Thick, gray clouds scattered a mist over the upper part of the mountain on which my wife, Nicole and I had checked into a spa, a one room cottage, with screen doors that banged shut, and pebbled paths that cut beneath Douglas firs and tall Spruce. The air was clean and thin.
We were there for a bachelorette party for my wife's wealthy sister, Ashly. This would be her fifth marriage. Along with my wife, Ashley had invited 8 of her best girlfriends who, despite their middle age, looked remarkably beautiful.
As we walked to our cottage, the mountain, with its carpet of trees absorbed me in its vast quiet space, in the ongoing circle of life it contained, in the fine delicate indecipherable whispers that beckon us back to the root of ourselves.
My wife's sharp voice snapped me out of my rumination. "Why put the suitcase there. Put it on this luggage stand."
"Sorry," I mumbled, moving it.
Later she clanged with irritation from the bathroom. "Why didn't you bring the new toothbrush I bought for you. I set it on your bathroom sink you couldn't miss it."
"Sorry." I mumbled again, "I put it in the drawer."
"The one you're using is full of bacteria. There's a cocktail party in an hour. I want you to go to meet everyone."
She dressed methodically rolling her hair in curlers, slipping on a long blouse, then white stretch pants, and sandals before peering at the mirror, grim faced, to start on her makeup. I gazed at her. Her face was fixed with impatience, a look she wore constantly lately, at least in my presence, as if she were imbued with an irritation she couldn't shake, a midlife misalignment I couldn't interpret despite our 22 years of marriage, two children, and an ongoing sorting out of our differences that had seemed, at least in my mind, to have won us a warmth we could easily locate and an intimacy that minimized the wounds we might inflict on one another. But something felt ruptured.
At the cocktail party my wife's sister held up her hands to quiet the room, gesturing for calm. Everyone held a glass of wine, or a mixed drink or both and stood at attention or sat with their legs crossed, thinking, I imagined, that this would be the first of many rambling overly sentimental toasts.
"Beware!" she blurted out, grinning fiercely, sucking in her cheeks, and holding up her scotch and water, "of naked men in the public hot tubs." I heard sighs and saw eyes rolling, but an amused buzz lifted the room too. Then just as quickly, to dampen what zest she had provoked, she added, "probably not the kind of naked men you want see." Everyone chuckled. The ladies resumed their conversations. I touched my wife's elbow. She was flush.
"Watch out for male nudity," I bantered as I caressed her arm lightly, preparing to leave for a hike.
"Are you headed to a hot tub tonight?" I asked.
She didn't answer but grinned, which was the first time I'd seen her smile all day. She touched my arm, then kissed me on the cheek.
"Okay, Im gonna go." I said after standing waiting for her to say something.
"Have fun," she said in a song like voice. The next day, after my long hike in the morning and her massage and pedicure, she suggested we go to one of the public hot tubs.
We put on our bathing suits and thick terrycloth bathrobes. The hot tubs were at the top of a very long, steep wood planked staircase that reminded me of a Buddhist temple in Nepal. The arduous hike was complicated by my cheap unfitted flip flops. We arrived breathless. My wife poked her head behind a tall wooden gate, just to our left, and turned to me.
"This one's fine."
We disrobed in a small dressing area. I hung my heavy cotton robe on a hook and waited for her to put her hair back in a ponytail.
Though it was late afternoon a wet gray cloud sat just above us clasping the mountain. I could feel the heat from the tub when we stepped to its edge. There were five men sitting submerged. One tall square faced black man with droplets of water in his beard, two young men sitting close as if holding hands, another small bald man, overly wrinkled, with blue eyes that met mine uncomfortably, as if questioning our presence. The last, reminded me of a warrior. He was half submerged, ponytailed, and brown eyed. His tanned hairless body glistened. He had the shoulders of an ocean swimmer and the presence an ancient chief.
We tiptoed in together, and sat with our backs against the jets. The water stung and soothed at the same time, pressing on my skin with the touch of a masseuse. It opened my pores. My face moistened. I tried to stop my mind from poking me for attention. I'd been working on staying in the present, not getting carried away by my thoughts but staying with sensations, sounds, textures and tastes, being mindful. Ah the air. The scent of the evergreens. But my mind wanted to investigate the guys. My mind said we'd stepped into a new world.
The two guys across from us, the ones sitting close, didn't appear to have swim suits on. I glanced a second time through the churning water and it looked to be true. I arched my back and looked up at the sky, which was threatening rain now, and took a deep breath. But as I straightened up to lean along the edge of the hot tub, the tall, black bearded man pushed himself up by his hands and out of the tub, grabbed a towel and plopped down in a lounge chair, legs opened. He too was naked. I realized we were the only ones wearing bathing suits. A few minutes later the warrior lifted himself onto the edge of tub. He moved athletically, spun himself sideways on his butt cheeks, opened his legs, then sat back lounging, on an elbow, on display it seemed, for my wife. Brazen. Proud. His cock was long and thick, tubular, lazy, as if he'd just had an erection that was sated.
