During a holiday in Key West, Anne discovers mystical links to her past, centuries earlier
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Key West is a complex place. It has an unusual make-up ranging from the to-be-expected aggrieved people one finds in a backwater area, who think life goes on with them not getting their fair share (and often they're right, anyway), to a liberal non-judgmental counter-culture ambiance reminiscent of what one thinks San Francisco must have been like in the 1960s, tolerant of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, drunken revelers, and in general sexually kinky people such as yours truly.
It has its share of immigrants, too, ranging from the Caribbean islands to Eastern Europe, and giving Key West a bit of color and a cosmopolitan gloss. Not bad, for an island of only around 25,000 inhabitants.
The dominant themes of the island seem to be boating and more importantly, at least as it relates to me, however, the drinking culture, which has a long and important history. The drinking culture is especially pronounced around certain holidays such as Mardi Gras and St. Patrick's Day.
My BFF Mary and I went down to Key West for part of our Spring Break, which this year included St. Patrick's Day. Spring Break in Key West is not over the top raunchy like it is in some of the beach towns of the Florida East Coast, but it has its moments, and you can have a special time there. My time was special, indeed.
My full name is Anne de Chantraine. It's a French name, and as I found out in middle school, it's the exact name of a French woman who was strangled and burned at the stake for being a witch, in France, in the 17th century.
The real Anne de Chantraine was killed at the tender age of 19, for witchcraft no less, and at least according to Wikipedia, she was pretty. (Wikipedia says she was "very pretty," but how on Earth would Wikipedia know that?) Apparently, if I believe my parents, I am a direct descendant from her genetic line. I'm also currently 19, and
I have what is considered to be French good looks. That means a pretty face, a slim body, and small (A or on a good day B cup) boobs, as well as a kind of grace when I move
. I'm not conceited, I asked Mary to write that description for me, okay? Anyway, good for me, right?
Before you ask, yes, I cook French food. With a name like Anne de Chantraine, how could I not? It's expected of me. And yes, I have relatives in France, lots of them, and yes, I've frequently been to France, and yes, despite all that, I'm a third generation American, and I'm not at all French.
Also, I speak French fluently. My parents thought that would be important to learn. It was, too. Maybe most important it seems, at least to me, is that it seems all the men I know want a pseudo French girlfriend. In particular, they all want Anne de Chantraine to be their girlfriend. Yes, that has led to some awkward moments for me, and for the men fighting over me. I'm only one girl, after all, and the world is full of men. It's full of women, too, for that matter!
A lot of girls like a boyfriend on their arm at all times. It's a status thing, I guess. It's pure reassurance. They'll never be without a date for Valentine's day or a date for the prom. They exchange freedom for security, or at least that's the way it seems to me. Maybe too they don't like the rat race of finding a man to satisfy them when they have needs, you know? Having one built into the equation is comforting. Horny? Just cuddle up naked to your man in your bed and you'll inevitably get a rise out of him, so to speak, hee hee.
I'm not like that. I'm one girl who will not be possessed. Conquered, sure, I love being conquered and becoming another notch in a man's belt. Maybe a three-day fling with some sexy guy would be fun. Possessed, however, is another thing altogether. That's out. It's a fine line to hoe, and I guess I'm not that good at it. Broken hearts strew my landscape. I never intended to be one, nor do I want to be one, and I hate being one, but some men see me as a bitch. That hurts.
Mary and I formed a new strategy. Go someplace new (like Key West) and if we feel like it, we can get laid with no strings, right? No complications. No possession. We'll just be someone's conquête du jour, and if we like him enough, maybe we'll be his conquête de la semaine. If we don't feel like it, and we don't find a man who clicks, then we'll just have fun getting drunk and dancing. Win-win.
Our strategy worked great the first night. We got reasonably drunk, but not bad enough to be hungover the next day. Lots of men asked each of us to dance and we had fun. I noticed Mary got a little carried away with one guy, kissing him passionately while they danced slow, and his hands were all over her luscious little body, but that's as far as it went. As for me, well, after I saw what Mary had been up to, I ended up doing the same thing when some real hunk asked me to dance and put the moves on me. It was fun.
We managed to stay fully dressed the entire evening, even if there were some girls to whom modesty took a bit of a vacation, one could say. So, we felt good about ourselves, all virtuous by managing to have a good time without being too, too cheap. We rested well that night in our super fancy hotel, the Casa Marina (a Hilton Waldorf Astoria Hotel), and spent the next day sunning by the pool.
Most of the other people at the hotel were families with kids, or old people who could afford such a fancy place. Mary and I wanted to sunbathe topless, but it was just not a propitious place to bare our breasts. We wore skimpy bikinis which certainly piqued the interest of the fifty- or sixty-something men around us at the pool. This led to some happy giggling on our part.
Sitting close to us was a woman whose age, I would guess, was in her mid-forties. She was maybe twenty years older than us, but for someone her age, she had a great body, and she enjoyed showing it off a bit in an age-appropriate bikini. She would have been the hottest woman at the pool were it not for the presence of Mary and me, and it was easy to tell she resented our very existence. Nothing we could do. Such buzzkill people exist, and well, that's the way the world is made, isn't it? We learned her name was Carolyn.
One time I dove into the pool in a way that I knew would make my top slip off and bare my boobs. I pretended not to notice until Mary tapped my shoulder. I blushed and quickly covered up. The 'nipple slip' certainly did not go unnoticed by several of the men, however. Their eyes stayed on me constantly for the rest of our time at the pool. It was hard not to laugh!
"Look over at Carolyn!" Mary whispered to me.
