The Picnic
Sunday morning, I think. When I first wake up, I have no idea where the fuck I am. I pick up some matches on the nightstand. La Quinta. I am in a room at a La Quinta. Where? Why? Jodie. It comes to me like a tidal wave knocking me over in the ocean. I am going to see Jodie. I'm outside of Louisville, maybe three hours away from her. 7 a.m. I haven't been up at 7 a.m. since I started working at home. I look out the window and the world is bustling. Good for them.
By my second cup of coffee I have lost my sleepiness, replaced with excitement and nervousness. She is sweet and kind in her emails. Damn sexy too. Some were really downright steamy. Who the hell knows—are her words lies? The pictures? Are those her breasts, her girlfriend's, a download from nicetits&pussy.com? When you never think you will meet, you can say anything. My pictures were real. I lied about my age a little. I get in the car and get going.
A fresh May morning. The rolling pastures of the horse farms are soothing and beautiful. Foals prance next to their mares, jockeys in brightly colored silks gallop past trainers with stopwatches timing the speed of their fantasies: The one big purse. South along I-75, I pass the sign—Corbin, Next Exit. But I'm supposed to get off at Highway 25W, she said. Something about Cumberland Falls State Park. I'm beginning to feel like getting off now and then turning around and going back home. I don't need this. No, I don't. I want it desperately, though.
I'm to meet her in the parking lot of the DuPont Lodge in the park. She said she would pick up a picnic lunch and we could eat by the falls. No, not a motel. God, no, not her house. Look for a red Chevy SUV. I swing into the lot and I know her right away. She's standing, leaning against the car, and yes, that's a wicker picnic basket in her hands. She's looking to the side so she hasn't seen me yet. She is my picture of the South—not the old South, not hoop skirts and ruffles and bonnets. She wears a filmy pale-yellow linen dress with a black sash and matching yellow sneakers. A pale-yellow wide-brimmed straw hat with a black band covers her head. My heart races. She turns, sees my car, smiles the sweetest smile I've ever seen, and waves. Relax and be yourself, I say. What the hell am I doing here? I pull up next to her car and lower the window.
"Would you be the foxy Ms. McNamara who goes online to pick up Yankee guys?" I ask. God, Michael, great opening line. Couldn't you show a little class, some panache?
"For making love next to a river, in a van, under the stars, in the rain, in a swimming pool, on a beach, in a dressing room, inside an empty church late at night, and...you know, anywhere! With the right guy!" she says, a throaty drawl to her voice. She reaches her head through the window and kisses my cheek. "You the right guy?" she asks, and then laughs. I don't know. I sure as hell want to be! Or not. I get out of the van and she puts the basket down. We look at each other and I feel a spark. Her eyes twinkle, her cheeks glow, her body radiates energy. I put my arms around her and pull her to me. I feel her hard nipples against me. I kiss her and feel her succumb, as though she's been like an overly starched cloth gone limp from my heat and humidity. I become lost in our kiss. All I feel is her: her lips, her tongue, her hips to mine.
"Mmm, I like how you Yankee boys say hello!" she giggles.
"Hungry? Let's walk to the falls and have lunch."
I pick up the basket and we leave the parking lot and head for what is called the "Niagara of the South." The park is spring green—vivid, lush, awash with the scarlets and crème-yellows of azaleas and the heady aroma of magnolias. Blooming dogwoods brighten beneath the canopy of pin oaks and maples. As we walk the narrow path, I follow behind her, cannot take my eyes off her. Great legs! I follow them up. The material is filmy enough I can see her thighs, blurred. She has such sexy hips that curve beautifully into her waist. I think she is wearing yellow panties.
I hear the falls before I see them. The sound of roaring water is one of the sexiest in nature, I think. So primal and raw. It is the sound of passionate love. We stand on the observation deck and Jodie places her arm around my waist, pulls me to her side, hugs me. We look in silence. No, it is not Niagara by any stretch of the imagination, but it is damn impressive. Her arm around me feels so good. I want to make love to her right here, right now.
She leads me down a path for a while and then off the path, through the forest. We're in the woods, farther away from civilization. Where is she taking me? Is this where she takes her lovers? Jodie's Treetops Motel—I'll Leave the Light On for You? We reach a clearing beneath a stand of pines, the smooth needles providing a thick, soft bed. She reaches into the wicker basket and unfolds a lightweight, dark-green blanket.
"Sit. Relax!" she says, smiling. She kneels on the blanket and removes things from the basket. A bottle of white wine, corkscrew, two crystal glasses. Grapes, strawberries, cheese, sausage, bread, napkins, silverware, plates, cutting board, knife, brownies—God, I think, where are the candles and strolling violinist!
"Incredible!" I say to her, practically speechless.
