Guest Services

This Summer Lovin' submission involves fun, consensual sex between a 30-something man and a 40-something woman. Enjoy!

"Good morning, Loon Lodgers! It's another beautiful morning, so let's get to it!

Our Little Loonies program will begin in ten minutes at the Crafts Building! Kids, don't forget to bring your bracelets or keychains if you didn't finish them yesterday. All you teenagers out there, come and join us for some tubing or water skiing in our Water Loonatics program! We'll meet down at the docks at 10:00 am. And for all of you older Loonies, the ping pong tournament will begin at 10:30! Don't miss out!

That's all for now, folks! We'll be back after lunch to tell you all about our afternoon activities! Have a fantastic Loon Lodge morning!"

Shut. The fuck. Up, I think to myself, and pull my baseball cap down further over my eyes.

I can't believe I am still here. Day three of this utter insanity. I have never felt less comfortable, less like I belonged anywhere. This morning I looked at my clothes, packed away in drawers that are not mine, in a cabin that is far too big for one person, and considered chucking everything in my car and just leaving. But my sister will be heartbroken if I leave.

She never could have talked me into coming here under any other circumstances. It has been a terrible year. I was lucky enough to keep my job during the pandemic, but I love my coworkers, and working from home has taken all of the fun out of the job. Even worse the pandemic proved to be the last nail in the coffin of my marriage; James had walked out of my life eight months ago. It had taken me by surprise; I knew we were not happy, but I had assumed we would continue to move forward, continue to at least try.

What had taken me even more by surprise was the woman who was eagerly waiting for him to move out of my embrace and into hers. Younger, of course; perkier of course. Brunette, like me, but unlike me, the pandemic hadn't revealed two newly grey streaks of hair cascading from her temples.

At the time, I was embarrassed by it. I felt too young to be going grey. I'm only forty-two, I thought, despairing. But that's the thing about ageing. It doesn't matter if you feel ready for it or not; the grey hairs come just the same.

James said he didn't mind the hair. "It's cool. You look kind of like Elsa Lancaster... you know, from 'The Bride of Frankenstein'?" Then he laughed. He didn't have a single grey hair yet, despite the fact that he was seven years older than me. "Honestly, you should just let it grow in. It looks good. You can't go to the hairdresser anyway. It doesn't matter."

Of course it didn't matter. Why would it matter that I couldn't hide my own aging when he knew very well that he had a younger, perkier, shinier-haired girl with not a grey in sight, waiting patiently in the wings for him to make his escape?

That's probably unfair. Of course our marriage had problems, and I can't hold him responsible for all of them. But whatever. Like he said, it doesn't matter. I am alone and unhappy and he is gone and I can be as narrow-minded and unreasonable as I want to be.

Sandy will be so disappointed when she sees what a failure this experiment has been. I knew that she has been increasingly worried about me since James left, watching me listlessly move through routines, the bags growing darker and darker under my eyes. At the beginning I was washed away by sadness but, day by day, I feel myself retreating further into my flinty coldness, my bitchiness.

Finally, in desperation, she invited me along to her annual family vacation at the resort.

"Come to Loon Lodge with us in August, Julie," she pleaded. We were at her house, doing the dishes. She had been inviting me over for dinner a lot over the past few months. "The girls always end up sleeping in the same bedroom anyway, so we have an extra room in our cabin. They would love to have you there, and so would Mike and I. There's a pool, and a beautiful beach, and activities. And everything's included: food, drinks...well, the non alcoholic drinks are included, booze is extra, of course, but still..." she trailed off, hopefully.

I had been holding it together pretty well for the past few weeks, keeping my snide observations at bay, and not crying in front of anyone. But, at that moment, I thought that I might break down. There was no way I could be at that resort and not pull Sandy down into my churning sadness with me. She must have known that. And yet here she was, supporting me like she always did, opening up her family and her precious vacation time for me to ruin.

"Sandy, you guys don't want me there. Trust me. I'll be the spectre at the feast. I'm not myself right now, and it's not fair to Mike and the kids. Or you, for that matter. I'll just drag everyone down."

She smiled. "Look, Ms. Spectre, I do not plan to let you drag everyone down. I know you're sad, but I'm not just going to let you ruin my vacation, for God's sake. Here's what I'm proposing. You come to the Lodge with us, and we agree that everybody does exactly what they want. There will be no pressure to hang out together. No expectations. The girls will be going to the kids' programming anyway. You don't even need to talk to us. If you want to, you can join us for dinners and the kids will talk our ears off about what they did that day. But if you don't want to hang out with us at all, that's cool too. Just hang out in your room if that's what you need. I'd just like to know that you won't have to be alone if you don't want to be. Please? For me?"

I was wavering. "You promise? No pressure? Because if I'm feeling terrible, I'll just hole up with a book or something. I don't want you trying to convince me to go wakeboarding or bungee jumping or anything ridiculous once I'm there."

Sandy laughed. "They don't even HAVE bungee jumping there, Julie. I'm taking you to a relaxing resort, not SEAL training, you know."

"And Mike's really okay with it?"

"He really is. What do you say? If you're going to be sad, you might as well be sad on a beach. And then at dinner, if you do feel like talking, you can regale us with the tales of your very exciting misery!"

Sandy always knew when she could tease me, even in the darkest situations. She also knew when she had me convinced. I threw a dish towel in her face and even managed a little laugh.

"Okay. I'll go. But don't expect to see much of me that week. I mean it."

Of course, I had no idea then that she wouldn't see any of me this week. On the morning of our trip, Kyla, Sandy's youngest, felt sick and had a fever. Sandy phoned me, frantic with worry, asking if I could buy and drop off groceries for the next few days so that the entire family could quarantine. Mike had taken Kyla to the centre to go and get tested for COVID.

"Promise me you'll still go to the lodge," Sandy had pleaded with me through the screen door, when I brought the boxes of groceries to her house. "You might as well. They'll never refund us on such short notice, and I really think it would do you good. Please? I can't have you over here anyway until we know for sure what's going on."

I agreed, just to calm Sandy down. She was beside herself, and I didn't want her to worry about me on top of everything else. I'd just go. How bad could it be? And when the week was over, I'd surprise her and pay her back for the entire stay. Even if I hated every second of it. She and Mike had certainly done enough for me over the past year to warrant it.

So I dutifully loaded up my car and headed to the Loon Lodge alone. It was only 45 minutes from my house, which is why Sandy chose it in the first place.

From the moment I drove through the front gates, I knew what a mistake I had made. Everything about the resort was geared to happy families. Kids ran to and fro between the pool, the splash pad, the playground, the beach, and a big, barn-like building that probably housed games or crafts or some such thing. Young, Instagram parents waved their fruity cocktails at each other from lounge chairs and cabin porches. All of the signs featured an anthropomorphized loon that looked like he was on speed. Wide-eyed and open-beaked, his wings pointed towards the resort's various amenities, which were listed in a bulbous, cartoonish font. Chipper staff in matching golf shirts and khaki shorts did their best to hide their surprise that a single, forty-something woman was checking into a three bedroom cabin, alone.

They did not hide it well.

"So, it's... just you, checking in?"

I smiled, tightly. "Yep."

"Wow! Good for you!"

I couldn't deny the beauty of the grounds, however. The entire property swelled with mature, magnificent spruce, pine, and sugar maple trees, and their scent was heady and intoxicating. The gardens around the main buildings were stunning; not perfectly trimmed and manicured like some commercial gardens, but rather retaining a wild, unkempt beauty. The long sandy sweep of the beach led to a glinting lake that lapped lazily against the shore.

And, best of all, my cabin was the perfect blend of rustic and luxurious; cedar planking and a stone fireplace gave everything a warm, cosy glow in the afternoon sunlight, and the bed was deep and comfortable. Despite the fact that all of the meals were provided in the main lodge, I had brought enough groceries to last a week, and planned to cook for myself in the tiny kitchenette.

I staggered to and fro from the car to the cabin with my luggage and supplies. As I put my groceries away, I kept checking my phone for messages from Sandy. Nothing yet. I pushed my leaping worries out of my mind.

I'll hide in this cabin all week, I decided. Just lock myself in, away from everyone's prying eyes, then emerge before sunrise next Saturday morning and drive out of the gates again. I'll be the witch of Cabin 8, the mysterious woman who checked in on her own and who was never seen again. Fine by me.

For the rest of the day, I busied myself around the cabin, unpacking my clothes into the dresser in the largest bedroom, and stowing my bags in one of the other bedrooms. I idly read the information about the resort, more for something to do than any real interest. Once everything was in place, I pulled out the copy of Getting Past Your Breakup that Sandy had bought for me last month. I spent the rest of the night reading and rereading the same pages as my mind wandered to Sandy, to poor little Kyla, and to James and his young, beautiful girlfriend. Finally, in frustration, I went to bed.

I awoke at sunrise the next morning, feeling groggy and disoriented. I checked my phone: still no messages from Sandy. Oh God. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? I sent her a quick text.

Is everything ok?

No response.

I got out of bed, made coffee and sat on the sofa. I tried to read again, but I felt trapped and claustrophobic. I tried to read but, once again, I could not focus. I went out on the porch and tried to steady my breathing. It was all wrong, my coming here. What if Sandy's whole family had COVID? They'd need my help, then, surely. What the hell was I doing?

It hasn't even been twenty-four hours, my rational brain tried to assure me. You haven't heard anything because there is nothing to hear. But my emotions were swirling far too quickly for my rational brain to have any real impact.

Finally, at lunchtime, my phone beeped.

Everything's ok. Covid test negative. Seeing doc this aft but we think it's an ear infection.

I exhaled.

Thank God, I texted back. Will you be able to come here after all?

I doubt it. She's in rough shape. Maybe at the end of the week for a day or two?

Damn. After a moment, I texted:

Maybe I should come back? Help you look after her?

There it was. The perfect excuse to leave was within my reach. The little ellipsis on my phone flashed, taunting me as I waited for her reply. Then:

I was hoping you'd say that yes please come I need your help I don't know how I will manage this terrible disease that has befallen my beloved youngest child please god let her live

Then, a rapid pinging as texts flew onto my phone in quick succession:

It is an EAR INFECTION, Julie

It's not tuberculosis

JFC just stay at the damn resort

Do not use this as an excuse to leave

Go to the fucking beach, Julie

I sighed. It was worth a try. I texted:

How do you know I am not at the beach right now?

A moment. Then:

GO TO THE FUCKING BEACH, JULIE.

I couldn't help but laugh. I texted back:

YOU DON'T NEED TO SHOUT, SANDY.

The thing is, she was right. I actually was happier once I got to the beach. The air was fresh and warm, and the rhythmic wash of the waves over the sand was soothing and meditative. Most of all, I was relieved by Sandy's good news. I hadn't let myself realize how truly worried I had been.

The beach was crowded with parents and kids, but I had dragged my lounger into a shaded corner at the edge of the woods, where the sand ended and the carpet of pine needles began. It was easily the least desirable location on the shore, as it was furthest from the water, the snack shack, and the path back to the cabins, but that suited me just fine.

In my sunglasses and baseball cap, I felt almost invisible. I hadn't even bothered to put on a bathing suit; I just wore my most comfortable shorts and t-shirt. I couldn't bear to advertise my sorrow by bringing Getting Past Your Break Up to the beach. Instead, I flipped idly through a magazine and watched people splashing in the surf. I didn't interact with anyone except the girl who gave me a lemonade when I trudged over to the snack shack. After a few hours, I put down my magazine and closed my eyes. My restless night and the warm afternoon sun overcame me.

I'll close my eyes for just a minute, I thought.

It felt like I had just drifted off to sleep when a voice pierced my dream:

"Ma'am? I'm sorry to disturb you but it's five o'clock."

I opened my eyes just enough to see a tall, blurry figure next to my lounge chair.

"What?"

"It's five o'clock. Dinner is being served in the lodge. I just didn't want you to miss it."

I lifted my head and looked groggily around the beach. It was nearly deserted; just a few families remained, packing their things into tote bags. I looked back at the man again and took in his sandy blond hair, his open face and smile. He was probably about ten years younger than me, and his cheerful disposition irked me. He was wearing a ridiculous loon-shaped name tag, and on the outstretched wing was printed Tyler: Guest Services. I laid my head back down and closed my eyes again.

"Tyler, the only people who willingly eat dinner at five o'clock are seven-year olds, grandparents gunning for that sweet, sweet early-bird deal, and psychopaths. I'm good."

I heard a strange sound next to me, a sort of muffled snort. I didn't know if it was laughter or indignation, and I was too sleepy to open my eyes again to see. I didn't care.

"Okay, ma'am. I'll remember that. Have a good night." I heard the soft swish of sandy footsteps walking away.

Hours later, I awoke with a start, panicked. The sun had set, and the beach was deserted. My neck felt stiff from lolling sideways on the lounge chair. I sat up groggily and looked around. All of the other loungers that had been strewn about and occupied all day on the beach had been gathered and neatly stacked about twenty feet away from me. I checked my watch. 8:30. I had been asleep for hours. My toes were chilled, and I pulled them up closer so that I could tuck them under the blanket.

The... blanket?

I had not brought a blanket with me. I sat up and flipped it over, squinting at it. It was a soft blue fleece, plaid on one side, solid navy on the other. Embroidered in the corner were two Ls, with a picture of a loon underneath them. Humiliation washed over me. Someone, probably handsome, sandy-haired Tyler, had covered me up while I slept, as if I were his ailing grandmother. Looking around furtively, I quickly balled up the blanket, shoved it into my bag, and hurried up the darkening paths until I reached my cabin.

I was surprised and disheartened by my embarrassment. I had convinced myself I did not care one bit what anyone thought of me here, and here I was, all flustered and self-conscious. Get over it, I told myself. You ARE the old spinster here. You might as well embrace it.

And that's how I got here. Day three. I almost didn't come back to the beach today. But I forced myself to get my ass out of that cabin. The only thing worse than being embarrassed about last night was my absence showing that guy that I was embarrassed about last night. I even put my bikini on, although I did throw my oversized t-shirt over it. I folded up that damn blanket, dropping it in a housekeeping laundry bin on my way, and marched my ass back down there. I dragged my chair to the same, secluded spot as yesterday, wincing as the loudspeakers blared the customary morning announcements:

"Good morning, Loon Lodgers! It's another beautiful morning, so let's get to it!

Our Little Loonies program will begin in ten minutes at the Crafts Building! Kids, don't forget to bring the bracelets or keychains if you didn't finish them yesterday. All you teenagers out there, come and join us for some tubing or water skiing in our Water Loonatics program! We'll meet down at the docks at 10:00. And for all of you older Loonies, the ping pong tournament will begin at 10:30! Don't miss out!

That's all for now, folks! We'll be back after lunch to tell you all about our afternoon activities! Have a fantastic Loon Lodge morning!"

I don't know how I slept through the loudspeaker announcements yesterday. They are inane and incessant. "Good morning, Loon Lodgers! Time for lunch, Loon Lodgers! Let's hit the shuffleboard, older Loonies!" It's like hearing the drills in the dentist's office. Except you know that, at some point in the day, you'll get to leave.

Yesterday, my relief and fatigue made the beach seem bearable, even idyllic. Today, all of my sadness and anger is rising again in me like bile. The sun feels glaring and hot, the sand burns my feet, and there is noise everywhere. But I have parked my ass in this lounger so that I can tell my sister I spent another day at the beach. Maybe two days of sun will satisfy her. When I call her tonight and say that it's not working out, she'll understand.

At noon, I go back to my cabin and eat lunch and have a little nap. Then I grab my beach bag and trudge right back to the same spot. My lounger is exactly where I left it. It's like I'm punching a clock, I think. Just filling in hours like a factory worker.

I aimlessly flip through the same magazine I read yesterday, then I put it down on my lap and idly watch the others on the beach. I feel twitchy and resentful, and I direct my ire to the fathers in particular. As I study each man with his wife, I wonder if he is sleeping with someone on the side. I watch how the men interact with their wives, whether or not they reach out to touch them on their arms, their backs. I watch their eyes, to see if they wander. Some of them do. But maybe that's natural? There are so many women in bikinis. Or maybe they're all just pigs.

As I look at the couples, I label them based on how long I guess they have left in their marriage. Five years. Six months. It's over already and they are just fooling themselves. I know that what I am doing is further corroding my mood, but I don't care. I want to be angry. It feels good.

I watch the men, one at a time, my eyeline and expression hidden behind my sunglasses. As I study each man, I wonder idly if I could lure him away from his wife. Which man could I pry away from his family? Which man could I bring into my cabin then into my bed?