What isit, you ask? Well, I guess I’m still figuring that out as well. For all the balance I thought I’d regained, there are those fleeting moments when not everything feels stable.
Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but really, is anyone’s? I still miss Stuart.
Do I consider myself a strong, independent woman? Sure do. Doesn’t mean I can’t miss that male presence in my life. The companionship. The cuddles. The flirty glances and spontaneous sex on a Saturday afternoon or Wednesday evening. Yeah, we had an active sex life. So what if he needed a bit of help in the form of a little pill. Point is, he still craved sex, intimacy, making love, and dammit, I miss it!
I miss my husband and my friend.
Maybe this isn’t the best way to gain attention, because I’m not looking to take a guy home for a one-night stand. No, I just want to feel good about myself and have some hot guys whistle their appreciation.
Besides teaching yoga, I’m also a trauma counselor, so I know a bit about pulling oneself through an ordeal and coping. Okay, maybe more than a bit. But it’s just a silly contest. What harm could come of it?
Some would say it’s narcissistic behavior, and yeah, as a counselor, I’d agree. Am I going through a midlife crisis at age fifty? Another maybe, I think as I absently spin my bracelet around my wrist.
“Earth to Michelle!” Dani’s snapping her fingers in front of my face while yelling once again to be heard above the crowd. “Time for you to strut your stuff! Now move it!”
She turns me in the direction of the steps to the stage and swats my rear, giving me a little push. I fall in line behind several young ladies as plenty more gather at my six, all giggles andsmiles. There’s got to be at least a dozen of us crowding the small platform suspended above the sand while the ocean serves as a backdrop. We’re all dressed similarly in shorts and tops with a few gals sporting bikini bottoms. I’d guess the average age of the group to be barely above drinking age. While night is drawing close, it’s shortly after eight PM with ample natural light remaining. This time of year, in Florida we enjoy daylight until it’s nearly ten, but the bar still has bright lights flashing across the stage, making me thankful I’m not an epileptic. Otherwise, I’d go into a damn seizure.
While the announcer begins shouting out the rules of the contest, stating we’ll have a number drawn on a leg, another man ascends the stairs, positioning himself at the end of the line of contestants. He’s a hulk of a man, wearing a dark graphic t-shirt along with denim jeans and boots of some kind.
Damn! It’s early July in Florida at ninety degrees and probably the same humidity, and he’s dressed like he’s ready for a rodeo. Well, almost.
He makes his way to the first gal, kneeling in front of her and marking her leg. It’s hard to see the implement in his hand but my guess is it’s one of those body markers or paint sticks. The kind used for runners in races with numbers drawn on their arms and legs. As he continues from gal to gal, each one tries a little harder than the one before to smile and flirt and squirm all sexy-like. I don’t notice the man do anything other than draw the number and I certainly can’t hear any conversation above the crowd noise. I barely suppress rolling my eyes at the girls’ attempts with their come-ons, instead, stare off into the sea of people, wondering where Dani and Stacy positioned themselves.
Suddenly my vision fills with a broad chest covered in a black t-shirt with the bar’s logo on it. The wordsThe Dive Barare scrolled across the red and white flag known for scuba diving. In my periphery I can see the man’s muscular arms as the materialbunches around a wealth of biceps. Before I have a chance to lift my face to find his, he kneels, bringing his line of sight directly in front of my belly. Which mysteriously starts quivering.
Did I happen to mention my navel? Well, it’s pierced. Not that that’s remarkable, as many gals have their belly buttons pierced, but I also have an elaborate tattoo of a lotus flower floating on water. I had the work done only six months ago. And not that that’s remarkable either, since at least a quarter of the population has tattoos.
It’s just no one other than my tattoo artist—who was a female, by the way—has ever been this close in proximity to something so personal. So… intimate. At least it feels intimate.
Maybe this contest wasn’t such a good idea after all.
I inhale a shaky breath as I look down onto his mass of wavy blond hair skimming his shoulders. He begins lifting his head slowly, scanning my torso, lingering on my breasts before peering up at me.
The dancing lights give me intermittent flashes at his deep green eyes bracketed by creases as he smiles, rustling up a funny feeling inside me. I canvas his tan face, noting a scar on his left temple, freckles dotting his nose, and a cleft indenting his chin. Lips, lush and pink curve even higher, and I mimic the move. Our eyes remain locked as we’re both frozen in this moment.
That is until the MC barks through the microphone, shattering the bubble and causing me to jump.
“Come on, Xander, no playing favorites.” He chuckles. “Mark her with a number and let’s get this show on the road.”
Xander never breaks eye contact as he gently skims his hand up my left leg, resting it on the back of my thigh. The warmth of his touch does more than cause a flutter inside; it heats me up, producing a burn that centers at my sex. My breaths become quick and shallow as I struggle to remain composed. I know my nipples tighten and threaten to slice through the thin material ofmy shirt. But his gaze never strays as he then lifts the marker, pressing it against my flesh and marking my skin.
“Lucky number seven.”
As impossible as it seems, the noise of the crowd seems to fade away allowing the rumble of his voice to reach my ears. When he releases my leg and stands, I follow his progression as he reaches a height of at least a foot taller than me, putting him around six foot three. Before I can mutter a word, he simply smiles and steps to the next gal. He silently and methodically marks the remainder of the contestants before stepping toward the back edge of the stage. I can’t help but stare, wanting him near again, but he steps into the shadows when the announcer shouts it’s time to begin.
“All right ladies, time to get wet!”
I barely have time to face forward again when I’m gasping for breath as cold water sprays across my chest. Taking a step back, I try to get my bearings as the crowd erupts with hoots and hollers and whistles. I wipe my eyes; thankful I chose not to wear makeup tonight. I then collect myself and remember this brilliant idea was mine. Shaking my body, I take two steps forward, putting myself in front of all the others as I begin to play it up.
I twist left and right while smiling to the crowd. My hair is getting plastered to my face, so I swipe back the silver-highlighted raven locks, lifting my arms and further jutting my breasts forward. Other girls copy my moves as they begin to compete for space along the stage, prancing and wiggling as the crowd gets impossibly louder.
The MC begins calling out our numbers one by one, encouraging the crowd to cheer for their favorite. After my number is called, to which I receive a decent amount of cheering, a guy hops up on stage and wraps his arms around the gal next to me. She looks panicked and something inside me snaps. I kickthe side of his knee making him stumble and causing his arms to flail. Thankfully he releases the gal instead of pulling her down and I take that opportunity to shove him back. The girl gives me a grateful look as we stand there unsure of what to do next.
“Whoa, momma!” The announcer yells.
Feeling a presence behind me, I turn around to see Xander there with a menacing look on his face. He grabs the guy and literally hurls him out into the crowd. Lucky for him, several guys catch him and play pass-along until he’s deposited on his wobbly feet.
I turn again to look at Xander who’s scanning the crowd, and when he catches sight of me watching him, he only nods, remaining several feet away.
