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    The first few hours at the clothing-optional
Spa had passed normally enough; I’d soaked in the pools after my
long drive north from San Francisco, had a strenuous massage from a
tiny bird-like woman who’d pressed all sorts of tender points I
never knew I had, and reeled out of her office and back to the
pools with what seemed like a ton of tension lifted off me. I felt
light and graceful in the water, the warm afternoon sun shining
down on my face, my creamy neck and shoulders, and the tops of my
breasts.
    Looking down, I wished I could touch my
nipples: my whole body felt in need of a good stroking, of a more
delicious release. But I was here alone, as always, and in the pool
with me were the usual clusters of couples, looking deep into each
other’s eyes as they smiled and chatted in low voices. The warm
pool was the social pool; it was OK to talk softly here. In the hot
pool next door silence reigned, and beyond that the little cold
plunge was even more serene, and usually empty. I could sit there
for as long as I liked and look at the trees, breathe the fresh
country air and meditate. But what I wanted this evening was
something more carnal, I was beginning to realize.
    I looked boldly at the women and men entering
the pool. They all had what society deemed gorgeous bodies, tanned,
brown, lithe. My own build was voluptuous and my skin tone was
pale, though the sun and the massage had brought a deep healthy
flush to my face. I had come here a handful of times and each time
I’d come away feeling restored, happy ... but always with a tingle
of dissatisfaction. I felt so sexual here; yet it was as if I were
invisible, an overweight girl in my early twenties. My desires
would most likely never be satisfied, I thought, because I wasn’t
looking for a boyfriend … the single men I noticed here didn’t
tempt me, and I ignored them. Nor would I find a girlfriend here in
this heterosexual scene. What obsessed me was a fantasy I’d had for
a long time: a man and a woman inviting me into their bed for hours
of caressing and penetration, fucking and sucking. I would think of
it tonight, I mused, as I lay in my sleeping-bag in the dorm room,
probably listening to a couple doing it next door. That would be
the closest I would get to sexual satisfaction. I would lie there
drifting off to sleep, deeply relaxed yet aroused. The room would
be full of empty beds whose occupants were off getting lucky.
    Under the water I gently stroked my nipple,
imagining a woman’s rosy mouth suckling and biting me, her fingers
slipping into my pussy, exclaiming at the wetness. I closed my
eyes, leaning against the side of the pool. She whispers in my ear
that her boyfriend is going to give my pussy a long hard pumping
with his dick, but first she’s going to show me how well she can
eat me out. As she demonstrates, her lover kneels behind her,
fondling her ass, spanking it. She moans into my cunt, her tongue
flicking in and out the way I love it, and as her tongue probes me
skillfully, his lubed cock slides into her. I try to watch, but my
eyes are fluttering and my face is burning. I close my eyes,
listening to the delicious lapping of her mouth on me mixed with
the louder, raunchier sounds of his cock working inside her, flesh
slapping against flesh.
    They don’t really have names or faces. These
dream lovers are always anonymous, always eager, getting down to it
right away with no nervous preliminaries. Would I really have the
courage to do it, I wondered. Probably not. The sun was setting,
and the water felt slightly chill. Maybe I should go steep in the
hot pool for a bit, step out and go have dinner. The truth was,
despite my fevered imaginings I had only slept with a few people, a
couple of men, a handful of women, and mostly one night stands,
enough to know how good physical intimacy could feel, but not
enough to rid me of the feeling of being clumsy and awkward,
ashamed of my body, a little frozen and shy. Why should anyone