Our First Adult Vacation

Written lovingly for my wonderful husband. This is quite long, so you've been warned.

*****

"Michelle, it's been years since we've been on an actual real vacation."

The family vacation is a reality of having kids, the vacations you had become accustomed to before become distant memories, and soon less than after-thoughts. For the family vacation, there are all sorts of caveats that dominate every decision on every level. If you try to ignore this reality, you end up dragging around moping children, whom need to be threatened into not getting on your last nerve. This can turn even the most scenic view, the finest art or the liveliest restaurant into total wastes. Being the adult, you make concessions; you agree to alter your mood to fit their needs. As a result, instead of sipping whisky sours under an umbrella, you're smiling for pictures with grown people dressed like stuffed animals. The phrase, "As long as the kids had fun", finds its way into the common lexicon.

"You know it's true; we haven't been on a real vacation for years." I answered my husband in a tone that confirmed we were aligned in the same train of thought.

The implication was clear. The kids are old enough that we actually can have a real vacation. Our eldest was now 21, and his sister had turned 15. Our son, being away at school, was of no concern, but neither one of us was dumb enough to leave our daughter to her own devices, in a house with no rules. At the same time, she didn't require intense supervision either. My parents could, no doubt, ensure that the party to end all parties would have a venue far away from our humble home. The wheels were turning in my head as I thought about all the bases we would have to cover to make this happen. Almost strangely, there weren't that many. Lisa would probably be relieved to know she wasn't coming; any additional freedom at her age is greeted with baited breath.

"I think we are good to start planning!" I said with an air of enthusiasm for the moment of departure.

"Do you know where you want to go?" Colin, my husband, relayed to me with the expectation that this was something I would have thought about before.

"I don't know, but somewhere hot, I want water and I don't want to have to pack much." I said laughing at my rather broad inclusion of destinations.

It is so hard to plan based on an ideal for a feeling. I wanted to feel free on this vacation; to feel transported in space and time. Perhaps back to a place we could remember who we were; who we were before we had kids at least. Being lost in thought, as I so often am, it occurred to me that we never really knew each other long before having kids. I met Colin in university, but we didn't date until our last year. When we first met I had a boyfriend and we were only sort of casual friends, in the platonic sense. We didn't see each other often and didn't know much about each other past pleasantries. After my break-up we started to hang out on a more familiar basis. Within half a year I was pregnant and we were getting married. So the total time we had known each other, 25 odd years, most of the time before kids we barely knew each other, leaving only a few months without kids or the prospects of kids. The fact of the matter was that our last "real" vacation together was our honeymoon and I was already 5 months pregnant, so even then we weren't really alone.

"You know, I don't think we've ever been on a "real" vacation; just the two of us?" The question mark is to indicate the rhetorical question nature of my statement.

"You know I think you're right." He said softly, making it clear that the words, "I think", were unrequired to the true nature of his thought.

Colin had the look on his face of someone who just came to a realization that betrayed the self-image that they had created in their own mind. I think most people like to think of themselves as, in some way, a free spirit; or at least as someone who is not bound to, or a victim of their own responsibilities. For most of us, our self-image is something branded deep into our consciousness at some point of our adolescence. From this point of view, aspects that other people never see are considered as defining facts. For this reason, kids and parents can often have very different ideas about the person the parent is.

"Are we really that boring?" He said out loud to my light hearted laughter, only it was clear that he wasn't joking.

"Ok honey, then let's continue the boring trend and go to an all-inclusive 5 star resort, somewhere where every path is beaten, the service is prompt and weather is hot?" I said with the clear intention of steering clear of the, "boring", conversation.

"I don't have any burning desire to jump out of an airplane, climb a mountain, get eaten by a wild animal or anything else someone might say is extreme." I continued my lobbying for the boring and relaxing world away from our own.

"That actually sounds pretty good." A thought he finished with a kiss, as if to let me know that we understood each other.

We settled on a, not so small, and completely opulent resort in the Dominican Republic. Exactly the sort of place, tourists who don't really want to see the world would go. A place where the real world doesn't really exist, where drinks are served day and night and there's not a glass to be cleaned. The sort of place built on a beautiful beach on the lovely ocean and yet still features a swimming pool full of chemicals. This particular cookie cutter had one feature we both found irresistible: no kids allowed.

I meant it when I said I didn't want to pack. Looking through my closet for my summer clothes, I came to a reoccurring realization in my life: I hate all my clothes. If I could re-create the world, I would create one without mirrors. This is no glowing comment on my own vanity, but I have never seen a mirror that doesn't capture my attention. Not because I like to look at myself per say, but more to give myself time to criticize, judge and think about fixing person looking back. This process had become a lot less agonizing in my 40s, and at 43, I had basically got to the point of liking the image on the other side of the glass. However, the prospects of wearing a bikini around lots of other women wearing bikinis was bound to bring out the worst in me.

I stripped down naked to start from square one. I had to make sure everything was neat and no excess hair would show. I don't have any two piece bikinis but my mind was telling me that for this trip I was going to have to buy a few. I'm not overweight in any sense, perhaps a bit of womanly rounding around my hips, but it wasn't that which concerned me. I have stretch marks from when I had the kids and I am self-conscious about showing them to strangers. I stood naked in front of the full length mirror and looked at myself for a long time. Perhaps it was the rounding of my hips or it could have been my own sense of self-acceptance, but either way, my stretch marks didn't look so bad. The following afternoon I went to the mall and spent more on two piece bikinis than I would even wish to disclose anonymously. It's possible the small ransom I spent was worth it, I left the mall feeling almost high to the prospects of showing off my tummy.

Getting home I returned to my faithful mirror to model my indulgence. I stripped naked again but stopped short of slipping on one of the bikinis.

"I can't get a first impression looking like this!" I thought to myself cognizant of the disaster a bad first impression could bring.

I had to doll myself up. I went to my drawer of beauty and chaos. Beauty because it's where I keep all my beauty aids and chaos because it's where I keep all my beauty aids no matter how often they get used. The drawer is deep and full and it takes a great deal of time to settle on a plan of attack. First I worked from the bottom up. That is, I got: my clippers and red nail polish for my toes, got my razor and wax for my legs and pussy, some baby powder in case of irritation, some baby oil just in case my stretch marks thought I really forgot about them, assorted moisturizers and make-up for my face and my trusty hair brush to finish the job.

When I was done waxing, shaving and plucking the hair around my bikini line I put on a small pair of white panties to make sure that any hairs that weren't quite as brown as the others didn't escape my initial scan. In my case the carpet does match the drapes. I have brown hair that I keep long and even at my age it is still full and quite vibrant. After I brush and knots and tangles out, my bottom curls flow quite naturally giving the appearance of my volume. I stand 5'7" on my bare feet, so I look quite tall in shoes and even taller in heels. My weight and me have been engaged in a war of wills for at least 10 years. The battles are fierce, emotional and likely full of unnecessary drama, but all in all I hold my own at around 155 pounds. My dress size has remained a constant 10 through all the minor fluctuations. My breasts aren't big, which turns out to be a blessing at my age because they don't sag either; 34b if you must know.

When I finally got around to modelling the swim wear I smiled a sigh of relief at the perfect fit. I was glowing at myself in front of my new best friend (my mirror). One by one I tried them all on. I struck some poses, made some pouty faces, some passionate face and generally worked myself into a very horny state. So much so that I went back to my hair brush, which isn't just trusty for dealing with knots in my hair, the handle is also wonderfully ribbed for another purpose. I decided to treat myself. I thought about strutting by the pool side giving all the men erections as I past. I pushed the handle in and then pulled it out in an upward motion to slowly let each rib flick my clit. I dreamt about screwing on the diving board under a moon drenched sky. (Don't ask about the mechanics it was a fantasy!!) I worked the handle in and out while thrashing my hips up and down on my mattress. I tried to muffle my moans as I felt the heat building toward an orgasm. Soon there was no turning back, my brush landed somewhere on the floor after being hurled off the bed, I buried my face in a pillow and gasped in satisfaction. I looked up at the ceiling panting for extra air and hoping nobody was upstairs that Saturday afternoon.

I do like resorts, but at the same time it doesn't feel like really traveling to me. Aside from the cultural appropriation that the resort is selling, I don't think there is much of a connection with the country you're in. However, if you take it for what it is, the resort can be a completely relaxing piece of escapism, and who doesn't need that sometimes? Everything is there to present the feeling of luxury. This is to allow those who bought last minute, discounted, buy now packages, to have the illusion of being rich. This feeling is, after all, largely what they're selling, the feeling of being in the upper class; even if all credit cards are maxed out and you have a couple of mortgages. To most, this means not lifting a finger. If there is a whim, there should be an islander there to indulge it. That's one aspect of resorts I don't like and I hope not to see on display. I tend to think the main goal in going to one of these should be to relax; it seems that some take a different view of what that is. Perhaps complaining is a form of relaxation to some, maybe it's a combination of entitlement, booze and bad manners; but some are downright abusive to the staff.

"This isn't what I wanted! I wanted two ice cubes, T-W-O, two! That's why I said, a couple! A! Couple!" The middle aged woman barked at the waiter, while her pudgy husband looked on with nods of approval.

"Bring that back and then bring me what I want or I will be talking to your boss."

"Yes, mam, it was my mistake." The young man kept his composure and polite tone while accepting blame for the extra ice cube.

"Well? What are you waiting for, these cubes to melt? And don't even think about bringing back the same glass!"

Without another word, the waiter turned to retrieve a two ice cube drink. The woman looked on, keeping a look of pure indignation on her face, until he was out of sight. At times I become desensitized to this sort of bad behaviour, the sad truth is that she was not overly unique in this environment. This time there was something about the way she delivered her tirade that really sunk under my skin. I knew there was no way of fixing the unfortunate scene but the entire incident just made me want to get off the resort.

We found a bar, not far from the resort, which opened onto a beach. It was mid-afternoon; the bar was filled with a scattering of resort refugees like us and a diverse sampling of locals. People were drinking, puttering around on the beach and generally enjoying the scenery. The vibe was more laid back and relaxing than on the resort. We found a table in the sun, one that allowed me to put my feet in the sand and watch the people. We passed the time ordering drinks and reminiscing about the past. It wasn't directly addressed, but we were thinking about times when our sex life was a little more active. By, "a little", I do actually mean, "a lot". The implication was clear we meant to re-live a bit of the past when we returned to our room.

My feet felt so good in the sand, so much so that I didn't feel like moving an inch. However, drinking in the sun brings on a biological necessity, one which can only be put off for so long; I had to pee really badly.

"I'll be back in a minute honey." Before he could respond I was up and looking for the restroom.

Finding the restroom at one of these bars is not always simplistic. The bar was too crowded to ask the bartender, and this wasn't the sort of place that had servers walking around. I didn't want to ask anyone, but this place wasn't big and I didn't see a sign anywhere. Overcoming a bit of shyness, and at the risk of sounding awkward, I asked the first local I could make eye contact with. Through short and rather simple directions, he alleviated my fear of peeing myself and directed me across the street. On quick reflection, this made a lot of sense and should have been the first place I looked. The bar naturally started on the other side of street and then spilled out to the beach area. The other thing I picked up was an escort to usher me through the street traffic and show me exactly where I was going. Under the circumstances I wasn't about to argue.

The beautiful weather left this side of the bar relatively empty aside for a few locals leaning, or sitting, around the bar. My one track mind allowed me little time to take in the scenery. Feeling relieved, I left the washroom, only to see my usher, leaning on the wooden rail just outside the restroom. He was a good looking man. He was dressed casual in an open yellow and green shirt and a bathing suit. His face had a serious stare that struck me as somehow mysterious and intense. Since I was sitting in the sun most of the afternoon, my eyes never adjusted to the shadows to notice just how good looking he really was when I asked him for directions.

His light brown skin would not be mistaken for completely Latino, but he must have had some, probably if one were asked they would have said he was black. He seemed to have no fat on his perfectly proportioned, yet sort of lanky, body. His clothes suited the temperature of the island and showed of the muscle tone. He shaved his hair short or it would have surely frizzed in curls. Aside from all his striking physical features, and they were all striking, his most usual and altogether breath taking feature were his eyes. He was blessed with piercing, pale blue eyes, which could have had nothing but a Nordic origin. Even if I had known all the ethnicities involved in his lineage, his background was no doubt simply island. Colonization, followed by visitors from all corners of the globe meant his genes could have come from all over. In any event, everything that did collide made one unbelievable specimen of a man.

Predictably, he took my choice of him as my guide, as an invitation to hit on me. I brushed him off with politeness. My eyes, no doubt, betrayed me in letting him know the fact that I was flattered to be shown attention by such a beautiful man. He gave me a knowing look, one that said to me, "this is no problem for me; you know I can get any woman here and that was your chance." Be that as it may, I wasn't here to get my chance, I was here to be with my husband, so I left the darkened hallway feeling his eyes on me and feeling a bit of guilty power for having turned him down.

"You get lost?" Colin quizzed me upon my return.

"It wasn't that easy to find, it's across the street and my bladder almost exploded." I decided not to say anything about my guide; men hit on women all the time and this was as meaningless as they come.

We stayed on the beach and watched the sun set into the ocean. Standing up, I felt the blood rush to my head, I was tipsy from the afternoon of drinking. All I wanted was to get back to our room and lock the door, rekindle the primal urges that we had known in years past. I really wanted to fuck.

"Honey, let's go straight to the room and not leave until morning." I left no ambiguity as to what I was talking about.

Without a single word, my husband took me by the hand and started leading the way. His pace was quick and determined. I liked being pulled a little bit, like he was dragging me back to his cave. I loved that I was inspiring some frantic feelings of need even after sharing a bed for 20 years. I wish we could have gone in a straight line and killed the anticipation in its tracks, but the check-in maze wouldn't allow such a dash. Eventually we were cleared and on our way.

It was early in the evening, but for some reason it felt much later. The darkness overtakes the light quite rapidly at the equator once the sun slips away. We entered the room, while my husband fumbled for the light switch in the unfamiliar surroundings; I made myself comfortable on the bed by removing my shorts. If he took any longer to find the switch I would have gotten out of my bikini too. Soon, under the glow of fluorescent, we were kissing madly on the bed. My head was swishing with nasty thoughts and alcohol. I wanted to moan so loud that the entire island would hear me.

The initial rush of, fuelled by the desperation to get on the bed, was tapering off as we continued to kiss. I reached behind to free myself from my bikini top and rolled to my husband's side before we maneuvered our way under the covers.

"Is there any wine in the room?" I thought I remembered a bottle being on the table.

"Yeah, it's over on the table."

I gave him a little nudge to imply that a bit of chivalry would be appreciated, so long as it shielded me from the unwelcome chill of conditioned air. Not to disappoint, he braved the elements and returned with two glasses of wine. I sat up in the bed to continue the night of intoxication. We were cuddled up next to each other and were talking easily as if we had just had sex, but the thing was that we had not actually done it. We kissed and clawed and cuddled, but he was still fully dressed, at least for island standards, and I was still in my bikini bottom. We had all night, so I wasn't in any rush to push the issue; it's not as if there were any kids who might burst in and interrupt us.

I felt as though we had been transported somewhere to the past. We were talking as if we were really interested in what each other had to say. We weren't just talking about the kids, we were talking about life; our life together. As pleasant as it was, the lack of action outside of kissing was making me feel self-conscious.

"Are you still attracted to me?" I'm sure it was a question that no husband wants to hear, but I felt like had to ask.