like last night, will you?”

  “I don’t think so, Winston, but I’ll tell you something: I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t believe what I just said to you—there’s something illegal about this, isn’t there?”

  He is giving me a very comforting look. “There is nothing illegal about this and I don’t quite understand what would make you say something like that.”

  “Winston.” I sigh.

  “What?” He sighs back, and he truly does look clueless.

  “I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  “But you’re not my mother.”

  “I know that.”

  “You don’t look like my mother. You don’t act like my mother. And you certainly don’t feel like my mother,” he says.

  I must admit he is rather convincing. But this is totally scandalous, Stella, and you know it. The waitress comes over and sets one red drink and then what looks like my usual virgin piña colada down by us near the edge of the pool. Winston says thank you to her and offers me the glass. “When did you order this?” I ask.

  “When I saw you headed in this direction.”

  “But how did you know I was going to have a drink with you?”

  “I didn’t,” he says. “It was wishful thinking.” He is looking in my eyes doing that hypnotism stuff again and in order to get myself together I turn my head a little to the left and I see old Nate staring at us his mouth watering with envy and I feel sorry for him all of a sudden and when I turn back toward Winston I cannot believe that this beautiful tall young man has said he wants to touch me wants to get close to me wants to make love to me and I am wondering what am I doing and did I really just tell this boy that I would fuck him and yes Stella you did and well if I do nobody really has to know it could be our little secret and I’m thinking he is so sweet and gentle and sexy I really don’t want to just fuck him I mean I can’t picture us like doing the nasty because I think I really want to make love to Winston I mean I think I’d like to give him something tender something soft and warm and beautiful something that resonates so that afterwards the next morning or next month or next year he’ll have known what it felt like to make love to a real woman and not like he screwed me or I screwed him like these young hoochies out there who fuck by numbers and think that the harder you do it the harder you come which of course is not true so I am surprised once again when I hear myself say, “So, Winston, do you think you’d like me to teach you something or do you think there’s something you can teach me?”

  He takes a sip of his strawberry daiquiri and looks over the glass and he is certainly not the least bit afraid to look me in the eye, that much I do know, and he says, “Probably both,” and I almost choke because now I can’t wait I want to do it right now in this pool.

  “Will you have dinner with me and then could we go dancing for real tonight first?” he asks.

  “Is that how you want to do this?” I ask, shocked because with one of his older counterparts we’d be on our way to my room like ten minutes ago. This is—he is—certainly refreshing.

  “I like you, Stella, and I want to spend as much time with you as I can while you’re here.”

  “But why, Winston?”

  He sighs again. Shifts his body weight and rubs his hands over the top of his head and down to the nape of his neck. “I like talking to you and I find myself smiling so much when I see you and I like the way that feels.”

  “But Winston.” I sigh.

  “What?” He sighs back.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Why is it so hard for you to accept the fact that I think you’re pretty and nice and I can’t help it if I’m attracted to you and ever since I saw you walk into the dining room yesterday the whole place kind of came alive or like the fans started going faster or something but all I can say is you made my day when you spoke to me and you should not be worrying at all about my age or your age because they are only numbers and don’t worry I won’t disappoint you,” he says, glaring at me in such a way that I believe him.

  “I’m not worried about that, Winston.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “Me,” I say, and set my drink down and start heading out of the pool. I reach for my towel and while I stand on the edge old man Nate is clearly looking at my ass and I want to say watch that young one down there and see how it’s really done but instead I look at Winston and say, “What time is good for you?” and he dives under the water like those dolphins who perform at Marine World USA do and when he comes back up to the surface he grins at me and says, “You tell me.”

  I hold up seven fingers.

  He holds up six.

  MAYBE THEY ACCIDENTALLY put some booze in my drink is what I’m thinking as I stagger back toward my room. I feel like I’ve jumped inside somebody else’s dream. I mean I know I’m in Jamaica. I’m in Negril. I think I just got here day before yesterday but I can’t be sure because a lot has happened since then and when I’m at home weeks months can go by and nothing worth noting happens. But yes. I am walking up the path at the Castle Beach Negril and I have just told a twenty-one-year-old that I will have sex with him tonight. Yes, that seems to be what I’ve gone and done. I press both hands up to my face and cover my eyes and cheeks and sort of sink at the knees and I can see some of the workers wondering if I’m off my rocker so I remove my hands and smile and continue to walk or float toward my room because I still do not believe I’ve consented to something this reckless. But then again, I’m not planning on marrying this boy. I’m just going to have sex with him tonight. And that’s it. It’s that simple. Do it and send him on his way. I’ve got a whole box of condoms. So what is the problem, Stella? I mean he is a consenting adult. He wants to do it. But why does he want to do the nasty with me? I wonder. Because I’m old. That’s why. He’s never had any old pussy before. That’s it. He wants to do a comparison study. Does old pussy feel as good as young pussy? I can’t answer that question and I don’t want him to answer that question but he didn’t act like he simply wanted sex, I mean he did ask me to have dinner with him, didn’t he? And then dancing afterwards, didn’t he? Isn’t that like sort of what’s called a date? But why am I even tripping? Why am I going this far? The bottom line is that he is tall and fine and sexy and young and I’m a good-looking middle-aged woman from America and he’s game and I’ll give him something to remember and if I work it right maybe I’ll get off and I hope the boy can kiss because it would be a shame if God gave him those thick juicy beautiful luscious lips and he doesn’t know what to do with them
and I hope he’s not one of those sloppy wet tongue-wrestling kissers that make you think you’re really in the dentist’s chair and I hope he knows how to move because I can help guide him some of the way but rhythm is something you either have or you don’t have and it cannot be taught but I’ll do my best and I hope he understands the importance of a woman’s breasts but probably nobody’s shown him how to handle them yet so I’ll give him a five-minute demonstration and since he’s young he should catch on fast and God just the thought of those smooth lips over my breasts okay change the subject Stella because I still have—I look at my watch—three whole hours to go. Lord what am I going to do for three hours besides go crazy? I feel like I want him right now but I am not going in that room and masturbate no way José I am going to save all of this for him and I feel sorry for him really because I hope he’s up for this. I wonder what kind of music I should put on none of that let’s-do-the-nasty music or any begging and pleading or that whining lovesick stuff but then again I don’t want anything too funky and upbeat which means I’m back to Seal again but I also don’t want to go completely off and act like I’m setting up this monumental seduction performance because that’s like so tacky but I do feel kind of silly when I turn around and walk back to the gift shop pretending to need only a USA Today when in fact I purchase four of those round scented candles that look like kaleidoscopes on the outside which I place in subtle places around my room like on the headboard on the coffee table out on the balcony and in the bathroom. I feel like I’m cheating, like this was all premeditated and not at all organic or spontaneous, but then again this feels like the smart thing to do. Besides, he’s probably never had so much ambience. Which is why I feel like I sort of owe him this.

  As I stand in front of my closet trying to choose the most flattering dress I realize that I am not twenty-one years old that the clothes in my closet reflect this and when I look in the full-length mirror it is obvious that I am not even close to looking twenty-one years old that I haven’t been twenty-one years old in twenty-one years and suddenly I’m wondering again why this young man really wants to sleep with me. I mean what is the attraction? What is his real motive? I know! He’s probably heard the rumor going around America that single women over thirty and black women in particular will fuck anything, since many of them are on that slow track. They used to count how many weeks had gone by since they’d been laid but now it’s gotten up to how many years has it been and they’re all freaking out because they’re super-lonely and in their quest to find Mr. Perfect for years and years have yet to come to the realization that he does not exist. We who have labeled ourselves Ms. Fucking Perfect Personified have not caught on yet that our perfection is merely a figment of our very own distorted imagination and I should know because I’m in that forty-and-over club for Emotional Subversives in Denial About Everything.

  What I do know deep down although I keep it secretly secret is that I am terrified at the thought of losing myself again wholeheartedly to any man because it is so scary peeling off that protective sealant that’s been guarding my heart and letting somebody go inside and walk around lie down look around and see all those red flags especially when right next to your heart is your soul and then inside that is the rest of your personality puzzle pieces and they’re full of flaws and in your grown-up years you have just finally started to recognize them for what they are one by one. You’re trying to resolve some of these issues but you’re only up to say number four and the list is too long to get into here but the mere thought of being emotionally naked again is frightening because you remember how fucked up it got the last two or three times out there. Since the world is now aware that women like us are trying to beat the clock, some of us have built this invisible fence around our hearts like those that people use to keep their dogs inside the yard—if they go past that invisible wired line they get shocked until eventually they get tired of getting electrocuted and so they sit there and watch cars and other dogs go by and sort of just stay put. This is pretty much where I am: putting, and lots of my girlfriends are too because this is the big easy that I hope Winston hasn’t heard about but then again I’m sure if they get BET down here they must get Oprah too.

  The only thing I’m hoping is that if he is on this kind of sympathy mission, he realizes women like me are not really desperate. Getting laid is hardly a problem—almost any man’ll take some free pussy—but getting laid by somebody you want to get laid by is an entirely different issue. When we finally meet somebody we do want to lie down with we aren’t feeling desperate—what we’re feeling is vulnerable, nervous and scared. Big difference. Big big difference. But once again, Stella, you are like getting far too deep here for somebody who is planning to have a little sexual encounter with a boy for one single evening so like could you spare me your philosophical sociological rantings on the status of women and black women in particular in America, okay, and let’s just get us some nuggies and hope it’s good and get on with this vacation? Can we do that?

  Okay, so this mental masturbating kills a whole hour. I decide that reading is a good time-passer so I pick up a book without looking at the title and begin to read the words one at a time instead of in groups like I learned to do years ago in that Evelyn Wood speed-reading class that never quite worked for me except the grouping stuff. It is not working now. I lay the book down and decide that the best thing for me to do is rest since I’ll be expending and I hope consuming a great deal of energy tonight.

  I call the operator and ask for a wake-up call at five just in case I doze off and I get under the covers and everything and start thinking about oh my God what if people see us what are they going to think and say? Shit. Oh so what, Stella! This is America. No it isn’t America. Okay. This is the nineties and oh go to sleep girl and then I turn my attention to those waves that are still at it outside my window and I push my face deeper and deeper into the soft white pillow and close my eyes for a few minutes and when the phone rings I am startled. The operator claims it’s five o’clock and when I look at my watch it is.

  May as well put the video camera on fast forward because that’s how quickly I jump out of bed take a shower shave my underarms and legs douche pumice-stone my heels elbows knees brush my teeth pluck a few hairs from my eyebrows put some Visine in my eyes pull my cool braids to the other side of my head and rub my Calyx lotion everywhere on my body that’s brown. I do that minimum makeup routine again because to be honest I can’t stand all that mess on my face and the other reason is because I always want a man even a young one to know that what he sees is what he gets.

  I stand in front of the closet again since I never did decide on what to wear and realize I have quite a few Marilyn Monroe–type dresses and that I am not a reincarnation of Marilyn thank the Lord and yet I also don’t want to repeat myself and plus I don’t want to look like I can’t wait to get out of this dress but I also don’t want to look like I’m a chaperone at my son’s prom either not that I brought anything like that so I choose a soft yellow linen shift that has a low neckline in front and back and comes right above my knees but it fits snugly and makes me look like I have a real figure even though I really don’t well what I have is narrow hips and a firm set of curvy glutes aka a big ass which runs in my family and I’ll tell the truth I don’t want to lose it ever. I put on my twenty-two-dollar strapless bra I finally found in Macy’s that fits my own personal breasts without smashing crushing them down or upping them two sizes and it actually gives me that ever-so-light touch of cleavage I’m seeking but only if you look from the side.

  I slip on my mustard sling-back pumps some gold hoop earrings and when I look in the mirror I think I’ve got it going on, to be honest. I just hope he thinks so too. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind. What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s come to his senses and is hiding in his room and I go out there all dolled up and don’t see him and I’ll feel stupid? This is the reason why I often hate men. They’re all alike. You can’t depend on them for shit. They’
re weak. I do not for the life of me understand why God even gave them balls when most of the time they act like they don’t have any. I can see that this weak-acting shit starts at a young age, doesn’t it? Well, I am making a mental note right now to teach Quincy how to grow up and flex his balls as much as possible, to jump into the fire to take risks and even if you’re scared do the shit anyway. I don’t want him to act like a little pussy like this Winston like his daddy like so many of these fellows running around in the world who don’t deserve to be called men. What some of them most of them a lot of them really need is a month or two at a dude ranch run by women. We’re the ones who can show these simpletons how to be men because we raised them and for some reason perhaps they are all suffering from ADD because they have apparently forgotten most of the necessary valuable constructive stuff we taught them as young boys which is why most of them are in dire need of a refresher course today.