When I arrived in Palm Beach early afternoon, my room was not yet ready. I was given a pager and was invited to relax by the pool, go for a walk, relax at my leisure. So I waited. And waited. And waited some more.  Finally at 5 pm I went to the front desk where I was greeted with apologies that my room was in fact ready, sorry no one had paged. I thanked them for my key and stepped into the elevator.

My apprehension began to grow as I walked down a very long hall, counting numbers. I began having flashbacks of my stay in Los Angeles when, as a new and very keen employee, I excitedly asked the front desk clerk checking me in if I had been given a nice room.  He glanced down at his screen, paused, looked up and very suspiciously extolled,

“It’s CUTE!”

“Cute”, as it turns out, was code word for a cramped, musty room in an abandoned wing of the hotel overlooking the HVAC system with no so much as a single roll of toilet paper.  Ugh. Having spent a number of hours waiting for my room to be ready, I had a pretty good sense of which rooms in the Palm Beach hotel were desirable, and which ones were not.  Of course, my key led me to the very last room, exactly where I had hoped I wouldn’t end up.  The room was substantial, but the view was appalling.  It was one of three rooms recessed behind the main building, creating an effect similar to looking down a sound-proof concrete tunnel.

The bellman who delivered my bags was a couple years younger than me, good looking and friendly. We got chatting, and I asked casually if there would be any possibility of changing my room. I was only asking, not insisting; I just didn’t want to have to move twice. Ethan tried to call down to the desk but couldn’t get through, so he said he’d go to take care of it.  For about two minutes I twiddled my toes until the phone rang.  It was Sandy Itoe, the Director of Marketing with a formidable reputation as a ball breaker. I was surprised that my mild request had been elevated to such extremes.  The gist of our conversation was that I should be extremely grateful to have even gotten a room, I shouldn’t be complaining, and we wouldn’t want the General Manager to get involved now, would we?

Quite taken aback I tried to explain that I had merely requested whether a room change would be possible – it was certainly no problem to stay in my current room.  I apologized for any trouble I caused [please don’t hurt me] and said I just didn’t want to pack and unpack twice. She responded, “Go ahead and start unpacking!” which was perfectly acceptable.

As I began unzipping my bags I had a sudden urgency to go to the bathroom. Convinced this was my room, I freely lightened my load in the toilet when, mid-action,

<Ring>

It was the telephone, not 45 seconds after I had finished speaking with Sandy. I panicked, not sure what to do, and decided to use the toilet phone for what it was intended.  It was Alan from Reception saying my new room was ready. Huh?

I sputtered that I thought everything was sorted, that I was happy where I was.  But he insisted that everything had been arranged and that Ethan was on his way back to the room to help with my bags.

!!! Aack

I quickly rushed my business and was appalled that no only was the bathroom now unpleasantly fragrant, but my deposit had not made a clean flush. Madly I kept flushing the toilet, throwing in bits of toilet paper to encourage the whitening while waving my arms in the air to dissipate the smell.

Embarrassed not to leave the room in the pristine condition in which I had found it, I tried to impart to Ethan as he patiently waited at the door that I was more than happy to stay.  He insisted that my name had already been changed in the computer and joked that I really would be in trouble if I refused to move.  Sheepishly acquiescing we moved to my new room where I could see, hear and breathe the ocean in all its glory, unpack and use the loo in peace.

Montel

This morning I went to the gym, ostensibly to exercise but really to legitimize stealing an apple and banana for breakfast. Keeping true to Patsy’s “you should meet one new person a day” adage, I introduced myself to Kelly, the guy who works the seadoo rental on the beach. He was charming and not bad looking, despite the receding hairline. He mentioned the Goo Goo Dolls were playing that evening at Sun Fest in West Palm Beach, and I tentatively proposed we meet up.  It’s always strange to suggest an innocent rendezvous with strangers due to the ambiguity of intent.

I left the hotel later than planned (I was distracted by Montel Williams frolicking on the beach with his amply-bossomed wife) and had the darndest time trying to find a decent-looking restaurant which would stay open past 2:30 pm! Even worse, as I sit here it is absolutely chucking down with rain. Uch, I just tried to wipe off my black t-shirt with a white napkin, and now I’m covered in white. Gross.

* * *

While I didn’t think Sun Fest would be a replica of Jazz Fest, I wasn’t expecting the high school fundraiser I got instead. When the most exciting offering appeared to be children’s face painting, I shuffled to My Martini on Clematis Street. I am now tucking into a “Funky Monkey”, the most exciting part of my tour of this rather boring place.  No, wait – they’re towing a car! There must be 20 people watching, including the entire wait staff of Big City Tavern.  I swear, if this town weren’t in Florida it would be Ogdensberg, New York.

* * *

Wow, it’s nearly 7 pm and I’m supposed to meet Kelly and I’m the most buzzed I’ve been since leaving Toronto. I just flicked the almond sliver that was stuck to the bottom of my glass off the table and got the fish mouthed hairy eyeball from the little girl who “had to go poo-poo”.  Too bad the almond missed. Fuck Sun Fest, I could just site, write, drink and people watch from my perch all night (rental car? What rental car?). This wine is soooo gooood.

* * *

True to his word, Kelly met me as planned. Cans of contraband beer safely hidden in my knapsack (undetected by Security, despite the audible sloshing), we employed my recently-acquired Jazz Fest and alcohol-fuelled crowd management skills to navigate a reasonable vantage point amongst the throngs of Goo Goo Dolls fans. Black Balloon was terribly romantic, but despite his sweetness I wasn’t attracted to Kelly and had deliberately made the decision not to consider anything.

After the show we did the obligatory tour of the main drag, Clematis Street.  We hit four clubs, the most frightening place of which was the simply-titled “Bar”. Bar was a terrifying embodiment of bad sex.  The music was excruciating – so loud it was barely recognizable. The black lighting illuminated puddles of stale, gritty beer and sloppy sickness, and barely-conscious girls slumped on amplifiers while disheveled frat boys with damp chests and feverish eyes unsteadily stalked. I was happy to leave this grim place.

Having stopped drinking many hours before I drove Kelly home and returned to the hotel. Needless to say there wasn’t too much activity in the hotel at this time, but I did manage to run into the nighttime cleaning staff at about 3 am.

A little after 11 pm I met up with Ethan and his huge pickup truck. Turns out he was a local boy who knew tons of people and was a surfer to boot. Notwithstanding the general yumminess of surfers, as with Kelly I had absolutely no intention of anything happening. I mean, it wasn’t like I was super attracted to Ethan. In fact, it never crossed my mind that we were on a date until, when walking back to his car, he grabbed my hand.

!

He brought me back to the hotel around 3 am and we sat together under one of the cabanas with a couple of Coronas. We were just kicking back when he said that he wanted to kiss me.  I balked at first but then, what the hell, I let him kiss me.  What the hell, I’m on vacation.  What the hell, it’s 3 am and I’m sitting on a moonlit beach with a cute guy with a fit body and he’s warm and it’s time to chalk one up and obliterate my ex Mason.  So we kissed for a while, that delicious, first-time-exciting necking. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before my bladder was screeching with urgency, so with one final lingering kiss we made arrangements to meet up the following night. I ran to the downstairs bathroom, running into the same two cleaning ladies I had seen during the wee hours of the previous night.  Tee hee.

We returned to my hotel balcony and cracked open the warm coronas. Somehow (oh, that tricky alcohol) we ended up on the bed. Ethan grabbed the ice bucket for the beers and I couldn’t resist shoving a piece down his pants. He retrieved it and threw it back. Soon we were giggling, yelping and jumping around as handfuls of ice flew through the elegant accommodations.

Suddenly Ethan grabbed a piece of ice in his mouth and started kissing me with it. Other than the drool, the combination of slippery cold and body heat was pretty erotic.  Thus the challenge of seeing how far he could get was waged.  Our tussling intensified as articles of clothing landed in cool pools of water.

“I want to do it,” he murmured in my ear.

Okay, he was no poet laureate, but his intentions were clear and I appreciate directness. While hands and mouths explored I was quietly weighing up the inappropriateness of my behaviour, the potential consequences of being busted by Sandy the Dragon Lady, and overwhelming lust.

Yeah, right. Like scruples and guilt stood a chance.

Out came the Trojans. It was fun, it felt amazing. Yup, I was definitely on vacation now.

As much as we would have liked to stay together through the night, staying in my room just wasn’t an option. We exchanged email addresses and said good bye.

The truth is, I just can’t get worked up about the big event “sex” is supposed to be anymore.  It still feels great and all, but the added dimension of feeling its illicit pleasure, the heart-skipping realization that someone else is actually inside your body, that you’re “having sex”… it has basically disappeared.

Looking back on my pattern over the last two years, I identified a change just after the trip to California, which came after the kidney disease diagnosis.  Because of that major life change (one fortunately without physical symptoms), I divorced myself from my body. My body, sexual organs and all, was no longer liked in any psychological way to my cerebral/emotional self. It has become a separate vessel, one that serves to contain my essence and has the blessing of being able to give me pleasure.

It’s clearly not a question of self hate. I like to take care of myself, but yet… there’s just this complete emotional detachment. Is the absence of moral compunction regarding sexual experiences a bad thing?  Am I truly liberated or suffering from some sort of self-induced psychological anesthetic?  On the upside, at least I don’t care as much how I look in a bikini.

What a different trip this would have been had I gone with my ex, Mason. He was such a dud. The only thing I missed about him I compensated for while I was gone, ha. I am so definitely over him.

How wonderful to be young, free, single and confident!

Hmmm, I hear Los Angeles is nice this time of year….