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
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.
“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.
Omar's loss!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Alex. But those abs...sigh.
DeleteNow where’s was Omar’s head? The one on his shoulders, I mean!
ReplyDeleteAw, thanks, David. I was probably woman number 183405 he took into that cave, likely the only one who got hurt. I mean, I was PERFECTLY fine. Smiles.
DeleteOh, Omar, so fickle.
ReplyDeleteRight? I was soooo disappointed. PS Omar, if you're reading this, contact me, babe! xo
DeleteSo you were ghosted before ghosting became a "thing".
ReplyDeleteYeah I realized that when I was transferring this story to my blog. Queen of being ghosted. Why me? Well, it all makes for good story.
DeleteDid he get the wrong Margaritaville? Did he go to Florida looking for Jimmy Buffet?
ReplyDeleteI don't think he even tried, Diane. Probably because he didn't get money or something else from me. Oh, well.
DeleteThat's great that you went there in the first place. A shame that you did not get to sample Omar's boombox.
ReplyDeleteStill, you got to dance regardless and get a story out of it!
Yes. It's all good grist for the mill. Cheers.
DeleteOh oh Omar. His loss.
ReplyDeleteI know. Darn boy. I was soo disappointed. I mean, look at that body. Then again, he looked much better in person when I was younger and more naive. And not at all hurt. Not yet.
DeleteOh no. No, Omar! You don't do that! Bad Omar!
ReplyDeleteOh yes he did. So it goes, RBH. We women press on, and we're better for it. Smiles.
Delete