“Goddammit!” shouted the publicist. “What did I ever do to her?”
28
THE HONEYMOON WAS a corker.
The gang gave Serge and Molly a traditional Keys send-off. They waved farewell from the dock on Little Torch Key. Serge and Molly waved back from the rear of a charter boat with aluminum cans and fishing bobbers tied to the stern, the gunwales shaving-creamed: “If this boat’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.”
“I’m dying to know where we’re going!” said Molly.
“I told you,” said Serge. “It’s a surprise.”
“I’m so excited!”
The ferry took them on a short, three-mile hop to a private dock, and that’s when Molly saw it. She grabbed Serge around the neck and jumped up and down. “I love you! I love you! Thank you!…”
“Easy, my neck.”
Little Palm Island.
Oasis.
Tahitian bungalows riding small rolling hills, surrounded by bright island flowers and coconut palms growing out over the water. More like the South Pacific, which is why it was the movie location for PT-109.
A chilled bottle of wine waited in the couple’s suite. Molly walked onto the veranda and drank in the aquamarine harbor. She squealed with glee and swirled in a circle.
Nothing was too good for his Molly. Serge had arranged a mega-package of romance and pampering. All weekend long: the serenity massage, seaweed body mask, volcanic earth clay ritual, bali spice treatment, then hours together in their private teakwood Jacuzzi filled with lilacs.
And the food! An elite team of world-class gourmets kept it coming. Breakfast: avocado omelets, salmon mimosas, silver pots of coffee and fresh-squeezed juice, then a room-service lunch of chilled lobster bisque, black mussels poached in fennel, goat cheese with arugula, goose liver pâté, steak au poivre and pommes frites. Wait, leave room for dinner: petite bouillabaisse, grilled yellow snapper, pollo-sautéed andouille with hearts of palm and corn-roasted chipotle sauce. Finally, the pièce de résistance, raspberry tart with crème anglaise.
It didn’t come cheap. As they say, don’t forget your VISA. Seven thousand bucks. Molly read the welcome card that came with the chilled wine. Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Grodnick.
Almost forgot! The sex!
Serge had been apprehensive. He was a fairly urbane guy — didn’t want to spook Molly with anything too weird right away. He brushed his teeth and walked barefoot into the room with the mahogany poster bed and gauzy white canopy. “Honey?…”
Something slammed him hard from the blind side and knocked him onto the mattress.
“I’m going to make you so happy! I’m going to be the best wife!…” She seized the front of his pants. His zipper ripped apart.
Serge grabbed her wrists. “Honey, slow down. We’ve got the rest of our lives.”
“I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? I did, didn’t I? I’m so sorry….”
“You’re fine. Just don’t burden yourself.”
She stared down. Serge gently put a hand under her chin and raised her head. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but… is this, uh, your first?…”
She tried to lower her head again, but Serge’s hand was still there. She nodded.
“No crime in that. Let’s start slow with the basics.”
It was a precipitous learning curve. What Molly apparently lacked in experience, she more than compensated for with enthusiasm, stamina and mind-curving imagination.
Serge began to suspect he wouldn’t last the night. At the two-hour mark, he tremored on the mattress. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“I just made it up. Want me to stop?”
“Hell, no!”
Deeper into the night. More pioneering technique. Serge never would have guessed she was double-jointed. And just what was this she was starting to — oh, no!… Serge’s head arched back over the pillow, his mind’s eye catapulting through the Milky Way, comets and quasars zooming past….
She sat up. “You didn’t like that, did you? I’m sorry. Now I’m embarrassed.” She put a hand over her eyes in shame. “You’re always going to picture me doing that….”
Serge pulled the hand away from her face and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Holy God!… You sure you haven’t done this before?”
She shook her head.
“I want you to listen carefully and trust me on this one,” said Serge. “You’re incredible. You have absolutely nothing to feel self-conscious about.”
“You really mean it?”
“Completely,” said Serge, nodding hard. “Especially the naked-but-still-wearing-glasses part. Throws something into the mix I can’t quite explain.”
Molly sprouted a giant grin. “Good!” She jumped off the bed and skittered into the next room, returning quickly with a turkey baster and feather duster. “Let’s try this!…”
Serge pitched in agony against the pain-pleasure threshold. Molly finally showed mercy and let him up for air. “How was that?”
Serge panted until he regained speech. “Where’d you get the accessories?”
“I packed a few things. Wanna see?” She ran in the other room again, coming back with an overnight case that she opened on the foot of the bed. Oils, ointments, fur cuffs, nipple clips, whip, latex mask, double-ended dildo, illustrated manuals, ball of twine, clear tubing, bungee cords and trick-or-treat costumes.
“I wasn’t sure what you were into, so I got a little of everything.”
“From where?”
“That adult superstore in Fort Lauderdale. The one with the shopping carts.” She reached in the case. “Now hold still….”
On it went, Molly’s self-esteem climbing. By midnight, she had lost all inhibition and bloomed into a regular Chatty Cathy. “I have an idea. Let’s… no, I’m going to surprise you. You like surprises, right? You still having fun? I sure am! You’re going to love this one! You don’t have any heart conditions, do you?…” She reached deep into the overnight bag.
“What’s that?”
“Blindfold.” Molly strapped it to his face. Her voice deepened. “Lie down, slave!” Her voice returned to normal pitch. “Is it okay I call you ‘slave’? I don’t really mean it. I read it in a magazine. It’s just a game. I can leave the ‘slave’ part out if you want. I’d like to leave it in because of the story line….”
“Go for it.”
“Shut up, slave! Open your mouth!”
A piece of twine tied his big toes together. He heard some kind of motor start.
The next thing Serge knew, the blindfold was off and he was staring at the ceiling. Molly lightly slapped his cheek. “Honey, are you okay?”
“What happened?”
“You passed out. At first I thought I’d killed you.”
“Make a note. That’s how I want to go.”
“You’re not tired yet, are you? I’m not. I’m just getting started….”
Who was this woman? Still waters certainly ran deep. It continued the rest of the night. Serge tried to remember as much as he could, but there was too much new data, Molly venturing far beyond her shell and into uncharted territory. Three to four A.M. became the profanity hour, which Molly executed with naughty, schoolgirl glee. She was on top, riding fast and hard. “Wow, I’ve never said these words before! I didn’t know it could be such a turn on. Fuck! Pussy! Cock! You like that? I think I’ll try it with the word ‘hot.’ Hot pussy! Hot cock! I like it better that way. What do you think? What about ‘sweet’? Which do you prefer? ‘Sweet’ or ‘hot’? Hey, it’s kind of like mustard. Get it? Sweet and hot mustard? Did you ever think of that, you big-cock mother-fucker?…” Right on through daybreak, Serge stretched out on his back, utterly spent. Molly sat next to him on the bed, flipping through her manual. She turned the book toward him and tapped an illustration. “We haven’t done the Praying Mantis….”
Serge didn’t know how much more he could take, but Molly showed no signs of fatigue. “Come on up!” said Molly. “It’s the ‘Wallenda,’ page 143,” swinging from one of the driftwood rafters.