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There was a pleasure beating in my eyes, a glow coloring my cheeks. She’d transformed me in less than an hour, given me a makeover from the inside out.
“You’re pretty,” she said softly, clearly pleased with herself. “See now? See the difference?”
I nodded. I did.
But how had she known?
How had she known not only what was underneath my clothes, but underneath my skin? The cravings raging within me. The urges I couldn’t deny. I looked at Doreen as she settled back against the mattress, one arm folded under her head, regarding me with those mesmerizing eyes.
She answered the question without me having to voice it.
“It’s always easy to see what’s underneath,” she said in that soft growl of a voice. “At least, it is when you know what you’re looking for.”
Called a “trollop with a laptop” by the East Bay Express and a “literary siren” by Good Vibrations, Alison Tyler is naughty and she knows it. Her sultry short stories have appeared in more than seventy-five anthologies, including Sex for America (Harper Collins), Sex at the Office (Virgin), and Best Women’s Erotica 2008 (Cleis). She is the author of more than twenty-five erotic novels, and the editor of more than forty-five explicit anthologies, including Naked Erotica (Pretty Things Press). Visit www.alisontyler.com for more information.
Island Goddess
Yuri
T he taxi driver opens the door for me. I step onto the sand-sprayed steps in front of the hotel. The front entrance looks much better than it did in the brochure. The blush-colored building blends into the sky like a compact sunset and the people enjoying their view atop the balconies are like heavenly deities watching as people frolic on the white sand beach. I pay the driver and begin my trek into heaven. Making sure not to mess up my day-old French manicure, I drag my clearance designer suitcase behind me.
While I’m here I will be every girl’s wet dream. I am a vixen sweeping through this exotic paradise, only to leave behind broken hearts and longing lovers. For my debut, I chose a wide-brimmed straw hat, cat-eye glasses, and a halter flower-print dress themed in red to match my lipstick. My stiletto sandals click on the expensive marble floor of the hotel lobby. It took me over a year to save up enough money to spend one week in this island paradise. With my free hand, I lift my sunglasses and place them on top of my hat, Audrey Hepburn-style.
The front lobby reminds me of Greek myths, where the pantheon would sit on lavish benches, while drinking ambrosia. Beautiful people in elegant clothes chat about the pleasant weather over afternoon cocktails.
As I walk to the front desk, I make sure to make eye contact with at least three of the classy rich women and a few of their husbands. By the time I reach the front desk, it feels like the entire room is watching me.
“Welcome to Paradise.” The desk girl smiles at me. She towers over me like a Nubian goddess and her deep mocha skin and eyes catch my breath. “I am Milani. How may I help you?” she says with a tilt of her head, making the tight ebony ringlets peek around her head from their hiding place in her ponytail. To keep from losing my composure, I dig into my carry-on bag. I turn back to her with my cool façade intact.
“Thank you…Milani, is it?” I carry a pretentious accent that I’ve been practicing on the plane. “I believe I have a reservation for a suite with a balcony.”
I offer the chocolate goddess my passport and printed confirmation. She accepts them with a close-lipped grin and a deep, but brief, glance at my cleavage. As she types on her computer, I allow my eyes to wander. Her navy uniform jacket is left open, revealing a white form-fitting button-down over which a man’s thick navy-and-gold striped tie descends below the counter.
“Here you are, Ms. Sanchez,” Milani says. Our eyes meet as she returns my paperwork; long enough for my face to burn like a summer day. It’s like she can see through my diva exterior to the shy teaching assistant hiding beneath. “I hope that you find everything to your liking.” She hands me my key card.
“I have so far,” the diva in me says. I turn away from her slowly, giving her a full look at my ass. Every step I take toward the elevator is forced into a slow, steady pace; to give her the opportunity to look as long as possible. I only allow myself to relax when I enter the elevator, alone, and collapse against the mirrored wall. Somehow I’ve pulled this off, I think, smiling. For a moment, I take in the light elevator music. If I were at home, I wouldn’t have been able to make eye contact with a girl like her. Okay, get it together, Alyssa, I think, straightening my posture.
The elevator doors ding before opening and I return to diva-mode and walk the hallway like a runway model until I reach my door. I release my suitcase to draw out my keycard. It slides easily into the slot and I open the door, ready to experience what only eating Ramen noodles for months on end can buy.
The suite is even better than the picture I taped on my bathroom mirror. A queen-size that promised to be a heavenly experience, covered with Egyptian cotton sheets and marshmallow pillows. The balcony doors ahead of me offer a clear ocean view that’s worthy of a postcard, shrouded by white curtains and lined by thicker drapes. In the right corner, the open bathroom door around the corner, I see a Jacuzzi tub I can’t wait to get into.
The real me breaks through as I kick off my heeled sandals, hitch up the tight dress, and jump on the mattress with childish abandon. I’m finally here, finally, at least for a week.
When I head out to the hotel bar, I try for the “corporate lesbian at leisure” look. You know, the kind that makes men give respect and women give everything else. Using the makeup tips from the salesgirl at the mall, I paint my face to look natural. Then I wear a cream linen suit, baby-pink tank, and the open-toed Mary Janes that show off my shiny new pedicure. Not to appear desperate, I bring a novel to pull out while scoping out the scene.
I make it down the stairs just after sunset, thanking the rosy glow for giving me another grand entrance. The usual lounge hogs have taken over most of the seats at the bar and surrounding tables so I make my way toward the glass deck doors and set up camp. Women, who have run past the hill, sit atop the barstools in tight sequin dresses to flirt with the bartenders, while old men and sleaze-bag townies hover in the shadows waiting for their trust-fund meal tickets to arrive and start drinking.
I walk outside the main bar, refusing to make eye contact with any of the regulars and leave through the glass doors. Thankfully, there is an empty two-person table giving me the perfect place to look over the bar and say I’m looking at the fading beach horizon. Drawing the novel out of my jacket, I open it to a random page and scan the possible dating pool. The night is still early, plenty of time.
Around one-thirty a.m., my hopes start to wane. I’ve actually read through most of my novel, and turned down three men old enough to be my father. The young movers and shakers are making their way out for the evening, wasting their parents’ money on alcohol and only God knows what. By three-thirty a.m., I’m ready to call it a night and hang up my diva exterior.
“Is anyone sitting here?” a familiar female voice calls to me from behind.
I turn in my chair to find Milani holding two purple drinks with umbrella straws. She’s turned in her work uniform for a floral-print spaghetti strap tank top and low-cut jeans that fit snugly on her hips. The tank cuts off just above her belly button. I nod to the empty chair. The mocha goddess sets down the drinks, to take a chair, turn it backward and take a seat. The more I think about it, the more she makes me think of one of those fertility statues that ancient people used to worship. She has full breasts, a willowy waist and round hips.
“You are off work now,” I say as I recross my legs.
“How observant.” She smirks, then takes a sip from one of the umbrella drinks.
