confessions in a bottle
I was sitting innocently on the beach, minding my own business when a huge wave slung this bottle at me. Luckily it was a plastic coke bottle and not a discarded wine bottle, which could easily have broken my nose. From inside I extracted the following message.
My name is unimportant, you can call me Marion, no wait make that Rhiannon. If I get my choice it may as well be something sexy. I live in a apartment building in New Jersey, Manhattan, but am presently sitting on a beach on a not so deserted island, bored to death. The brochures promised exotic hunks serving pineapple cocktails in front of gorgeous sunsets. Right! The rain started the minute I got off the plane and hasn’t stopped since. As for the hunks, the only male under the age of 60 is Emmanuel and he’s gay. Yes I know my Aunt Sadie claims there is no such thing as a gay man who can’t be fixed if he meets the right girl. Well I tried my best to turn him but he wasn’t having any. Actually he was having too much judging from the smile on Antonio the bartender’s face.
I am desperately in need of a heterosexual member of the opposite sex, under the age of forty forty-five to prove to my Aunt Sadie that I am not destined to a celibate life. So if you answer to this description, even partially, drop over to my hotel, it’s about three hundred yards North of you, along the beach, and ask for… just look for the girl with the pile of empty Coke bottles at her feet.
R
P.S. It is not necessary to return the bottle, I have plenty more.






















