THE MEDITERRANEAN: IN TOO DEEP
Before she could respond, I—somewhat out of kilter—grabbed her hands, and pulled her to my chest. We kissed a millennium. We locked into each other like radar, as I nestled my hand in the small of her back. I thought she would recoil, but she remained.
Cease the moment, man. Surrender those inhibitions.
Amidst a tumult of strange bodies, I pursued my lips to hers. Eyes seared a hole through both of us. Shock washed their faces. With our lips still interlocked, Tia suspired like she had not been kissed since Romper Room.
“Tia, where are you? Are you here with me?”
“Yes! I’m here . . . I’m . . . here, Anthony. Where are you?”
“Fifty sheets to the wind, but surreal! I’m a bit light-headed, but not from the Bailey’s,” I laughed.
“So what now?”
“You tell me. I am open like the Mediterranean Sea.”
“I want to go skinny-dipping,” she uttered, nervously.
“You want to do what?”
“Yes! Let’s go; it’ll be fun. We can invite the gang!”
“You’re joking, right? Skinning-dipping. You want to frolic around in an abyss of uncertainty. It’s darker than a night of ravens out there.”
“Anthony, I’m feeling adventurous. I need to cool off. Besides, you’re the one always talking about taking the ride.”
“True. But I can barely walk with an indecisive equilibrium. I might drown from the thought of being in the water. Have you lost your mind?”
“Just trust me. I found my mind when we kissed. Besides, we can all go together. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
She promised. Like I am supposed be ok in the buff with strangers. This was against my wildest judgment.
This was a wondrous dilemma, a proposition spicier than Jamaican Jerk chicken. Her timing was unparallel to any other night. My dungeons shook. What would Jesus do?
Jesus would walk on water.
Tia’s idea was stupendous—how many times in life can one tread water in the Mediterranean with a beautiful woman?
At the same time, what Black man in his right mind would take his ass out into unfamiliar waters, where who-knows-what type of shit might be lurking? Jaws and his cousins could be awaiting their last supper. And suffice, we might. My mind orbited like a meteorite passing the space shuttle. Every reserve I could think of clouded my thoughts.
To be butt ass-naked in a foreign water and taking a chance was too far a stretch for my prodigal son’s imagination. But Tia was my salvation. Her energy soothed my resistance.
Tia would be bliss standing there in all her splendor.
The thought of it had me open like a passage to India. Sex! The Mediterranean! Stars! A bright Grecian moon, unfiltered. This would be historic surrealism, oral history the books could not document.
But still, I couldn’t fathom being in the sea at night, with the coterie and lurking organism lying in wait. The mere notion curdled my stomach. It would be pitch-black, and none of us would see a damn thing. I glanced at Tia and Janine. I considered my options. Opportunities like these are far and few.
Tia attired a peculiar expression. I interpreted it as having something to do with her apparition of a man back in Toronto. She’d mentioned him, occasionally. We enjoyed each other’s company, and the more moments shared, she referenced him. I guess this was her way of coping with any resemblance of guilt. Dialogue was better than a stiff drink of Bacardi. Ironically, he was from Greece—Patras, I believe. To think Tia was vying for my attention was more peculiar. A part of me hardened inside because I never pictured myself as someone’s holiday best kept secret. I never indulged the ideal of being Greece’s Dexter Saint Jock. But the toxicity of multiple tropical elixirs, bitches brews, and bizarre atmospheres induced my libido.
COPYRIGHT © 2020 NATHAN A. JONES