The Last Place She'd Look by Arlene Schindler Read Free Book Online

way out to the sunshine I thought, “Fifty is the rebirth to go after what you've always wanted! I should write an article about it—or maybe begin by living bigger, louder, and bolder in pursuit of greater passion.“ I said to Lila, “Fifty and fearless. Time for new beginnings.”
    Towels, sun hats, sunscreen, and trashy magazines in tow, we marched to claim two lounge chairs. We positioned our possessions to indicate that these chaises were taken because it was the perfect spot—not too sunny, not too shady. I began to see my life as a giant swimming pool where I should be eager to jump in, splash around, and experience pleasure, as we strolled to the 'champagne mineral pools.'
    Dunking in the pool, soaking up the warmth of the water, Lila said, “I'm surprised at myself for being here today. Nobody could get me into a bathing suit but you, Sara. This water feels good on my saggy skin and old bones.”
    “We have to promise ourselves…no smack talk about age today. Otherwise we might as well drown ourselves,” I added, laughing.
    A young woman with an accent was searching the mineral pools, asking for … ME! “Sara Rosen? It's time for your massage.”
    “Me? I didn't book a massage.”
    “I booked it for you,” said Lila.
    Arriving at the massage building, a small pre-fab bungalow, the young woman led me down a long hall, introduced me to a tall man, then bowed and excused herself.
    “Ms. Rosen, please follow me,” said this six-foot three-inch blue-eyed Swedish warrior god named Erich. He led me to my own private sanctuary. “I'll knock in three minutes,” he said as he left me to undress.
    I was thrilled, anticipating lying on a table, being touched and stroked all over, every inch of me oiled, caressed, and attended to. Everything was crisp, pristine, and white. I stripped off my bathing suit, hung it on a hook behind the door, and dove in naked between the cool sheets.
    Right on time, Erich knocked and entered the room. He clicked on a CD boom box with some Yanni-type new-age music. He reached for a bottle of massage oil, squeezed some out, and warmed it with his hands before he even touched me. Erich stroked away tensions, knots, and tightness for almost an hour, seldom speaking.
    Shortly after closing my eyes, at first, my mind raced: thoughts of work. There were never enough freelance writing assignments to feed a more than financially struggling life. Finally, as his hands rhythmically stroked my limbs, I relaxed into a trance-like state, recollecting a lover's desire, the heat and passion of a romantic encounter. My senses felt as parched as my skin.
    When the massage was almost complete, Erich said, “I understand today is your birthday. Your friend has provided for a more extensive massage than our usual standard Swedish procedure. She wants you to have the most thorough full-body massage possible. Do I have your permission?”
    “Sure,” I shrugged, anticipating more deep tissue massaging on my shoulders and neck. Instead, Erich's hand caressed my thigh … my upper thigh. His skillful fingers made their way between my legs, probing, exploring, and then …
    “His fingers are inside me!” I said to myself in disbelief, surprised, concerned, aroused. My limbs tightened. Was this legal? Should this be happening? Should I let it happen? It felt pretty good. Oooh, very good. I melted, opening.
    “Be in the moment and enjoy it,” I reprimanded my brain. That was always a challenge for me, thinking too much about the next moment, or the one five minutes in the future or past, while glossing over the present. It had been years since a man had touched me there. “Shut up and relax.”
    Pleasure surged, my arms and legs tingled. Heart pounding, I felt young and fresh-from-the-box new, not thinking or complaining or reflecting or feeling dried up. Breathing deeply, tuning into the moment, senses energized as his fingers moved deeply, gentle at first, then fast, faster, slower, then faster again