Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Lola vs. The Adventures of Lola the Greek

It began with a joke. Then it became a streak. And now it's a challenge.

I'm talking about my nationality list. A few weeks ago it occurred to a friend of mine that I've been "making" my way through a list of foreign men, mostly when I travel. What? Don't judge me- a girl has to have a hobby.

It started, as it tends to with me, with an Irishman. Then it expanded to a Scottish musician. A South African Tourist followed suit. A caustic Englishman. An Italian on vacation in Disneyworld.

And let's not forget (and take a moment to appreciate) the Australian of the long lashes, deep appreciation of traveling around the world for different wines, and an intimate knowledge of how to say dirty things in Italian.

So when I was heading off to Greece, I felt an absurd amount of pressure to keep that streak alive due to comments like "You better come back with some insane stories." Or "We're not going to be friends anymore if you don't do something idiotic." Or my personal favorite: "Come back with stories. Just not syphilis." Thanks, Kane.

Well the streak is alive and well. And I've been asked by a few readers to write about it in greater detail than I normally do. Familiar readers of this blog are very well aware of the fact that I enjoy men- often for one specific purpose- and that I rarely feel the need to spend much time describing one. I much prefer to lump them into different categories. It's easier that way.

Although I have to say this one just won't stay stuck in one category.

We had decided to take an all day sailing trip on a catamaran around the island of Santorini, complete with an Island of Misfit Toys type crew, several swim stops, a trip to the volcanic springs, a traditional Greek buffet prepared by a chef on board, and a finale- one of Santorini's spectacular sunsets in the middle of the caldera.

I love being on the ocean. There is nothing that soothes my restless soul more than being on a boat with the wind on my face and the sound of the waves lapping the sides. Every worry, every stress just melts away at the sound, the smell, and the feel of the water. So for me, a day like that is perfection.

I didn't notice him, not completely, at first. He was the chef on our boat and spent some of the first part of our trip in the kitchen. It was only when he started making fun of my friend and her stubborn refusal to take off her hat despite the strong winds did he catch my interest. And when he turned that sarcastic wit on me, I was lost.

I simply can't resist a man who gives me a hard time. It is the biggest turn on when a man can spar with me. And dear lord, he could spar. Wickedly. That first curl of lust snaked through me and I turned to my friend, grinned, and said," I think I have a bit of a thing for our chef."

In response she mumbled, "God help him then." I've known this girl since college so she is well aware of my penchant for going after what I want and it's become a bit of a joke between us. There has only been one exception to the Lola-Is-As-Subtle-As-A-Wrecking-Ball Rule, of which she is also aware, but that's another blog for another day.

There were two things (well three but that comes later) that this man did extremely well. He could wear a spattering of stubble across his dark chin like few men I've ever known. And he could really lean. You know how sexy it is when a guy can just lean? He can angle his body towards you slightly, with one arm resting in the space just above your head and the other almost brushing against your skin, and then he tips his chin down in order to meet your eyes in a gesture that is so effortlessly sexy that it just has to be practiced.

There was this moment when I looked up at him from the deck and his feet were planted shoulder width apart, his tanned muscular arms taut as his hands gripped the top of the boat, his green bandanna tight against his black hair that I literally had to keep a sigh from escaping my lips. Because with the sun at his back and a wicked smile on his face, I thought he looked just the right amount of dark and dangerous.

At one point as he swung back on the deck, I leaned back deliberately so that his bare skin brushed mine. And when his hands, rough and slightly calloused, shot out to rest steadily on my shoulders, I may have actually shivered. Shivered. Me.

It honestly took every ounce of self control I had not to disappear down the hold with him, push him against the counter, wrap my legs around him and have my way with him while the rest of the passengers lazed above, completely unaware of the naughty things that were happening below deck.

Later he would tell me that he had wanted me to do just that.

Maybe I've been with far too many little boys lately that the appeal of a real man, one who smelled like salt and sea and dark promises, was impossible to resist. So I didn't. I flirted shamelessly. He proposed. After discovering my dirty sense of humor and the fact that I drove a black Honda accord by the name of Riggins. He did this while brushing his lips across my knuckles, looking up at me through dark lashes and even darker eyes. Seriously?

I am not a girl who is easily impressed but this man with confidence that stopped just shy of being arrogant and a grin that could flicker from friendly to wicked in about one second flat had me impressed. So you can imagine my chagrin when in the confusion of leaving the boat, we missed each other. I experienced a moment of sheer disappointment and then shrugged it off as I do everything else, quickly and effortlessly. However don't worry, dear readers, this is not the end of the story.

I was not about the let my pent-up lust go to waste so we went out, thinking that I could always find another hapless victim for a quick vacation fling. After dinner and another spectacular sunset, we decided to amble over to a bar he recommended that boasted a breathtaking caldera view, plenty of locals, and some seriously good music. My friend proceeded to drink the place out of gin while I made my way through an Irish coffee , a glass of Raki (dangerous), and a slew of beer. After flirting with some cute australian guys, my friend pointed and practically shouted,"Lola, look who just walked in. You should go grab him. Now."

I was entirely too drunk to realize that she was probably joking but I did just that. When he realized who had stumbled into him, he grinned and promptly pulled me into his arms in a tight hug. "So I guess this is fate then." He leaned in, his lips feathering across my cheek. "You know I had a pen and paper in hand to grab your contact information and then suddenly you were gone, walking down the dock. I literally stared after you, willing you to look back at me."

I drew myelf back, raised a brow. "I thought I had lost my touch."

"Yeah, I'm sure you did." Ahh sarcasm, another perverse quality I find insanely attractive."Lola, I was practically following you around the boat. And gesturing like crazy for you to follow me into the hold." He tightened his arms around me. "When are you leaving again?"

"Wednesday."

"So I only have two days to get you to come home with me?"

"I don't think it will take that long."

"Oh yeah?" Another one of those wicked grins. " How long will it take?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"On what time it is now and what time the bar closes."

He laughed then and drew me back but kept one arm draped across my shoulder. "I had almost forgotten how direct you are."

"Well, I like sex. And I want the hell out of you so what would be the point in hiding it?"

"I think I love you."

"Tell me about it."

And that's basically how I found myself in the front seat of a tiny car, speeding over cliffs at break-neck speeds. I had no clue who the driver was, other than that he was a friend of my chef and drove like a hell fire demon on crack. He didn't speak much English but he did get an inordinate amount of pleasure over my terrified gasps.

Saddest thing about this was the fact that legitimately the only thought in my head at the time was: "But if we hurdle off a cliff and plummet to our deaths, I will never find out how good in bed this guy is and that would be a shame."

Fuck my well-being. Crazy hot monkey sex is WAY more important. Clearly a girl has to have her priorities.

After getting back to his place, when his hands grabbed a fistful of my red hair to pull me in for a kiss, I decided that almost hurdling off a cliff was well worth it. This man had deliciously strong arms and could kiss like I was his last drop of water as he was dying of thirst in the middle of a desert.

I had every intention of taking a cab home after the crazy 4 plus hour sex-a-thon but I was somehow persuaded to stay for cigarettes, caustic remarks, and laughter. When we finally fell back into bed and he nuzzled his face into my neck and murmured as if reading my mind,"Don't worry, I'm not stupid enough to develop a weak spot for a girl who lives as far away as you do." I knew that if I hung out with him the next day I would be in some serious trouble.

So I may have done a bit of a runner, in true Lola fashion, but I swear if I had a heart, a tiny sliver of it could have been left in bed with that wicked grin and sarcastic sense of humor. Or it could have just been the few extra swim stops he gave me that night.

I'll let you decide.