We hung out on the deck for a while and tried talking to the guy but he was so stunned he made Mr. Potato Head come off like Stephen Hawking. So we went down to the bar. As we passed the Lolitas, one of them called out to Fabs, “Hey good-lookin’ - wanna hook-up with my Mama?”
What can I say?
Later we saw that same girl headed up to her room (the porn studio) with the big Jamerican. And that, I thought, was a pretty strong argument for selective sterilization.
It was around mid-afternoon when we decided to head south for a bit in search of refreshments. We got as far as Tony’s Hut before the heat of the sun drove us off the beach. There were two babes sitting at the bar. Fabs strode right up to the bar and parked himself beside the better looking of the two. He was rewarded with a big beautiful smile. She was about five foot, eight inches tall with an athletic build - right in Fabs’ power alley. She was wearing a string bikini, a beaten straw cowboy hat and a cool pair of shades.
Fabs ordered a couple of Red Stripes then turned his smile on the sexy one.
“HI!” she said. “How’re y’all doin’.” She spoke with a thick Alabama drawl and appeared to be a bit drunk.
“I’m doin’ fine, Baby,” Fabs replied. He, too, sensed that she’d been drinking and to him it was like a shark smelling blood in the water.
“You look like you work out!” she blurted.
Oh my God, give me a break.
Her friend was gawking at Fabs, kind of dumbstruck. Up to that point, neither one of these ladies had even remotely acknowledged my presence. I raised my palms to my chest and patted myself just to make sure that I hadn’t spontaneously evaporated.
Her friend was average looking and a little chubby. In a year or two she would probably qualify as one of Fabs’ ‘big-uns’. No problem. I figured I’d chat her up once she realized that Fabs wasn’t about to give her the time of day.
I was standing beside Fabs, sipping my Stripe. Alabama reached over and ran her hand through Fabs’ hair. “What do you do, are you a model?”
Lord!
Fabs smiled and fed her one of his canned lines, “I’m a massage therapist,” he said. Which is complete bullsh!te; he actually works for an insurance company and sits in front of a computer all day. He’s told me that if women think he’s a massage therapist, it puts them at ease and “it makes it okay for me to touch them, because I’m a professional, you see.” I’ll tell you, I’ve seen him use this line quite a few times and it works.
As an athlete and a gym-rat, Fabs knows the names of most of the muscles and tendons in the body, especially those in the shoulders, chest, legs and thighs, which are his areas of particular interest. If the need arises, he’s able to spiel these terms off as part of his ‘massage therapist’ ruse.
Sure enough, soon Alabama was complaining that one of her shoulders was a bit stiff. Fabs put his hands on her and probed her shoulder and squeezed it until she winced. Then he got a concerned frown on his face and started using some of his well-practiced diagnostic phrases like, ‘excess tension’ and ‘could be a touch of bursitis where your subscapularis inserts into the lesser tubercle’. She nodded and gazed at him raptly. And when he stopped probing her shoulder and began to massage it, Alabama started to moan.
I attempted to start up a conversation with her friend, but she was a bit cool towards me, so I went over and sat on a bench, sipped on my beer and contemplated the ocean.
The next time I looked over at Fabs he had Alabama in a lip-lock; her arms were wrapped around his neck and her straw cowboy hat was pushed back on her head.
I walked up to Niah’s, got a vegetable patty and walked back to my room.
I haven’t seen Fabs since Tony’s this afternoon. There were Super Bowl parties all up and down the beach tonight, but many got rained out – it poured again for about two hours.
Originally Posted by Seveen
