June 21, 2001
"Tropical Vacation"
My wife and I go on vacation to a resort on a lush, tropical island. We pull up
to the hotel and go inside while the staff removes our luggage from the rental
car. I go off to the side to video the beautiful beach and ocean while she
checks us in at the desk.
As she is finishing up, I walk over to the desk just in time to hear the woman
at the counter say, "Very well, Ms. ________. Here is the claim check for your
vehicle. And this one is for the male."
As my wife takes the second check, a pair of hotel security guards take my arms
and pull them behind my back. Handcuffs secure them there. I'm confused and I
start demanding to know what is going on, but my wife is paying no attention to
me. She's turned to a pair of young, buff men dressed only in festively
patterned loincloths. She instructs them as to which of the luggage is to be
taken to her suite and which (mine) is to be placed in hotel storage.
As my wife is escorted to her suite, I am taken down in the freight elevator.
The doors open onto a long, dimly lit corridor. As the guards push me down it I
notice that it seems to have been carved into the volcanic rock. Every so often
there is a small metal door with a bolt. Initially I try to ask the guards what
is happening but they only answer questions by twisting my arms painfully or
hitting me so I give up. Eventually the corridor ends with one last small door.
One of the guards pulls her gun and aims it at me while the other removes my
cuffs.
"Strip," the one with the gun orders. Nervously, my hands trembling, I comply,
piling my clothing on the stone floor. The guard who freed me unbolts the small
door and, motioning with the gun, the other orders me inside. When I hesitate, I
am shoved through the small opening, hitting my head and scraping my knees on
the stone floor. The door closes and is bolted behind me, leaving me in absolute
darkness.
Groping in the darkness, I can make out that I am in a small niche which has
been carved into the rock. It is only three or four feet in any direction. The
stone is cold and feels damp to my touch and there are small cracks here and
there in the rock. Through the rock walls, I can dimly hear the surf pounding.
Soon I discover that, when a wave strikes in just the right way, it drips in
through the cracks. With nothing else to do, I curl up into a ball and tremble,
wondering what has happened to me.
Meanwhile, twenty stories above me, my wife is standing on the terrace enjoying
the view of the ocean and the trade winds as the boys in loincloths unpack for
her. With a contented sigh she turns and walks back into the room to watch her
two servants scurry around. One of them is standing at the foot of the large,
luxurious bed, taking items from one of her suitcases to place in a dresser. My
wife runs her hand down his muscled, tanned back. She slips her hand inside the
loincloth to feel his firm bottom.
"Draw me a bath," she orders, whispering in his ear.
"Yes, Ms. ________," he answered.
As he was doing so, she had the other help her off with her clothing. Taking her
hand, he led her into the bathroom and helped her step down into the sunken tub
which was now filled with warm water and bubbles. She lay back and closed her
eyes, relishing the warm water on her sore muscles after the long plane flight.
"Back to work, boys," she ordered. "I'll call you when I want you."
"Yes, Ma'am," the replied in unison and hurried back to finish unpacking.