Dearest Sillies,
It's so hot that I'm sharing one of my favorite scenarios from Woman on the Verge. This was 20 years ago. I've held onto an actual photo of "Omar"; I don't remember his real name. "Omar," if you see this, call me, babe. Wink. P.S. Don't worry. My forehead healed fine. xoxo
Stay hot and cool, my dears.
Upon returning from his third exquisite
dive off the cliffs of Negril that afternoon, the man halted nearby. I gazed at
him. I couldn’t help it. He appeared a delicious chunk of dark chocolate
sculptured by Michelangelo, radiating sun rays from the most intimate of
crevices and dressed in spandex for public enticement.
“Hi. I’m Omar,” he extended a hand.
“I, hi” -whoa- “I’m Robyn.”
“Come with me.” Like a puppy in heat, I
pranced behind. Focused on the subtle shifting of his tight buttocks, I
followed Omar down a metal ladder leading to an underwater cave. There, an
active and chilly ocean sheltered by dark stone walls opened to a glorious
backdrop of skies streaked with fading yellows, oranges and reds.
“No husband or boyfriend?”
“No I’m done with that craziness.”
“Do you make them crazy?” he teased.
Probably. “Oh no. They were already crazy.” Maybe?
I inched closer to him. As the sun relaxed in the distance, Omar’s tasty lips met mine. Incredible. But...
Rough waters abruptly tossed me back towards
the cave’s walls. My forehead smashed against sharp rock, inciting a
shrill of pain. I mean, I was perfectly
fine.
He giggled then motioned for me to follow
him back up the ladder. On dry land, reggae tunes blasted from a mid-sized boombox. Omar and his equally scrumptious diver friend danced with me. I boogied on top of the
world, fully appreciating how Stella got her groove.
My time with Omar ended on a promise
to meet at Margaritaville the next night. Date night arrived. Omar did not. I
instead found myself stuck dancing to endless repetitions of “One Love” with a dude
so doped up he could hardly keep his eyes open.
