Emerald beards of grass bladed sweet under apricot sky; cotton candy breeze, banana sun and warmth healing forlorn hearts–or tearing them apart. It was 6 AM. Too early for liquor, beer and millionaire golfers but I was the country club bartender. The gated community of Windance was stained with vicious rumors, ego-maniacal fools and blistering women. Mornings were nice–filling ice chests with Budweiser, Heineken and Coors–chatting with the early birds. The older ladies came in scented of coconut sunscreen wanting cups of water with lemon to perfume sulfured artesian.

Dr. Salinski slid his tattered big gulp plastic mug to me saying, “Fill ‘er up,” and I did–to the brim with Old Grandad 114 proof. His hands shivering whilst sweat glazed his oily forehead, a ragged John Deere cap sheathing his bald scalp. I filled an additional rock glass with Absolut vodka which he tossed down his wretched gullet–liquor flushed by oral toilet.

“Performing heart surgery on any children today Dr. Salinsky?”

“Not until 10, gotta get 18 holes in and steady my nerves beforehand . . . I couldn’t even hold a scalpel right now . . . until I get this medicine up in me.” He winked, tossed me a ten dollar tip and walked out.

This was the dark side of my job; knowing nasty secrets, searing affairs. back room sex, prostitution, drugs and wicked backstabbing. It was like any other bartending job. I never worked regular bars, just country clubs and casinos. I was between jobs. What it lacked in pay made up for in drama.

Around 6:30 I expected Natalie and Lisa to come in–two sixteen year old girls who came in daily to flirt with me, tell me about bad boyfriends, how they smoked pot and stole beer from their rich parents. I let them flirt, but was careful to not flirt back too much–thoughts of law suits, jail cells and shotgun wielding fathers trashing my scene. They were deadly beautiful, too young–but I enjoyed their company. Squealing giggles and jokes–I seemed to always have a funny line to brighten their summer vacation.

Natalie took her chances and brazenly asked, “So . . . when are you taking me out Bobby?” She smacked her glittery wet lips, hand on hip and posing.

“I can’t go out with you Natalie . . . you know that.”

Her mother walked in smiling at me. It was the Barbie goddess Sarah Smithson–the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen grace the lawns of Windance. She said, “Run on girls, I need to talk to Mr. Bobby.

“So you’re the Bobby my daughter has been talking about.”  I gulped as she noticed my Adam’s Apple writhe. Oh my God . . . what did Natalie tell her?

“Yes . . . I’m Bobby,” and held my hand out to shake.

“Well, I was a bit worried. Natalie thinks she’s thirty and I had to know who she referred to. I’m happy to see you are a respectful young man, and the girls are just having fun.”

I took her hand and kissed it. I know not what possessed me to do that, but I couldn’t resist her. She wore a short-cut sunflowered tank-top, shrink-wrapped cantaloupes–tangerine bikini straps outcropped along tanned shoulders. Her bellybutton adorned by platinum piercing–blue jean shorts and creamy legs. She gazed into me as my eyes wandered her every delicious contour. She read me like a Dr. Seuss book . . . easy I suppose. I was never into one night stands and my heart still shattered by Amy–my true love who left me for a scumbag lawyer who knocked her teeth out. Maybe this was my big chance to fall in love with a goddess–or maybe used as a summer treat for a rich bitch. I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

“You can let go of my hand Bobby.”

“Oh, excuse me Sarah. I don’t know where my head is today.”

“I do. I know exactly where your head is–and where you’d like it to be.”

I was stiffer than scotch on Sunday morning, unable to hide protrusions as her eyes devoured me. She kissed my hand–painting me with raspberry lips.

“Tonight . . . Natalie is sleeping over at Lisa’s house to watch movies. I live in the big white house on the entrance curve to the right. There will be a silver BMW in the drive way. Be there at 7:00.”

“Shall I bring wine?”

I had served her many times and she asked, “What wine do I like?”

“You prefer Austrian wines made from Blauer Portugieser grapes.” My mind is strewn with endless cabinets of useful information.

“I am impressed.”

“It’s the same wine Mozart enjoyed.”

“You listen to Mozart? Come over at six instead.”

The following two weeks were incredible. I smiled like spring wind–my coworkers bewildered by my undying love for this shabby job. I was a basket case in waiting. I had become a boy-toy. I was so in love–or in lust–never questioning why she made me park in her garage and close the door. Sometimes she picked me up. Other times she bought a suite at the Marriot in New Orleans–the only time we displayed affection in public. We enjoyed several nights in the French Quarter; slamming lemon drops in Lucky Pierre’s, partaking cuisine at Commander’s Palace–the world’s best bread pudding–erupting in wild passion through balmy streets. We made love constantly; in the country club pool at 2 AM, on the fifteenth hole at midnight–moonlight kissing our souls–emblazoned bodies naked on silken green. Our love remained hidden from prying eyes. The intensity scorching as I wanted to live forever inside her–the best place I had ever been . . . my personal Shangri-La. Butterflies of sugared tone whispering in my ear, wet lips on mine–never more than five minutes clothed.

Perhaps I saw the heartache in the distance–to be jaded seemed like fantasy. Her long tongue kept me quiet. Her soft fingers made me moan. Never time for talking, only loving. We were hiding beautiful secrets–a tradition at Windance. Whilst on top making passionate love to me, her hands weaving tales of inferno . . . she voiced, “I love you.

“I love you too.”

It was a simple love based on nothing. No conversations besides fleeting thoughts about wine, love, how good it felt and how I desired her in every possible way. I envisioned us dying together in fiery embrace–engulfed in her sweet pinkness for all eternity.

Saturday arrived, time for the posh golfer’s dinner–served in courses like a French restaurant–mostly to make the members feel important. I spent my evening preparing Ketel One Martinis, Cosmopolitans–explaining the difference between Scotch and Irish Whiskey–my favorite whiskey–to drunken old geezers mesmerized by historical lore. My bartending partner Sandra left early, becoming dizzy after standing for two hours. Once midnight came I was allowed to drink too. I poured myself a Bushmills on ice and devoured grilled lobster with butter and lemon.

Sarah finally arrived, wearing a scarlet Valentino Couture evening dress, cherry lips and blond hair woven like sun-fire. Every man in the room breathless. The dining room sucked into a vacuum when she walked in–dead silence. She walked by me without so much a glance and began talking to Dr. Powell and Attorney General Walt Ladner. I asked Joan, one of the waitresses, to watch the bar so I could talk to Sarah. I was so in love, my vision tunneled and her face the only thing I could see. Her petite tone floated on a sea of voices and I honed in on her.

“Sarah . . . you look beautiful tonight.” I reached for a warm hug as evil scowl paved her eyes.

“Oh my God . . . Walter, tell this employee to get away from me. I don’t even know who he is.”

My face crawling in embarrassment, tears webbed my lashes and I was rejected. She didn’t associate with the help. Mr. Ladner could see through the looming fog of dismissal and winced a stare saying I feel for you. Nobody said a word as I walked off . . . trying to stand upright . . . fighting to not crumple to the floor a decrepit bag of sorrow. My legs rubbery and heart ripped from my chest, I walked in the mini-kitchen behind the bar and wept like an infant. I got sick and vomited in the sink. I should have known all along. How stupid could I be?

The crowd thinned as it approached 2 AM, but my hands were still trembling–forced to finish my shift–Sarah laughing and conversing with the in-crowd without a care in the world. She was a master actress with splintered lives and forked tongue. She pranced her beauty by the bar before leaving, a somber-sweet half smile, halved tear drops moistening her eyes and said, “I can’t believe you did that Bobby. You ruined it all. It’s over. Goodbye.”

I continued working there for a few more weeks and saw Sarah regularly–though she never spoke to me again. Her daughter never came in to talk to me after that. I’ve never shared this with anyone before. During our spectacular affair, I bit my lip refraining from telling the guys. I respected her. I loved her. And for nothing but pain and tortuous heartache.

And they say it’s only sex . . . get over it.

all names have been slightly altered to protect the innocent and guilty