THREE (1/1)

__________________________________________________________25 CONTROVERSIAL QUOTES  FROM THE STYLE EMPRESSOn being single:"Not all women can handle the thought of being single,much less the practice. Solitude is an art.It takes extensive training to live alone.Like an addiction, it’s hard to kick out of your system.I cannot imagine the withdrawal syndrome.”Sandara Park__________________________________________________    WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME I went out with a man to have a simple, quiet dinner?  I can’t remember. So, don’t ask me the last time I got laid. That's not even in the map.  No wonder my eggs are drying up.  But they’re about to get showered.  Oh boy, my thoughts. My wicked, wicked thoughts.  “I thought this is your favorite restaurant?”  “It is. What can you say?” He spread his arms towards the expanse of the yacht situated some 200 meters from the beach which we reached via a high-powered jet ski.  I still can’t get over the exhilaration of riding behind a man on a speeding jet ski, my thighs hugging his hips and my arms wrapped around his washboard abs as the last rays of the fading sun illuminated our way. I’ll reminisce about that later or my mind will scramble like Text Twist from the sigh-worthy memory. He seemed to have noticed I was enjoying the ride so we circled the yacht a few times before we boarded it.  The yacht is medium-size and designed as a spacious cabana complete with tropical landscaping and a Jacuzzi that would probably fit a dozen people. In itself, it’s a tiny island. Very private.  It doesn’t have the usual tables for fine dining but clusters of chaise lounges filled with colorful throw pillows embroidered and beaded with tribal designs. The architecture is a blend of Japanese and Balinese. The deck is hardwood and the ceiling is adorned with intricate wood carvings.  “It’s…breathtaking.” I steal his vocabulary. “Too awesome for words.” I look at him the way he looked at me at the beach.  He grins. “Glad you like it.”  I scrutinize a throw pillow. “I gotta have these fabrics! I wonder where they make these.” I’m thinking of the coming Fashion Week. I’m doing the shows in Korea and Paris. I’ll Skip London and Milan this year. These fabrics will look perfect in my spring/summer collection.  “There’s a small village here where the people weave them. Part of the island’s local industry.”  My designer hormones are going hyper.  “Oh my god, I wanna go there. Will you take me there?”  “Of course.”  “Can we go tomorrow?”  “We’ll see.”  “We’ll see?”  He has this naughty gleam in his eyes. “Ask me again tomorrow. But I doubt if you’d want to leave the bed.”  My cheeks heat up. “Oh.”  “We’d be very busy in the next few days. We have plenty of time next week.”   What can I possibly say to that? It’s perfect.  Wait, next week? I only need to be with him for a week, but I do not correct him.  I’m suddenly feeling shy. Now that he’s accepted my proposition and is talking about it casually, I feel my nerves catching up on me. I came up to him with swaggering confidence at the bar but that was just bravado fueled by my desperation.  What I am a thirty-five years old woman who has not had sex in the last…ever. It’s embarrassing to even think about, much less talk about.  Me, a very successful self-made woman, a billionaire for christ’s sake, who can have a pick of lovers from the supermodels who regularly walk the runways clad in my collection every season, is still a virgin. Technically, that is. If people knew, I’d make Dispatch again as the regular punch line.  My occasional dinner dates with fellow single billionaires at strategic places in different parts of the world have given me the reputation as a woman in absolute control of her ship. In truth, those dates were no more than business transactions. They were mostly investors in my expanding mini-empire.  I’d like to consider that my few petting sessions with my asshole of an ex a long time ago were sex but they didn’t count really. There was no actual penetration.  Sitting in front of me is a much younger man who I’m absolutely sure is light years ahead of me in carnal experience.  The contrast is staggering and demoralizing. But he doesn’t have to know.  “Alright…” I say.  “You were so far away for a while. Have you changed your mind?”  “No!” I hastily reply in a louder voice.  He arches a brow. “Sure?”  “Yes! I’m sure.”  “I have a demanding appetite.”  Oh boy. Here we go again.  “But I’m sure you can handle it. Right?”  I give him an irked look. He gives me a wicked grin.  He’s either teasing me or testing me.  “Why did you blow off those young women at the bar?”  “How did you know I blew them off?”  “It was obvious. They were about to rip my hair off my scalp when you shifted your attention to me.”  He shrugs. “Blame it on my Rubenesque taste.”  “Rubenesque…?” I look at him blankly for a few seconds, then it clicks. I throw one of the pillows at him.  He catches it, chuckling. “Hey, it was a compliment!”  Indeed, he had a choice at the bar between me and those women. He chose me. I’m absolutely sure he likes my looks nor do I have reason to doubt his Rubenesque taste. It’s what got me in this yacht with him. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it with fancy art terms, you know. Just call me fat,” I say in feigned annoyance.  “Christ, you women are so cruel to your own bodies. You have a fantastic body, Dara. You’re perfect.”  Perfect. Nobody has said that of me.  Ever.  His eyes are bathing me in pure masculine appreciation I want to melt all over again. Man, have I lucked out too much today? This is just getting better and better.  I smile at him, joy suffusing my entire being, my confidence soaring for real now.  The man is great for my ego, too.   “Rubenesque. I’m kinda liking the sound of that. sounds cooler than pluz-size."  “You’re beautiful. Always remember that.”  Oh God. Will you stop?  “Thank you. I’m not insecure of my body. Not anymore. I’ve accepted that I’ll never be Size 6, much less Size 4. I’ll always be 12 or more, depending on my appetite level, which escalates during the Fashion Weeks in Korea and Paris. Pressure makes me eat more.”  “Why is your appetite stronger during those weeks?”  Oops.  You blabbermouth.   “Uhm, because it’s time to change wardrobe and I know I’d never fit in most of the clothes designed for slender women,” I improvise.  He makes a snorting sound. “If it were up to me, you’d have no clothes most of the day.”  I must be blushing like a sixteen-year old. “Uhh, where are the people?” I change the topic.  “Maybe they’re all going to The Cove.  There’s an impressive list of artists lined up for tonight.”  “The Cove? Where’s that?”  He gives me an odd look. “You haven’t toured the island yet, have you?”  “No.” I’ve been busy looking for Bubba Dada.  “The Cove is an amphitheater somewhere along the strip where all the shows and concerts are held. There’s a festival going on at the moment and it lasts for a month. You came right in the middle of it.  Have you heard of Coachella in California?”   “Of course, but I’ve never attended one.” Not fo