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A dick detox, if you will.
We’re here to worship Gaia, Mother Earth, and our feminine power.
And not men.
Which is fine by me.
We’ve taken a solemn vow, sono going back on that one, I mutter internally as I throw an irritated thought back to the godlike six-foot-three-inch prick with theno-lube-requiredglare hanging out somewhere on this island.
And then another thought hits me, one that leaves my body ice-cold: Carrie told me she’d heard rumors about some on-off girlfriend of his. She doesn’t know much more because Grey’s discreet and even Tom doesn’t share what he knows about him with her, but it makes my stomach turn nonetheless, even though I have absolutely no right to be jealous.
He sent me many texts after I left, tried to call me. I barely answered apart from to tell him I needed space, which I did.
I’m glad he’s got someone, if that’s the case.
Or at least, I might bemildlyglad once I’ve had enough vodka.
“Get me a vodka and coke,” I say. “And some olives.”
“God, you’re like some throwback to the nineties,” Rami snorts.
“Actually, make it a double vodka,” I say to Rami’s grin.
“Me too,” pipes up Fran, looking gorgeous in a lilac halter neck dress and dangly turquoise earrings which offset her gorgeous red hair, all crinkled from the swim we took in the ocean together earlier this afternoon.
The bar we’re in, about a twenty-minute walk along the coast from the ridiculously cheap but gorgeous beachfront house we’re renting for the week, is half-empty, which is fine by me.
Chastity vow aside, after weeks of dealing with my psycho ex’s steadily escalating bullshit, I’m happy to give men a wide berth and will call it a successful night if we can avoid getting hit on by some belligerent asshole drunk on cheap beer and agitated after getting too much hot Georgia sun.
There’s a flurry of movement as a few people walk past our booth, making me look behind me to check that Rami’s doing okay at the bar. She’s tougher than both Fran and I put together, but she takes no shit at all, which means she gets into scrapes more than the average person.
I turn back to chat to Fran about today’s yoga and meditation session and the various aches and pains our bodies are now afflicted with, as well as some of the more colorful characters at our retreat.
“Arlo’s on another freaking planet,” Fran moans about our extremely earnest and committed walking encyclopedia of a yoga master who wants us all on vegan diets and not consuming alcohol, tobacco, or illegal drugs on this trip. Not to mention wanting us to pleasure ourselves as a form of feminine self-love while we’re on our week-long dick fast.
He's running the retreat from a Shala that he made himself on his land, and while Frannie and I are used to the talk of mudras, chakras, gods, and goddesses at the retreats we’ve done together, Arlo’s a starseed who says he’s readying himself for his next adventure on the Andromeda galaxy, which I think is a new one for both of us.
“Yeah, Ireallyneed to know what that man is smoking and where I can get some,” I reply to her fit of giggles.
I commiserate as she moans about the red skin currently peeling on her chest after spending too much time in the sun after our last class today. In her defense, the sky was hazy and even I didn’t think I’d end up as tanned as I am now.
Indie…
As she talks, I realize that my chest is tightening, some minor panic attack that I’m used to and good at hiding by now, only this time, my skin chills with it, the hairs standing on end as my body seizes.
I look out onto the small dimly lit dancefloor nearby where a few animated souls dance to 70’s pop only to be jolted back to our table by the arrival of Rami with our drinks. She returns to the bar to get the rest before sliding onto the bench opposite me.
“Cheers!” Fran sings, lifting her glass as Rami and I follow suit, clinking our drinks, all three of us chugging half of them in one go.
“Fucking Arlo better not see us in here,” Fran hisses.
“Screw him,” drawls Rami. “He probably goes home and snorts coke, and fucks all the bitches he’s made horny with his cock ban.”
“Honestly, I bet that’s it,” I chortle, trying not to spill my drink as Rami’s unimpressed look makes me burst into giggles, relieving the worst of the panic I’ve been feeling of late. I take another sip of my drink and pop a pitted olive into my mouth.
“God, totally,” affirms Fran. “Like why the fuck else would a straight man be running a freaking Inner Goddess retreat?”
“To get laid,” deadpans Rami. “Literally the only reason for that anomaly.”
