Honey Flava

He stood just inside the doorway trying to process what his senses were relaying to him. His gut reaction was that he should do a 180 and hightail his white ass back to the resort, to the “matrix” of his vacation—staged luaus, palm trees, watered-down mai tais, and lots of chlorine.

His dick had other plans though, and so did the women.

So, against his better judgment, he cleared his throat, officially entered the Wicked Wahine, and slid into what appeared to be an old diner booth—red and cushiony vinyl.

He felt awkward—the bar didn’t give off the vibe of a place of business. He felt more like he was sitting in a stranger’s living room—stared at and uninvited. He needed a drink. Fuck mai tais. Vodka—straight. Heineken chaser. Three of each. Please. Now.

The old woman from behind the

bar shuffled up to his booth. She wore a faded Hawaiian-print muumuu and royal-blue flip-flops. The melody of Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now” (without Tiffany) played out of scratchy speakers. The old woman carried a golden plastic cup filled with ice water in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Her lips were dry, and the deep, vertical wrinkles above her top lip came from decades of pursing themselves around a…smoke?

He suddenly felt a little disoriented. Where exactly was he anyway? Waikapu—he vaguely remembered reading something about this town online somewhere when he was planning his vacation. He got the feeling that whatever he had read wasn’t positive. He just couldn’t…quite remember. Waikapu—didn’t it translate to “forbidden water” or something?

She set the cup in front of him with a clack and a splash.

“You like wash clothes?” she asked him in a raspy voice. Her English was broken. Maybe he misunderstood her. Before he could figure out a polite way to ask her to repeat herself, she broke into a phlegmy cackle, her rheumy eyes watering.

He wanted to leave. He didn’t. When all else fails, request alcohol.

“Vodka?” Everyone knows that word, right?

She gave him a rough pat on the shoulder as if she appreciated that he proved to be so amusing.

“Ne, ne…first you get girl first,” she said as she wiped the tears of laughter from her leathery face.

She called out unintelligible names in her foreign language and shuffled back behind the bar.

Things got strange fast.

One, two, three, four girls slid into the booth next to him.

He was to call them (the women that he would remember years from tonight as “those freaky Asian succubus-whores”) Tammi, Sherilyn, Tina, and Mimi. Of course, these weren’t their real names, but then again at the Wicked Wahine, real names didn’t really matter.

“You buy me drinky?”

“Ne, he buy me drinky!”

“You buy me drinky, yes?”

The women bickered and hissed in their foreign language. He was instantly reminded of beautiful bettas—fighting fish that were exotic, flamboyant, colorful, and deadly.

Fascinated, he became vaguely aware in the background of the faint pitter-patter of raindrops beginning to fall on the aluminum roof overhead.

Slap! Out of nowhere, the old woman put a quick stop to the symphony of alien tongue by shuffling up and striking her dry, open palm onto the tabletop.

His water spilled. The girls watched it rush, then trickle—dripping onto the filthy, slick carpet—the way one watches droplets of blood fall from a pricked finger.

Slap! The old woman did it again. All eyes fell on her.

“Rain!” she hissed, pointing her burning cigarette to the ceiling. “Rain!”

The women murmured excitedly. He felt, with a tad of relief, like he had disappeared. He was invisible to them. He was aware that their attention and harshly whispered dialogue focused on the girl who called herself Tina. Black-haired, kohl-rimmed-almond-eyed, slim-waisted, fleshy-lipped, mounds-of-white-titties-popping-out-of-a-hot-pink-Lycra-halter-top Tina.

She did not look pleased. The rain began to fall harder.

The murmuring in the dark room grew in intensity.

Tina shook her head violently and crossed pale and delicate arms under her bosom. Her jaw suddenly seemed bigger, more masculine. She set it in a firm, tight line that radiated the word no with stubborn finality.