IN WHICH I LOOK FORWARD TO ACCEPTING AN ORGAN DONATION.
Hot fisherman Nikos had taken my bait and was aggressively courting me. But after one shot of ouzo, I begged off of the alcohol — besides the romantic hot alerts being broadcast by my heart and other regions, my liver was screaming at this point: after almost three weeks in Greece, I was veritably oozing ouzo out of my pores. Meanwhile, I could tell that Nikos had no such issues with any of his organs, particularly the one which was driving his efforts to get me drunk and horizontal.
No need for alcohol, anyway — I’d already been convinced when I’d first seen Nikos from the back, unloading his fishing boat. So when he mentioned he’d like to take me out on it for a cruise that evening, I stood up, patted his cheek affectionately and said I looked forward to it. As I walked away, swinging the hips I knew he was enjoying from behind, I couldn’t resist glancing back. Yes, he was looking at my ass. We both laughed.
At 6:00, Nikos drove up to my hotel on a beat up Harley Davidson motorcycle. He had cleaned up nicely and had somewhat tamed his black, wavy hair, but not too much — after all, I, Mrs.Hot do love a tousled bedhead. He was wearing jeans and an aqua shirt that matched his eyes, unbuttoned down the chest in macho Greek fashion. Typically, too, a gold chain with some kind of religious medal dangling from it was front and center on his sculpted chest.
We kissed lightly hello and I hiked up my ripped jean skirt, climbed on the bike, and wrapped my arms around him for dear life.
“You have been on a motorcycle before?” he asked, turning around.
“Of course!” I said, though it had been years ago in Florence, where all my Italian boyfriends sped me up to Fiesole on them for romantic outdoor interludes.
Just as in my silly salad days — without the benefit of helmets (yikes!) — we took the hairpin turns at high speed down to the port. As I hung on tight to Nikos, I inhaled the smell of his Aqua di Selva cologne and the freshly laundered shirt pulled tight across his broad back. The bottom note of his fragrance was the sea. How appropriate, I thought. Fortunately, there wasn’t a trace of the fish aroma he’d been sporting that afternoon!
His sleeves were rolled up to just under his elbows, giving me a view of his divinely hot, strong forearms, my favorite part of a man’s anatomy. As he grasped the handlebars, they were so muscled, the veins popped out.
Ah, so reminiscent of another veined muscle. Film at eleven.