A Weekend in the Hamptons

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A college boy is drawn into a world of sexual intrigue.
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Author's Note - This is a complete novella in six chapters. It's based on a true story I heard years ago from the young man involved. I have placed it in a more contemporary setting. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks.

*****

Chapter One

It's one of those lazy summer days in the Hamptons, one of those mornings-after-an-F.-Scott-Fitzgerald-party where everyone in the mansion to my right will still be asleep at noon and those who wake any earlier will wish they had gone to the ER last night and had their stomachs pumped. Meanwhile a John Cheever story unfolds on the beach of the mansion to my left where naked women are walking out of the surf and sprawling on custom made, non-sustainable teak chaises arranged neatly on the sand above the high tide line by Latina servants who are now conspicuous by their absence, forbidden to see the bare flesh of their employers' bodies giggling freely in the late morning sun.

I, however, am allowed to see their naked bodies. They are, in fact, counting on it, massaging sunscreen on nipples, breasts and buttocks in full view of two young gentlemen next door, not to see if rigid bananas form in our trunks but to send a message about wealth, money, power and status. And the greatest of these is status. It's a message which says "we're so stinking rich we'll expose our tanned, enhanced-breasted, tummy-tucked, bottom-lifted, botox-browed, liposuctioned, face-lifted, enhanced-lipped, breast-lifted, Brazil-waxed bodies and we don't care who sees it in this neighborhood." A secondary message might be "we're so rich we have no tan lines." Whatever the message, the women pretend to ignore us and we pretend to ignore them.

"No one over thirty should be allowed to sunbathe nude," says Derek on the chaise next to mine. "God."

Not knowing what to say and writing furiously, I say nothing.

"You do see them, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," I say, not looking up.

"They're the Baldwins, heirs to the whiskey fortune. Not one of them is less than forty. It's gross."

"The one in the red bikini is very attractive," I say.

"That would be Skippy's mother, THE Mrs. Baldwin, the one who married the whiskey magnate. The others are her older sisters. None of them are actually named Baldwin, but everyone calls them the Baldwin sisters," Derek says without looking, his eyes closed behind a pair of Gucci sunglasses which cost more than my entire wardrobe. "She's thirty-eight... but still... I mean, my God, can you believe that?"

Derek hasn't turned his head or made any movement to indicate he was actually looking at the naked, middle-aged female menagerie. He could be stealing peeks, but I doubt he's making that kind of effort. Derek isn't like that. Besides, I'm busy writing and not paying attention to what his eyes are doing. He probably took one look and has kept his eyes tightly closed since. Or perhaps he's jaded from having seen it so many times. Lying flat on his his back and facing straight up is probably the best thing for old Derek, but I am propped up on my chaise scribbling furiously in this journal and feeling definite pressure in my trunks at the sight of Skippy's mother.

"Who is Skippy, anyway?" I ask, pretending to have forgotten.

"Damn you, Martin, do you ever stop working? Put that shit away. Who goes to summer school anyway? The whole point of college is to have the summer off to party. It's bad enough they ruin the rest of the year with it."

"All play and no work make a dull boy completely gay," I say in an awkward attempt to create a rhyme.

"There's no place in the Hampton's for your middle class humor. Put that shit down and enjoy yourself. Mix a drink. Splash a little vodka in that orange juice. Get drunk."

"You're not getting drunk," I counter.

"I have to sober up first," he says through a wry smile.

"I have papers due," I say, "and midterms coming up."

"Whatever."

It's true, of course, but at this moment studying is a pretense to cover the fact that I want to write, need to write, must write. The oddities of Hamptons culture demand to be recorded as they happen. A video camera would be too obvious and in poor taste, for sure, not that I'd trust it to handle the job properly. Words are better and if not better certainly more fun.

"I introduced you to Skippy last night. Don't you remember?" Derek says.

I remember. Last night we attended the wild F. Scott Fitzgerald party at the mansion to our right. Derek had introduced me to dozens of people, not one of whom I remember now except Skippy. I recall a boatload of prep school names like Clifford, Nobby, Biff, Chasworth, Denholm, Alton and Littleford. All were used as first names and all sounded like nicknames, surnames or the names of English villages. At the moment I can't match any name to a face. Except hers.

"No," I lie, not wanting Derek to know I met her. Skippy.

"You really should remember these people if you're going to become a lawyer, Martin. They'll be great connections in the future. Monied connections. Big money."

I say nothing. Derek sighs a condescending sigh.

"Skippy is the wallflower who lives next door," he says. "She's eighteen, flat-chested and thin as a rail. I thought she'd grow breasts, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. No real surprise there: her mom's melons are fake. All you need to know about Skippy is that she lacks any redeeming social qualities for a girl her age. Wants to become a latter day Jacques Cousteau and study the oceans, for God's sake. Probably anorexic and lesbian. There she is now."

Once again I glance at Derek in amazement. All along I've been writing in a cryptic shorthand only I understand, but I swear to you he hadn't lifted or turned his head to look, still flat on his back on the chaise. If he did open his eyes he'd see blue skies and white fluffy clouds racing by on the sea breeze above. How does he do that?

"Don't look, Martin," he hisses, as if they could hear us a hundred feet away. "Never let them see you look."

I turn my head in time to see Skippy walk the last few paces of lawn before trotting down the steps of their seawall to join her mother and aunts, spreading a beach towel on a chaise of her own. Derek sees my movement and scolds. Again I glance at his eyes under Gucci sunglasses and find them closed. Is he watching me? Did he hear my head turn? Or does he have some sixth sense about Hampton neophytes like myself? And why is he suddenly telling me not to look?

Skippy, I should note, wears a modest two piece suit, bucking the buck nekkid trend of the older women of her family. Is it because she's not allowed to bathe nude? Is she too young? Is it modesty? Or does she still have the self respect of a normal person? I wonder what Derek knows. For purposes of entertainment, I really, really want to know his opinion on the matter, but bite my tongue.

"I remember her," I say, not wanting to get caught in a lie. "From last night. We spoke."

"But not her name, apparently," Derek replies. "Will you please stop looking at them?"

"I'm not looking at them," I reply, "I'm looking at you. How could they possibly know the difference? They're two hundred feet away."

"They know," Derek says. "Believe me. And it's a hundred feet."

"Aren't you being a bit paranoid?" I say.

"The Hamptons run on paranoia. The whole world does out here."

"That's ridiculous," I say. "Are you really worried what they might be thinking when I look over at you like this? While we talk?"

"They know you're checking them out, Martin."

"And they're checking us out, too—all four of them have looked at us. Multiple times. They looked at us when they first walked out of the surf."

"That's because you looked, Martin."

"No it isn't. They just looked at us again when they greeted Skippy. Besides, I keep turning back to my work here. It's not like it's anyone's business."

"You're embarrassing me, man."

"What do you want me to do? Eyes front and center out over the ocean? Rigid sunbathing in one position with eyes closed? Bury my face in a book and keep it there?"

"It'd be start, thank you."

"Fine," I say, looking back to this very page, writing furiously to catch up.

Derek sighs beneath sunglasses.

"You don't understand my world, Martin. These people gossip. Maliciously and with intent to wound. Tomorrow you go back to the city. I have to live with these people."

"Skippy is a nickname, you know," I say, ignoring his plea and changing the subject at the same time. "Her real name is Cynthia."

Derek's head swivels at that, looking up at me with what I can only describe as daggers.

"How do you know that?"

"I told you. She and I spoke at the party last night."

"When?"

"After you disappeared. I wandered around and found her sitting alone. Where were you anyway?"

"I snuck off for a private interlude. One of the Butterworth boys let me give it to him. God he was tight. No matter how much he tried to relax he could not stop squeezing as hard as he could."

"Tell me you used a condom."

"I used three," Derek replies, smiling wickedly. "He could not get enough. Swim team body, great kisser. I think he has a crush on me."

"You're unbelievable," I say.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," he says, flashing the sly little seductive grin I've watched him use before. He pauses a moment before adding: "Want to?"

"No," I reply. "I have no desire to have anything thrust repeatedly up my butt, least of all your throbbing member."

"No," he says, lowering his voice, "I mean you do me."

"You've said a million times you only give it."

"I could make an exception," he says, his voice even lower, his face dead earnest.

"You have a girlfriend, Derek."

"So do you, Martin."

"You know the answer is no," I say. "That's not going to change."

"Did I give you a hard-on?" he teases, cracking the sly grin again.

"No, but Cynthia's mom gave me half a stump when she walked out of the ocean. What a babe."

Derek makes a face at this, pretends to pout, then closes his eyes. It's not the first time I've been caught in the cross hairs of his raging bisexuality and it won't be the last. Nor is it the first time I've said no. I'm just glad he's never made a physical pass, which would seriously jeopardize our friendship.

While naked sunbathing women have given me a rise, it remains hidden in baggy swim trunks covered by this open notebook, but Derek is fully erect in a tiny Speedo and making no attempt to hide it. Is it the memory of the Butterworth boy last night or the idea of doing it with me?

"I think you're lying to me, Martin. I think you've got a ripping huge bone seething in your shorts at the thought of fucking me."

"Sorry," I say, looking over him towards the women. "It's naked mom."

"Will you stop looking at them?"

I don't understand why he's so rigidly frightened that his neighbors might know I see them when they swim and sunbathe openly in the nude.

"What are you writing?" he says in a demanding tone.

"Here," I say, dropping a folded towel over his Speedo. "Company."

His head snaps away from me in time to see Mrs. Baldwin stuff the rest of her magnificent rack into a red bikini top as she approaches across the sand above the high tide mark. Beside her walks her tall, thin daughter Cynthia, or Skippy as Derek calls her. I got to know her well enough last night to learn she was kind and unpretentious, insisting that I call her Cindy. I also learned that Skippy was a derisive nickname she loathed.

Here my story switches to past tense. As mother and daughter approached, I had to stop writing to get up and greet them, but even before that I was laughing so hard at Derek's predicament I could no longer write. He got so horny remembering his sexual encounter from the previous night that he let down his guard, allowing the women to get within fifty feet before I warned him.

"Oh shit," he whispered, starting then stopping to adjust the towel I had dropped over the long lump in his trunks, its material so tight and thin that little was left to the imagination.

"Relax," I said, still laughing. He chuckled, but it was a forced laugh, a pretentious act for his approaching neighbors, as if we had just shared some joke together. Twerp.

Mrs. Baldwin flashed a brilliant smile at us—two twenty year-old college boys lounging on chaises. I did some quick math and determined she was eighteen years older than I and must have been about my age when she gave birth to Cindy. An air of youth and vivaciousness surrounded Mrs. B. like an golden aura, her tanned body perfectly sculpted by daily workouts in the gym, close watch on her diet and, as I would soon learn, long runs on the beach. Even in bare feet on the sand there was a definite spring in her step. She could easily pass for a woman ten years younger.

Moving books off my lap, I stood to greet mother and daughter, demonstrating to Derek that I had no ripping erection in my trunks, not even half a stump. Standing also put pressure on Derek to stand and greet the ladies, but he stayed put with the towel over his Speedo.

Introductions.

"Good morning," I said, extending a hand to Mrs. Baldwin. "My name is Martin."

"Good morning, Martin," she replied, taking my hand, her smile spreading even larger and warmer as she looked up at me. "My, you are tall, aren't you? I'm Sonja Baldwin, Cynthia's mother. Good morning, Derek."

"Morning Mrs. B., Skippy," Derek replied, lifting his head off the chaise for a second before lowering it again and waving an arm at me. "This is my friend Martin White."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. White."

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Baldwin," I said. "Hello, Cynthia. How are you this morning? I like your swimsuit."

"I'm fine, thanks," she smiled. "Didn't I tell you he's a gentleman, mother?"

"Yes she did," Mrs. B. replied, addressing me and making the limited kind of eye contact allowed by sunglasses. "Cynthia tells me you escorted her home from the party at the Barker's last night. I wanted to thank you for seeing to her safety."

"Mother..."

"It's nothing," I said. "You have a charming daughter. I can see where she gets her good looks and beautiful smile."

Derek flinched at this. Had I crossed some invisible line or class barrier where young men do not compliment older women on their appearance? I didn't care. In my opinion, Cindy was a beautiful young woman and it was polite to compliment both mother and daughter on their good looks, even if I wasn't worthy to clean their toilets. Mrs. Baldwin's eyes flickered over me for a moment.

"My daughter can't stop talking about you, Mr. White. You've made quite an impression. Now I know why."

"Mother. Please."

"You're very kind. Would you like to join us?" I offered. "There's fresh orange juice and-"

"No thank you," Mrs. B. replied. "We won't interrupt you further. Cynthia wanted to introduce us and I wanted to thank you for looking after her last night. Sometimes those parties at the Barker's get a little out of control."

I remembered loud music, lines of coke being snorted, tabs of E being ingested, massive amounts of binge drinking, plenty of pot and hash being smoked, couples making out, and people passed out everywhere. "A little out of control" was the understatement of the year. Somehow I doubt F. Scott ever threw such a party.

Cindy and I exchanged smiles again. I wondered how much she had told her mother.

"I understand you're a student at Fordham with Derek," Mrs. Baldwin said.

"Yes, that's right."

Deeply embarrassed that he attended Fordham instead of an Ivy League school, Derek shifted a little and suddenly a flavor of Evelyn Waugh invaded the F. Scott Fitzgerald/John Cheever scene on this beach in the Hamptons: Derek's family was Anglo-Catholic, his father a wealthy Fordham alum. Very wealthy.

"Studying history?" Mrs. B. added.

"History and political science. I'm pre-law."

"Just like Derek. That's what Cynthia tells me. What area of law do you intend to pursue?"

"Constitutional law, though corporate law is appealing."

"And you have a girlfriend studying abroad?"

I could see that Cindy had filled in her mother. More importantly, Mrs. B. was telling me she knew what Cindy knew. Well, hopefully not everything.

"Yes," I replied, "also named Cynthia. She's doing a summer semester at the Sorbonne in Paris."

"And what do your parents do?"

Derek stopped breathing. Cindy hadn't asked the night before. This was a familial wealth/class assessment by an elder, but I didn't hesitate.

"Mom teaches grade school in Brooklyn and dad is an Amtrak engineer on the Northeast Corridor."

"What's that?" Cindy asked.

"He's a locomotive engineer," I replied. "He drives passenger trains."

"Oh."

Oh. A pause opened in the air between us as if I had committed social suicide by admitting that my family didn't come from money. Content with my circumstances, I loved to watch the discomfort of the obscenely riche with people who worked for a living. It fascinated me because I knew then as I know now that Sonja Baldwin was afraid of me, the same way Derek was afraid, the same way I am afraid of people who are poorer than I. It's the same ridiculous prejudice, isn't it? Life must be difficult for them compared to me and they must be unhappy because of it, right?

Right. The only person there who wasn't afraid of me was Cindy. No surprise there.

"That sounds like fun," Cindy replied, her enthusiasm filling the pause.

"He enjoys it," I smiled.

Another silence split the air as if they could not understand how people who worked for a living could possibly enjoy their work.

"Well it was nice to meet you young man," Mrs. B. said.

There it was. Patronage to a person of lower socioeconomic class. No longer was I "Martin" or "Mr. White," but "young man." My smiled broadened as I suppressed laughter.

"Likewise," I replied.

"Derek."

"Mrs. B."

"Come on, Cynthia, we've disturbed these two long enough."

"Okay. Thanks again, Martin," Cindy said. "See you later."

"Bye Cynthia."

Shortly after Cindy and her mother returned the chaise lounges on their side of the beach, the other nude Baldwin women pulled on their swimsuits.

Chapter Two

"Why did you say that?" Derek hissed.

"What would you have me do?" I replied. "Make up a story? Tell them my family comes from old money?"

"It'd be a start."

"It'd take five minutes on the Internet to discover it's not true."

"They aren't smart enough to do that. They don't even care enough to do that. All these people care about is whether you come from money. They don't care if you lie about it. Everyone lies about money here. Every year some family goes broke and has to sell out and we find out their fortune was a house of cards, even old families."

I poured myself another orange juice. Derek's live-in Honduran housekeeper who smiled at me too much and chattered in broken Spanglish had squeezed it from premium California valencia oranges which had been flown in overnight. It tasted every bit the freshest I had ever had.

"Oh my God," Derek announced. "You fucked Skippy last night, didn't you?"

"Of course not," I said. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You did! You screwed Skippy, didn't you? What'd you do, play pin-the-wallflower-to-the-wall or something?"

"I did no such thing. She's sweet on one of the Barker boys, but he had passed out at the party or something."

"No, he was upstairs banging his girlfriend. He's not interested in Skippy and she's a pest, never leaving him alone. Pathetic bitch. She probably waited outside the bedroom door while they did it. It's a wonder she even showed up. It's beyond me how she can even show her face anymore."

"So it's unrequited. Have a little compassion."

"Whatever," he said. "If you didn't shag her, what did you do all night?"