Elissa Eaton's Blog: Writing and creating is my passion - Posts Tagged "steamy"
INDEPENDENCE DAY AT THE ROSARITA BEACH HOTEL
If you want to find out more about the steamy, salacious sex in 'Too Old to be a Hooker…Too Young to be a Madam' for your beach read, you'll have to buy my novel. These are just snippets to entice you!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
INDEPENDENCE DAY
AT THE ROSARITA BEACH HOTEL
This novel should be in every hotel room next to the bible.
- Jason Schafer, Screenwriter, Trick
You’ll be hypnotized by the emotional journey from hell to heaven
- Angela Clarke, Hypnotherapist
A prayer for the wild at heart kept in cages.
- Tennessee Williams
A rickety worn cab wound along the dusty road to our destination: The Rosarita Beach Hotel in the mist of the early morning. A Mexican cab driver, wearing the face of a wilting flower with round, sad brown eyes and long dark braided hair, drove down a narrow, bumpy road through barren wastelands twenty-four miles south of the border.
The foggy, bleak landscape was cluttered with terra cotta colored wooden shacks. Children swung lazily in straw hammocks, surrounded by clotheslines that were part of the scenery of the primitive little Mexican village.
After checking into the hotel, the manager escorted us to a dingy cubicle that he dared call “The Honeymoon Suite.” The next morning when we headed for the surf, I went into a depression, seeing flocks of pelicans lying lifeless on the beach. I loved watching them soar through the sky, then swoop down into the water diving for fish with their giant distinguishable bills storing food for survival.
Promptly the waiter appeared. Bartenders lit torches as firecrackers went off from afar. Patrick rubbed oil all over my stomach, separating my thighs, drizzling some between my legs.
A snow white seagull resembling a powder puff flew by, proudly carrying a gold starfish in his mouth.
I pulled on the string of my crimson crocheted bikini top, knowing that I looked so much better in the buff, trying to entice Patrick. My top fell onto the sand.
“April, this isn’t a nude beach and there’s a mother with her kids watching us across the way. I wish you hadn’t brought the smoke. I’m getting paranoid,” he said.
Paying no heed to his warning, I slid off my bikini bottoms.
It seemed like only seconds later two Policia in jet black uniforms jumped us, grabbing the baggie out of my hands. While Patrick argued with them, I fished in my purse for the loose joints, stuffing them into the palm of my hand.
“Gringo, you under arrest. You think you rich Americans can get away with anything. Not in our country.”
“What are you arresting us for? Patrick shouted.
“Marijuana and nude sunbathing. Come with us or we'll shoot you.”
Seconds later a black stretch limousine arrived. As we slid into the plush leather seats, the driver turned around and winked at me. It was Angel. Was I hallucinating again? Like divine intervention the radio was blaring that Beatles song One Sweet Dream, “...wipe your tears, soon we'll be out of here. Pick up the bags and slip into the limousine. 1234567. All good children go to heaven....”
We pulled into the dazzling, majestic driveway of Hotel Del Coronado, a Victorian classic heritage landmark.
That magical, fateful day, I felt the power of my street smarts, and the indestructible force of my guardian angel.
When we entered our suite, there was a bountiful fruit basket filled with camembert, brie, and a bottle of chilled French champagne with a note from the Manager welcoming me back.
“Did you know the man very well? I can't believe how you pulled this off so smoothly?” Patrick asked.
“Far be it to question the powers of a young blond girl with big tits scantily dressed,” I answered coyly.
“Did you have to fuck that freak to get us out of jail?” Patrick asked, suspiciously. “Tell me the truth. I'll forgive you.”
“It's polite to wait until you're asked. He thought that I was a puta and I'd show up at some dump tonight, stupid bastardo. Yeah, that fucker had class, I've never heard of anyone getting a refund from a Mexican jail, have you?” I said, cynically.
But would I ever be the same carefree creature or was I permanently scarred from the experience? That night we celebrated the Fourth or July from our sky-lit terrace, sipping Cordon Rouge Brut, munching on Beluga Caviar. We feasted away on Duck a l’orange, crustaceans and fluffy chocolate soufflés.
Patrick poured a glass of bubbly, approaching me with his well-toned, tanned body in his cut-off, tie-died denims. Clusters of multi colored firecrackers danced over our moonlight terrace. The setting was a backdrop for romance. Light and shadows shaded the magnificent hypnotic waters and as the sky darkened, we spoke only of matters of the heart, but I still felt afraid.
“I'll never forget how you saved my life today, April.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“I love you, baby,” he replied, hugging me tightly.
“Patrick, when you begged the guards to take your life and spare mine, that gave me the power to save us. My mother's the only one that has ever loved me so fiercely, even if we do have a sick relationship.”
“Let’s make a toast to - forever,” Patrick whispered as we kissed.
“The Buddhists believe that forever is only one minute. If you look the other way, the rainbow will disappear.”
“I'll never look away, April. We should just go for it and make it legal.”
I was going to marry the rugged Midwestern boy with the aquiline nose.
We clung to each other. He was my sanity and insanity. The moon rose from the roar of a midnight blue sea, floating in a fire engine sky, reflecting footsteps in the sand.
“See that old couple walking on the beach?” he asked.
“Yes, that's so sweet, he has his arm around her.” I answered.
“I can just see us twenty years from now, honey, still making love, toasting each other on this same terrace,” Patrick said as a shooting star appeared in the sky.
‘Too Old to be a Hooker...Too Young to be a Madam’ is available at the following Los Angeles Bookstores:
Barnes & Noble The Grove, Barnes & Noble Third Street Promenade, Barnes & Noble Bookstar Studio City, Book Soup, Skylight Books, Vroman’s, The Canyon Country Store, amazon.com, Kindle and other online retailers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
INDEPENDENCE DAY
AT THE ROSARITA BEACH HOTEL
This novel should be in every hotel room next to the bible.
- Jason Schafer, Screenwriter, Trick
You’ll be hypnotized by the emotional journey from hell to heaven
- Angela Clarke, Hypnotherapist
A prayer for the wild at heart kept in cages.
- Tennessee Williams
A rickety worn cab wound along the dusty road to our destination: The Rosarita Beach Hotel in the mist of the early morning. A Mexican cab driver, wearing the face of a wilting flower with round, sad brown eyes and long dark braided hair, drove down a narrow, bumpy road through barren wastelands twenty-four miles south of the border.
The foggy, bleak landscape was cluttered with terra cotta colored wooden shacks. Children swung lazily in straw hammocks, surrounded by clotheslines that were part of the scenery of the primitive little Mexican village.
After checking into the hotel, the manager escorted us to a dingy cubicle that he dared call “The Honeymoon Suite.” The next morning when we headed for the surf, I went into a depression, seeing flocks of pelicans lying lifeless on the beach. I loved watching them soar through the sky, then swoop down into the water diving for fish with their giant distinguishable bills storing food for survival.
Promptly the waiter appeared. Bartenders lit torches as firecrackers went off from afar. Patrick rubbed oil all over my stomach, separating my thighs, drizzling some between my legs.
A snow white seagull resembling a powder puff flew by, proudly carrying a gold starfish in his mouth.
I pulled on the string of my crimson crocheted bikini top, knowing that I looked so much better in the buff, trying to entice Patrick. My top fell onto the sand.
“April, this isn’t a nude beach and there’s a mother with her kids watching us across the way. I wish you hadn’t brought the smoke. I’m getting paranoid,” he said.
Paying no heed to his warning, I slid off my bikini bottoms.
It seemed like only seconds later two Policia in jet black uniforms jumped us, grabbing the baggie out of my hands. While Patrick argued with them, I fished in my purse for the loose joints, stuffing them into the palm of my hand.
“Gringo, you under arrest. You think you rich Americans can get away with anything. Not in our country.”
“What are you arresting us for? Patrick shouted.
“Marijuana and nude sunbathing. Come with us or we'll shoot you.”
Seconds later a black stretch limousine arrived. As we slid into the plush leather seats, the driver turned around and winked at me. It was Angel. Was I hallucinating again? Like divine intervention the radio was blaring that Beatles song One Sweet Dream, “...wipe your tears, soon we'll be out of here. Pick up the bags and slip into the limousine. 1234567. All good children go to heaven....”
We pulled into the dazzling, majestic driveway of Hotel Del Coronado, a Victorian classic heritage landmark.
That magical, fateful day, I felt the power of my street smarts, and the indestructible force of my guardian angel.
When we entered our suite, there was a bountiful fruit basket filled with camembert, brie, and a bottle of chilled French champagne with a note from the Manager welcoming me back.
“Did you know the man very well? I can't believe how you pulled this off so smoothly?” Patrick asked.
“Far be it to question the powers of a young blond girl with big tits scantily dressed,” I answered coyly.
“Did you have to fuck that freak to get us out of jail?” Patrick asked, suspiciously. “Tell me the truth. I'll forgive you.”
“It's polite to wait until you're asked. He thought that I was a puta and I'd show up at some dump tonight, stupid bastardo. Yeah, that fucker had class, I've never heard of anyone getting a refund from a Mexican jail, have you?” I said, cynically.
But would I ever be the same carefree creature or was I permanently scarred from the experience? That night we celebrated the Fourth or July from our sky-lit terrace, sipping Cordon Rouge Brut, munching on Beluga Caviar. We feasted away on Duck a l’orange, crustaceans and fluffy chocolate soufflés.
Patrick poured a glass of bubbly, approaching me with his well-toned, tanned body in his cut-off, tie-died denims. Clusters of multi colored firecrackers danced over our moonlight terrace. The setting was a backdrop for romance. Light and shadows shaded the magnificent hypnotic waters and as the sky darkened, we spoke only of matters of the heart, but I still felt afraid.
“I'll never forget how you saved my life today, April.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“I love you, baby,” he replied, hugging me tightly.
“Patrick, when you begged the guards to take your life and spare mine, that gave me the power to save us. My mother's the only one that has ever loved me so fiercely, even if we do have a sick relationship.”
“Let’s make a toast to - forever,” Patrick whispered as we kissed.
“The Buddhists believe that forever is only one minute. If you look the other way, the rainbow will disappear.”
“I'll never look away, April. We should just go for it and make it legal.”
I was going to marry the rugged Midwestern boy with the aquiline nose.
We clung to each other. He was my sanity and insanity. The moon rose from the roar of a midnight blue sea, floating in a fire engine sky, reflecting footsteps in the sand.
“See that old couple walking on the beach?” he asked.
“Yes, that's so sweet, he has his arm around her.” I answered.
“I can just see us twenty years from now, honey, still making love, toasting each other on this same terrace,” Patrick said as a shooting star appeared in the sky.
‘Too Old to be a Hooker...Too Young to be a Madam’ is available at the following Los Angeles Bookstores:
Barnes & Noble The Grove, Barnes & Noble Third Street Promenade, Barnes & Noble Bookstar Studio City, Book Soup, Skylight Books, Vroman’s, The Canyon Country Store, amazon.com, Kindle and other online retailers.
Writing and creating is my passion
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