Check Out

This may be last post for awhile.

I am exhausted. I stayed awake last night until about 4:00 a.m. researching this thing on the internet, before I finally fell asleep for a few hours.

Ivy never returned with any clothes for me. I think s/he was angry that I was not as free-spirited as she was with the change, and just jump right into bed with her. I thought she was a better person than that. I snuck down to the laundry room, that is in the Inn, and found some clothes that some woman had left there. I was able to find a pair of jeans and a shirt. There was no undergarments. There was also a pair of sandals with a slight wedge to them. It was almost as if somebody was wearing that outfit, and fell into the water, and was just using the dryer to dry everything off.

I did not much care. It was a stroke of luck.

The thing I learned from the internet is that this group change has happened many times before, and is going to happen again. I found a blog called the "Trading Post Inn" that pretty much described everything, and confirms everything that has happened here. The person who seems to be in charge of the blog, or know the most about what is going on is some guy named Art, who became a Korean woman named Liz. I empathize with him. Suddenly you are the opposite gender, and of a different ethnic and cultural background from what you knew.

If the blog is to be beleived, and I beleive it now, somebody is going to change into me. And then somebody else will change into them, unless we can fix this. I already know, from the arrangements made from my legal assistant, that the Inn is completely booked for the next two weeks. Somebody WILL change into me.

I spent about an hour describing this to the next person who is in this room, and gave them explicit instructions on what to do, and how to take care of my life until I am able to communicate with them. I was not able to give the next person the name of the person I have become, but I was able to describe myself. I told them I would contact them, at Paul's e-mail address, when I can, so we can work how to get back to our real bodies. I also told him the passwords to post on this blog so we can communicate in some forum.

I figure the best thing to do now is head to Boston, and tgry to hook up with Liz. That is my best chance to find somebody who can help me.

I am very scared. The only thing I am taking with me from my former life is the cash in hand, my laptop computer, and the rental car (along with the clothers on my back). Maybe I am not thinking straight at this point, I am panicky. I have to get to Liz. She can help me.

I need the laptop to communicate with the world, and to communicate with Liz.

All I need to do with check out is just leave the key in the room, and pull the door closed behind me. I will send an e-mail to Liz while I am on the road.

Alone

I am not alone. But I am alone.

The numbness has faded. Only fear remains. Even trying to sort out my thoughts on this blog is not working. The only thing I can try and do now is record what is happening, in case the worst happens . . .

At some point in time between the last post and this, I began to recognize the pattern of bruising and laceration on this body. Some type of domestic abuse. By whom, it was hard to tell.

The search of the room failed to uncover any clues. Some of the missing pieces were provided when I heard a soft knock on my door, and a low mail voice call my name.

"Paul? Are you in there?"

I didn't move. I didn't even breath. I was sitting on the bed, still in the clothes I wore to bed, rocking back and forth, knee suck up into my chest, grasping my knees (deperately) like some sort of crazy person. How long, I don't know. My face was sticky. Tears.

I had succumbed to the overwhelming emotions of the situation.

The knocking and crying out of my name persisted, I did not answer the door. I did not recognize the voice of ther man calling for me.

Then he said, "I know you are in there. I know you've changed . . . . everybody has. It's me. Ivy."


I slowly made my way to the door. I opened it.

Standing there was a man, about twenty-seven to twenty-eight years old. He was about 5'10", with dark hair and dark eyes. He appeared to be of Italian desecent.

"Ivy?" I asked, hearing my awful voice for the first time. It was high and squeaky, deviod of the usual force of my vocal qualities.

"Yeah," s/he said, beaming. "Can you beleive this?"

"No," I replied glumly. "Why are you so happy, Ivy."

"You can call me Dick now. That is the name of this body, Dick Mametti, from New Jersey. And why shouldn't I be happy. I am not an ex-felon any more. My whole slate has been cleared."

"How do you know the name of that body."

Ivy looked at me curiously, like she had no idea what I was talking about. Even at 5'10" she was a good 8 inches taller than me. It was hard to look up at her. It made me feel so small.

"Didn't you find a suitcase with the belongings of the girl you are now?"

"No? Do you know w2hat's going on?"

Ivy checked for herself, to no avail.

She came up to me, placed her larger hands on my slender shoulders. She brushed the hair away from my face (it struck me as something I might have done to her when the situation was reversed.

"Paul," she started, "all I can tell you is what I know from the note that Dick left with his belongings. He was here with a bunch of other guys, right before the Inn cclosed for the winter. On one of the nights, while everybody was sleeping, they all turned into somebody else. Everybody found the clothes and belongings, and a summary of that person's life. So this has happened before."

"Everybody else?"

"They all changed, every last one. Everybody got something from the previios occupant of te room. Everybody except you."

The obvious then dawned on me, "Maybe whoever she was does not want to be found, even in her new identity. Something must have happened to her."

"What?" Ivy asked.

I proceeded to show her the bruises that I had identified on the body. I hesitated to take off my shirt, but thought it is nothing she hadn't ever seen before. Ivy touched my left breast, and gently squeezed it until it re-produced the pain.

"She was abused by somebody," Ivy confirmed, "She's lucky the implants did not rupture, there was a lot of force used."

"I-Implants?" I squeaked.

"Yes. Those boobs are too big for that body. Too perfect. You had to have noticed? I had implants too, you know?"

"I I've tried not to look."

At this point I noticed that I hadn't put my shirt back on. Ivy was still standing close enough to me so that I could feel his/her body heat. I noticed a bulge in her pants, and immediately realized the effect this body was having on her. I was an extremely beautiful woman, that was almost naked, with a man.

I ran and found a long sleeved oxford shirt. It swallowed me.

"I don't have any clothes. I don't have anything."

Ivy tried to comfort me be saying, "I have some clothers that may fit you. We'll find you something."

"Ivy, what am I going to do, I can't go back to being a lawyer, to being me, looking like this."

My legal acumen started to kick in, "And, if I show up using the things of Paul Miller, living in his place, even using his bank account, and he is missing, they are going to suspect foul play. I could get arrested."

Ivy was silent. I knew she was no help here. It was obvious that she didn't care. She was magically out of her situation.

"So? You look younger than you were before. You're beautiful, and even if your black now, there is a lot of things you can do with your life. You can come with me. We were pretty good together, and, well maybe we can work something out."

I could not beleive my ears, could not beleive the girl that I met, and thought I understood, was suggesting that I accept what had happened to me and be his/her girlfriend. I fought back the tears again. Was this to be my lot in life?

I decided to chage the subject. Anything to get out of this conversation. I sat on the edge of the bed.

"Do you know Kat and Jaci? I don't know what room they are in."

Ivy/Dick replied, "Yeah, I know them. They changed too. They are guys now, twins. Chris and Pete, I don't know their last names. Oh, Schaeffer, I think. Blonde, well built. Big guys now."

We talked for awhile, long enough for me to regain my composure. Ivy left a little while ago. Long enough for me to write this. It felt like she wanted something more from me, like she was expecting something. I didn't want to beleive that she wanted what I think she wanted. No way I was going there, even though we were lovers only days ago. Would have been lovers again tonight on my last night here. She went to get me some clothes to wear.

I have to figure out what I am going to do. I had no idea who I was now. If she was on the run, there was a chance she was in danger. There is a chance she is in trouble. That means that I have to distance her/me from my life as Paul Miller as much as possible.

It struck me that this place was thre only way to get my old self back. I could not tell anybody about this, other than the people who already know about it, and have gone through it. If the world finds out about this, there is no telling what will happen to it. The government, most likely, will take it over. I have to keep this quiet, if I ever expect to figure out how to get my body back. I could only hope that everybody else has figured out the same thing.

I need more information before I can figure out what to do. I am starting to get desperate. My options are limited, without getting myself in more trouble, or endangering my ability to get my life back.

I'm so tired.

I hate this body. I hate being a girl. I hate being black,

I now realize that some twist of fate has turned me into the kind of girl that I would like.

No, no, no, no, no, no . . . . I can't go there.

??????????

I am numb. My hands are still shaking . . . even though I have “lived” with this for a few hours. I still keep on telling myself that this is a bad dream . . . a nightmare . . . and I am going to wake up soon.

I look down on my hands on the keyboard on this laptop, and the evidence seems all too real. I am an attorney, and I deal in evidence . . . cold hard facts.

The evidence is that my hands are much smaller and finer than they were yesterday, before I went to bed last night. At the end of each finger is a long fingernail, extending about ½ past the pads of the finger. It is hard to type with these finger nails.

The skin on my hands, wrists, and arms is very, very dark.

During the night I have turned into an African-American woman.

I did not mystically wake up somewhere else, into somebody else’s life, like in a bad internet story. I am still in the same room that I rented in the Trading Post Inn, wearing the same clothes I wore to bed (a plaid pair of boxers shorts, and a white, wife-beater, undershirt) last night. So I, somehow, transformed, into another person.

I hear commotion and shouting and running around outside of my door. Maybe I am not the only one. I don’t know. It is hard to the think straight. I am happy that nobody has knocked on my door . . . I would be afraid to answer it. Afraid until I can figure out what is going on.

It’s so hard. I feel so different than I was before.

Then there are the aches and pains that I didn’t have yesterday. It is that pain that woke me up out of my sleep. I have no idea where they came from. All I know is that I have what feel like bruises on both arms, and my right upper leg. My left . . . breast . . . hurts a lot. There is a cut on my forehead near the hairline.

What HAPPENED to me? This is impossible!!!

So many thoughts are going through my head at one time, what caused this, who am I, what am I going to do now . . . .

Then I thought of this blog. Just the act of typing forces me to organize my thoughts, slow me down. Typing with these fingernails slows me down even more. I am making more typos than ever before, and if there are rrors in here, I apologize.

I have to rely upon my experience as an attorney to systematically approach this problem even thought I am under more stress and duress than I can imagine. I do not know if it is me or this body, but I feel like curling back up in the bed and crying. I know that won’t help, so I am trying, very hard, not to succumb to that emotion.

Think your way through this, Paul.

Okay, first step. Assess the situation.

I can call up the mental image of the person I became when I looked into the mirror in the bathroom. I am a black woman now, there is no denying it. My age appears to be anywhere from about 17 years old to about 22 years old. I look young. I would estimate my height to be no more than 5’2”, and weight about 105 lbs. This girl is extremely beautiful for an African-American girl, for than matter, any girl. Her body is, I think the word is, “hot” too.

I can’t tell if the breasts are real or whether this girl went to a plastic surgeon. I am afraid to touch them. They are riding high up on my chest, and seem to be rounder and firmer than what I would expect from real breasts. When I pulled down the boxes to go to the bathroom (the urge was still there), I saw that the groin area was shaved, but there was a two to three day growth of stubble.

As I type this, I look down at the sleeveless shirt I wore to bed last night. The chest of the shirt is pushed out, demonstrating large breasts. I can see the valley of cleavage. The weight feels . . . strange. I can see the outline of large nipples through the thin material of my shirt.

As far as the hair, it was longer, perhaps to my shoulder blades. There was a slight wave, and some reddish-blonde highlights. There was no way that I would be confused for Paul Miller.

I don’t know how I got this way, so the problem of how to get back to myself has to wait for a while.

Now that I am calm, I think the first thing I should do is search the room to see if there are any clues about what’s going on.

The next step is to find out if this happened to anybody else.

Golf and the Old Port

The activities on my schedule for today was golf at the Dunegrass Golf Club, and then drive down to Portland for a tour of the Old Port. The Old Port has a lot of shops, restuarants and bars on the redone section, while preserving the historical sites. There is a tour boat that goes all around the harbor visting the historical sites, so I figured I'd to the "touristy" thing. As long as I am down there, I figure I'll eat dinner (I've eaten at every good place in Old Orchard Beach by this time), in the Old Harbor, and do some shopping for souveneirs for my staff and asssitant. One of my paralegals collects those small spoons that you see in airports all over the place. She makes me pick one up wherever I go. If I cannot find one for these locations, I know I am going to be in a lot of trouble.

I'll make my way back to the Inn later on tonight.

Golf was interesting this morning. I had a tee time of 8:45 a.m., was tough considering I was out until after midnight at the Pier Patio Club and the Village Inn Restuarant & Brew Pub. The Patio Club had the live music, as it turns out, and the Village in the karaoke. People would go from one to the other, beer in hand. I was suprised that it was as crowded as it was, given the fact that most of the college kids left on Monday. I came to understand that Tuesday nights were one of THE nights to go out in Old Orchard Beach.

The band, U-Beat, was servicable, doing a mixture of 80's and 90's cover tunes, with some of their own numbers. They must be pretty popular in the area, because it appeared they brought theri own following with them. They were the house band at the Patio Pub on Tuesday Nights, their busiest night.

I did see Ivy at the Village Inn (she was singing karaoke at the time, so I could hardly miss her). She smiled and winked at me. Later, when she was done, she came over and gave me a big hug and a kiss. I am happy to report that there was no strangeness at all between us. She was just as free and uninhibited as when I first met her. We talked for briefly, because she was with her friend. It was long enough to tell me she had a blast with me, and she'd like to see me again before I leave. We made tentative plans to hook up on Thursday night, as I was leaving on Friday.

She gave me another hug and a kiss before she dashed off to rejoin her friend.

So, I spent the rest of the night having a few beers, and enjoying the cool night air, and local culture. It was fun. I staggered back to the Inn about 12:30 a.m.

The wake up call for the golf outing came much too soon. I was placed with three other guys I didn't know at the gold course. I had to play the entire 18 holes while recovering from a hangover and no breakfast.

I shot horrible. I am not the greatest goldfer in the world, but I can hold my own in mixed company. Unfortunately today I discovered the law of inverse proprotion. In other words, the farther or harder I tried to hit the ball, the shorter it went. Thank goodness for my two favorite clubs on the bag, the "foot" wedge and the "hand" wedge. In other words, when my foursome was not looking I either kicked or threw the ball back into play. There is no doubt they knew what I was doing, as they all wore a wry smile on their face. Nevertheless, I think I deposited a dozen balls in the water hazards. At least I entertained them with my antics.

On a positive note, lunch at the Dunegrass was excellent. By the time I drove back to the Inn, I was feeling okay. One of the things that I did get from one of the guys in my foursome is a recommendation to charter the Trina Lyn fishing boat, which goes out every morning from Camp Ellis Fisherman's Pier, about 5 minutes north of Old Orchard Beach. The fishing is spectacular at this time of the year. He told me to talk to Captain Todd Stewart personally, and to give his name as a recommendation. He said Captain Stewart would take care of me.

As I was on my way up to the room to shower, change, and make my charter reservation, before heading up to Old Port, I again ran into Jaci (this time by herself), returning from her visit to her sister, We said our greetings, but I noticed that she seemed different somehow. More anxious or edgy. In fact, everybody I'd encountered in the Inn today all seemed to be a bit edgy. Maybe there was something in the air. Maybe I was getting it, and the hangover I was experiencing this morning was not a hangover after all.

I decided that maybe it would be a good thing to get out of the Inn for a little while.

As I write in this blog, after cleaning myself up, I am ready to jump in the care and head up to Portland. I can't stay out too late, because the Charter leaves from the Fisherman's Pier promptly at 7:30 a.m. Tomorrow will be a full day.

Lazy Tuesday

I didn't see Ivy at all yesterday after she left my room. I have to assume that she was recovering physically, just as I was. I had this . . . craving . . . to see her again, but I knew, considering her situation, if I was possessive or jealous in any respect, it will create the wrong impression. She craved freedom right now to just exist in the world, and go wherever the wind blew her. I just hoped that the wind blew her back to me.

I did get out of the room at about 2 in the afternoon. The maids were knocking on my door and harassing me, and since they hadn't cleaned the room in two days, were pretty insistent about completing their task. Far be it from me to stand in between a maid and hygene.

So, I needed some activity to kill some time.

I "googled" Old Orchard Park on the 'ole laptop, and found a website that listed the activities to do in the area. I found a listing for the "Old Orchard Beach Historical Society" which was right at the top of Old Orchard Street. The site said it features historical memorabilia of the Old Orchard Beach area. I decided that I would check it out, because I do like to learn a little bit about the area where I vacation.

It was a nice day out, again, so I decided to walk, instead of drive.

As I was walking through the lobby, I saw a group of people that I hadn't seen before, coming in through the front door. They were carrying items that led me to the conclusion that they had been gone for a few days. Maybe these were the people that were off on a side trip.

I said to the gentleman, a man in his 30's who looked to be the leader,"Hi. Are you guests here at the Inn."

He looked at me oddly, as if I had no right to be asking him such questions.

Then he said, "Yes. And you are?"

"Paul, Paul Miller. I am a guest here too."

I stuck my hand out. The other guy took it, tenatively, and shook it. I needed to do something to allay his suspicions.

"Look, I am not trying to pry, but I heard there was a group off on a side trip. And this town is not exactly brimming with exciting things to do. I thought you could give me some ideas."

The man did not identify himself. The remainder of his group, 3 others, were busy talking amongst themselves. Still, his disposition changed into a friendlier aspect.

"I can't speak for Old Orchard Beach, but we were off on a fishing expedition up in Kennebunkport. It was exhausting, but we're happy to be back."

"So you are in for the night?" I questioned him.

"Yeah, for some much needed rest."

I saw no need to delay him further, so I wished him ado, by saying, "Maybe I'll see you around. I'm going to see whatever sights there are to see in Old Orchard Beach."

"Have fun," he returned, ssarcastically, rolling his eyes.

It made me laugh. It sounded like he had the same type of experience with this sleepy little town.

I noticed during my walk that there were a lot less people in town. As I walked, I tried to figure out what to do tonight (provided that I do not run into Ivy). It occured to me that she never told me her room number. I remembered something that Kat and Jaci told me about live music out on the pier on Tuesday night. That sounded like as good a plan as any. Maybe I would run into those two, and the three of us could go out for the night. They were looking for jobs, so maybe I'd help them by treating them to a night out.

It didn't take me long to get to the Historical Society. It was an older building, and the inside was exactly what you would expect from a small town version of a museum. There was a lot of sailing history, and stories of conflicts between the settlers and the indians . Interesting stuff. The earliest settlers were here in the year 1653. Their leader was a man named Thomas Rogers, who called the first settlement "The Garden by the Sea." It was changed by the sailors because of an old apple orchard that stood nearby, and was visible out at sea.

Naturally, there were stories of witches and other area legends that you always seem to find in abundance in New England. I mean, Stephen King made a fortune telling ghost stories about the supernatural in Maine. It seems he wasn't the only one with imagination.

Weird, I thought. There is some kind of spooky story connected to the place I was staying. I laughed internally. I never beleived in such things, and this sounded more far fetched than most. Most likely it was a cover-up of something that would get fifteen million hours of coverage on CNN if it happened today.

The other major event in Old Orchard Beach was a dramatic fire in 1907 that destroyed a good part of the beachfront dwellings. Fireman came from as far away as Portland to fight the blaze, to no avail. I guess that is why a lot of the buildings by the beach looked newer that the section where the Trading Post Inn was located. There were also many stories of the storms the city survived, as well as the launching point for many Charles Lindburgh type Trans-Atlantic flights.

All in all, in was a very educational and entertaing hour or so. At least I knew a little bit about the town now.

From the Historical Society, I walked down by the beach. It was a good little trek. I stopped by Denny Mike's Smokehouse BBQ & Deli for a late lunch. The fried haddock sandwhich and onion rings were to die for. By the time I got out of there it was going on about 4:30, so I decided to head back to my room.

I met up with Kat and Jaci in the lobby. So, I decided to ask them about the pier tonight.

Jaci said, "Sorry. I'd like to, but I promised my sister that I would come over tonight. Maybe we can do something before you leave. When do you check out?"

I told her, "I have to check out on Fridat by 11:00 a.m. I guess they have a whole new two-week group coming in."

I turned to Kat, knowing that it would sound like I was fishing for a date (after they already knew about my date with Ivy). I didn't want to seem like a "player."

Nevertheless, I asked her, "What about you Kat. No strings. Just friends hanging out?"

"No. I don't think so. Thanks anyway. This is not a vacation for me, so tomorrow, its back looking for jobs."

"Okay," I waived at them before heading toward my room, "If you change your mind, letr me know."

I gave Kat and Jaci my room number, just in case. I was still going to the pier tonight. I could only hope I ran into Ivy. THe pier on Tuesday night seemed like the only game in town.

Ivy

Let me just say this just once. Old Orchard Beach is not exactly the Mecca of culture or cultural events. One has to be extremely creative to find a potentially romantic setting for a first date. I wanted to impress Ivy, without going too much over the top.

Portland was close enough to do something, but I wanted to stat in the immediate area. I've I'd wanted to vacation in a city, I would have just stayed in Philadelphia. That took out going to see the Portland Sea Dogs (the Boston Red Sox farm team). They were on the road in Binghampton anyway.

So, there I was, standing in the lobby, at about 6:46 p.m., waiting for Ivy, with barely a thought on what to do. I saw two women, in their mid-twenties I would say, come in through the front door of the Trading Post Inn. I had to say that they were very well dressed for this setting, and based upon what everybody else was generally wearing (casual). Even now, waiting for a date, I wore khaki's, dress shirt, and some comfortable loafers. I was not dressed up, but I wasn't exactly dressed down.

The two women could not be anymore different from one another. One was a . . . mixed heritage . . . I would say. Latin. She had darker coloration. The other was of a lighter complection, maybe Scandanavian descent. She was exactly blonde, but she was exactly a brunette either, somewhere in between. She was a little shorter than the Latin looking one. They both wore professional attire.

They stopped in lobby, momentarily, for something or other. The paler one pulled out a room key that looked suspisciously like my own room key. The mere transaction led me to believe that both of these ladies had to be guests of the Inn.

As they walked away from the front desk, towards me, I got up from my sitting place to greet them. My idea is that if they have been here longer than I, then maybe THEY would know of a place to take a date.

As they neared, I commented, "It does not look like you to ladies have been at the beach today!"

They both giggled, indicating the obvious.

Then the shorter one, half-laughed, "I wish . . . "

The taller one followed that up by adding, ". . . except the water is a liitttle too cold."

Back to the paler again, "A bit 'nipply for my taste."

"Hi, I'm Paul. I'm staying here at the Inn until next Friday."

The shorter girl said, "You can call me Jaci. That's Cat," gesturing toward her companion.

"Cat!?! Like the animal?" I questioned.

"Nickname," the woman commented, "K-A-T, short for Katherine."

"Can I asked you two why you are so dressed up on such a casual Saturday?"

They both looked at each other.

Jaci explained, "We're moving here. We have the Inn booked for 4 weeks. So, we're out looking for jobs?"

"So you've been here awhile."

Jaci, the dominant, or more vocal of the two, replied, "Long enough. My sister lives in the area too."

"What kind of jobs arev you looking for?" I queried.

"I'm looking for a job as a teach. Just a summer job though. I'm still in school studying Education."

"And you?" I raised my eyebrow to Kat.

"Adminstrative Assistant, Secretary, something along those lines," she told me,"I'm taking a little break from school."

"Too bad we're not back in Philly. I am a partner in a law firm. I could probably help you."

"Just my luck," commented Kat under her breath.

"Look, maybe you girls can help me. I am waiting for my date, another one of the guests I met, and I do not have any ideas. I was hoping that you may know of a place that would create the right impression."

"Which guest?' inquired Jaci.

"Oh, you probably don't know her. He name is Ivy and she . . . ."

I never got a chance to finish. The girls looked at each other with this "knowing" grin.

"The Japanese woman. She's beatutiful."

"You know her?"

"No," said Jaci. "Not really. We have just seen her around. Be careful around her. THere's something about her . . . ."

I just let that linger in the air.

"So . . . . do you know of anywhere."

"What about the Pier?" suggested Kat, looking for Jaci's approval. Then she looked back at me, "We were there on Tueday Night. They had a live band, and between sets, Kareoke. The place was packed. They said it gets busier on Saturday night. THat is probably the place to go."

"Yeah," agreed Jaci, sarcastically, "If you were trying to meet somebody. Not the best place if you want to be alone.

"Hold on," indicated Jaci, pulling out her cell phone. "Let me talk to my sister."

Only about a minute passed until she snapped her phone shut.

"She said to take her to dinner at 'Joseph's by the Sea.' It's casual, but very pricey. THe food there is spectacular. Then after, take her over to the Arundel Barn Playhouse. They are rehearsing Romeo and Juliet for when it opens in a few weeks. People go an watch the rehearsals. What can be more romantic that a Shakespearian play?"

At that very moment, Ivy appeared.

The girls excused themselves, with a duel, "Good luck."

Ivy smiled a beatutiful smile, and remarked, "Cheating on me already? And here I thought you liked Asian women."

I decided to be as blunt as she was, "I like you!"

She put her arm in mine, and led me to the front door, "Then we are going to get along fine."

*****

I decided to go with the plan the two girls gave me. I have to say, Jaci's sister was correct. Everything was perfect.

Ivy, I found was the shortened Americanized form of her real name Ivumi. Her full name was Ivumi Saito. The name Ivy . . . worked. She was wearing a tight pair of jeansm which showed off her bottom, a tight pink sweater, which showed the barest hint of her lfat tummy, and some wedge sandals. She wore her hari up, revealing a graceful swan-like neck. The woman was hypnotic.

As the night moved forward, I found out quite a few things about her. She was not shy about who she was, where she came from, and where she was going. Her strength was a signifcant part of her attraction. Ivy knew exactly what she wanted, and went for it. In that sense, she was more like a force of nature, than an ordinary woman.

I learned that her vacation, as she called it, was a gift from her friend. Ivy, as it turned out, just got out of prison about 2 weeks ago. I was stunned. Then she laid her amazing story out for me. She had told her friend that the first thing she wanted to do, after getting out, was just to walk on the beach, free, as far away from that place as possible. And, here she was.

It turns out that Ivy was, or better said, a pharmacist. When she graduated from undergraduate school, she immediately started to use the Americanized form of her name, and went for breast augmentation (to a full C Cup). She explained that she went in to the plastic surgeon, with a picture of Pamela Anderson's breasts, and said that she wanted those. That is what she got. Unfoturnately, she also got a transcected nerve under her right armpit that caused excurciating pain. Her surgeon prescribed Vicodin in ever increasing amounts, instead of a surgical correction. Eventually she was hooked. Ivy eventually had a surgical correction for the physical problem. What she discovered was that the drugs took away the emotional pain that she'd experienced from childhood. I questioned what possible pain that she could have from childhood."

"Do you want the official, diagnosed version, or my version," she put it too me.

"Give me the official version," I asked. As an attorney, I deal in cold hard facts.

"They say that is is racial discrimination growing up, mixed with acculturation differences with the parents."

"Acculturation? I do not know that word."

"Different cultural values even though we are family. My parents are from Japan, with traditional Japanese values. I was born in America, and always thought myself an American. That caused battles with my parents."

"Wow," was all I could say.

"And the worst part is that I internalized it. I didn't have anybody in my postion who would understand that I could talk to. According to the professionals, it was that that predisposed me to drug use, or worse."

Ivy went on to explain that she stole a stock bottle of Vicodin from the pharmacy that she worked at. She was driving home erratically, when she was pulled over by the police. Naturally, they searched her, finding the stock bottle. There was enough qauntity to be charged wit trafficking in nartcotics. Ivy was forced to take a plea of 3 years in prison, or risk a mandatory minimum of 25 years in prison. She had no choice.

But, rather than wallow in self-pity, she used the time to dry herself out, and then work through all of her childhood issues. Ivy came out the other side as very diferent person. A strong person. A person, who, after putting life on hold for three long years, was not going to wait a second to go right after what she wanted. Whatever she wanted. She knew what she was, and what she had, and knew how to use it. Boy did she ever.

The whole story added a huge element of danger with her mystery, That mystery, the details of her past, and the person she was that created the person she is now, will stay buried with her.

We went to the rehearsal, and, it was, in fact, very romantic. I want to tell you more, but this is where I will have to stop. I am a gentleman, and some things must remain "off camera."

Let's just suffice it to say that she came back to my room, and did not leave until this morning . . . Monday morning. That is why I missed a day with this Blog. I do NOT kiss and tell.

Let me just say this. I've been around the world. I've had sex and made love to more women then I can count of all races, creeds, ages, and levels of experience. Even a lot pf professionals. She is the best I've ever had. In fact, there is not even a close second.

It took the rest of the day just to get my energy back.

I'll go out exploring again tomorrow. Maybe some of the other guests will be back from this weekend. If I see Jaci and Kat, I think I am going to blush.

JJ's Eatery

I do not want anybody reading this blog to think that Paul Miller is some kind of an angel. Far from it. For the most part, the things that I have written about in the past few days have portrayed me as quirky at best. You may be thinking, 'Paul sounds like a nice guy.'

That isn't the whole story. Since it is overcast and a little colder today (about 56 degrees), I decided to complete my story from yesterday.

Some of my legal colleagues have given me the nickname "Taipan." For those of you who know nothing about snakes, it is the most venemous snake in the world. One bite and you have about 5 minutes to live, or suffer a very painful death. Not only that, the snake, although appearing harmless, when riled, is extremely agressive, to the point of chasing you. I have to say, at times the description is accurate. The bottom line is that it gives me a subtle aura of danger, which some women that I have been involved with have translated into something of a bad boy.

I've done nothing to dissuade the image. All of this exposition just to tell you that I felt compelled to go down by the beach and see the mystery woman in a bikini. I am not a stalker, but I needed to see what her body looked like without all of those clothes.

I was not able to find her . . . initially . . . but I was able to find JJ's Eatery.

The lunch suggestion was right on the money. I had what they called the "Chowda" of the day, which in this case, was crab chowder, and the Lobster Club with chips and a pickle. Both were outrageously delicious.

I struck up a conversation with my waitress, Jennifer, a non-descript girl in her early 20's with a thick Maine accent right out of the movies.

I asked her, "Are there any festivals this weekend?"

She studied me, before replying, "You are about 2 weeks early, On May 19th there is a Beer Festival down on the pier. All of the microbreweries in the area have a booth, and there are food booths and arts and crafts. Keeps getting bigger every year."

Through my sandwhich i said, "There will be a lot of people here?"

"Oh yeah. All of the college kids come down from the universities in Portland for the day. That is why it has turned into such an event. It's the last blow out after finals."

I mumbled, "I'm glad I was able to avoid that. Sounds like a mess."

Jennifer told me, "only the locals around now getting ready for the summer season. During the summer we have a lot or people living here, and communting into Portland. Where are you from, Mister?"

"Philadelphia. Call me Paul."

We shook hands. It was a warm friendly gesture, rather than a way to brush me off. In fact, I found a lot of the people of Old Orchard Beach to be friendly.

"Well then," she said, "You know what I'm talking about. People from Philly summer on the Jersey Shore, right?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "My parents did it for a few summers, when I was a teenager."

"This is my favorite time of year," Jennifer related, "It's spring, and not so cold anymore, and people are getting ready for the Beach to come alive. There is such a feeling of excitment, anticpation, and change from the old winter routine."

She smiled. It was a genuine smile.

I asked Jennifer one last question, "Hey Sweetie, is there a popular place on the beach where everybody goes."

"Yeah, down on the north side of the pier. It's funny, it's only in the high 50's, still too cold for sun-bathing, but all of those folks who have bee cooped up for the winter can't wait for the first sign of warmth to take their clothes off."

With that, Jennnifer chuckled to her self, and went back to her other customer (who had been desperately signalling her during our conversation. I finished, paid the bill, and left Jennifer an extra tip for her advice. I may be dangerous, but I've had the privilege of working for tips during undergrad school as a bartender. I respect anybody who makes a living that way. Who ever said a bad boy can't have a heart of cold buried under all of that lethality.

I got directions to the pier from the cashier. It was in walking distance, and a nice day out, so I decided a little constitutional was in order.

Desipte the fact that it was the off-seaason, and right before the Beer Festival, the beach was buzzing with activity. There were a lot of kids in their late teens and early 20's running around in various states of undress. My powers of deduction told me it was some of the college students here for the days before finals.

It took me a few minutes to walk down the pier, and I must say it was a very pleasant walk. There were a lot of pretty yound co-eds that were easy on the eyes. However, as I neared the beach, my eyes were diverted by a lime green bathing suit. It was her. She was rinsing herself in the open shower, head back, eyes closed, letting the water run through her long hair. She was magnificent. Better than what I could have hoped for.

Suddenly, she looked up, and over at me, staring right into my eyes. I didn't know what to do . . . this is the second time that she caught me looking at her. She waved for me to come over.

It took me all of about 30 seconds.

I said the only thing that came to mind, "Hello."

Here I am, a trial attorney, with no loss of words in front of a judge and a jury, with a bad boy
reputation, and all I could think of is to say 'Hello.' Pathetic.

She stuck out her wet hand, "I'm Ivy."

I shook it, not noticing until it was to late that now I had a wet hand. I went to wipe it on my pant leg.

"Sorry," she laughed.

"It's okay."

"And you are . . . ?" She prompted me.

"Oh, Paul. My name is Paul."

Very bluntly she said, "You must be attracted to Asian women. That's the second time I caught you admiring me."

All I could do is blush, like a kid with his hand caught in a cookie jar.

She laughed again, like angels singing, "It's okay. Don't be embarassed. I think you're cute too."

Now my heart was really beating.

"Are you staying at the Trading Post Inn?"

"Yes. I'm here on vacation with my friend, Jean. The woman you saw me with. We came in a few days ago. When did you get in, I haven't seen you before today."

"Yesterday night. How long are you staying?"

"Through next week. You can only book the Inn in two week blocks. I've met some nice people there. Could you hand me my towel?"

She gestured to a blue towel laying on a bench. I jumped to do her bidding.

"What about you?" Ivy inquired.

"The same." I replied. I followed with, "I am going to go out on a limb, but are you busy tonight? Would you like to go exploring the town together?"

"Can't," she answered. "I have plans with Jean. What about tomorrow night?"

"Saturday night?" I gushed like a teenager asking a crush on the first date. That is exactly how it felt to me.

"Sure. I'd love to. What if I meet you in the lobby about 8?"

"That would be . . . great," I gushed.

"I'm looking forward to it," she added, giving that mysterious little smile again. Pure magic.

"Go explore the rest of the town, Paul. Find us something spectacular to do tomorrow night. Who knows? If you are a good boy, I may have to give you an extra special treat."

Ivy turned and walked away, with a little waggle to her thong covered behind. She didn't even look back. She knew I was watching. She was a sexual woman that was comfortable in her own skin, confident of her sensuality.

Dear reader, with that loooooong explanation, I have spent the intervening hours finding something spectactular to do with Ivy. I need to go get ready very soon.

I hope to have something good to talk about tomorrow.