The February Featured Writer is Betty Dravis

Please feel free to contact Betty at: bettydravis@gmail.com

V.O.

by Betty Dravis

Charles Hudson tuned out his peers at the Bankers Club as they wove fantasies about their vacations. Can’t tell them about mine––sworn to secrecy, he thought. Nursing his Kentucky bourbon, he stared into a distance only he could see. Visions of a willowy, silky-haired senorita with flashing eyes as dark as a raven's wing undulated through his mind. A handsome senor, muscular and sleek, slithered around the girl in a sensual dance.

The dazzling couple had performed so flawlessly, Charles’s wife, Barbara, had gushed, “Oh-h, Chazz––they’re better than Fred and Ginger.”

Thinking back, the banker heaved a heavy sigh, then closed his eyes. His nostrils flared and his lips curved into a pensive smile as his mind’s eye savored the otherworldly flavor of the tender, succulent meat they had been served. He would have given a year’s salary for another meal like that. V.O., they had said. Had that meant the secret ingredient was Seagram’s? Charles doubted it. His wife had tried marinating beef in Seagram's since they returned home, and it definitely had not worked.

Lost in reverie, Charles never noticed his old friend, Walter Bradley, hobble up beside him––even when the rapidly-aging man groaned as he lowered himself to the tapestry-covered ottoman at Charles's feet.

Walter gazed at his friend's rapt features, then tugged at his pantleg. “Day-dreaming about those exotic senoritas you met on vacation, Chazz-ma-Tazz?”

“Wh-What?” Like a startled adolescent caught in his bedroom with a "girly" magazine, Charles’s eyes flew open. When his confused gaze met his friend’s, he drew back.

Puzzlement shadowed Walter’s deep-set blue eyes as he said, “Jesus, you look alarmingly healthy––at least twenty years younger. After your cruise, you and Barbara both looked fantastic––sort of like Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward––but now ...”

His words tapered off as his eyes raked his friend, appraising him objectively. Noting the new brightness in Charles’s hazel eyes, the lack of spectacles and of gray in his full head of thick brown hair, he asked, “Wearing contacts––hair transplant––or did you discover the fountain of youth?”

“Something like the latter,” Charles replied seriously, his eyes glazing over once again. “But you should see Barb now, Walt. I might not be an Elvis, but she’s a regular Marilyn Monroe... and ... and she’s pregnant.” A look of bewilderment flitted through Charles’s eyes, replaced abruptly by a proud, boyish grin.

At that shocking news, Walter's mouth formed a large O. “B-But ... that’s impossible–– you’re both in your sixties,” he stammered.

Since Walter was known for his skill at negotiating with large conglomerates, Charles was amused to see his fluent, affluent friend at a loss for words. “Ever since Barb and I returned from our Caribbean cruise, I’ve been debating telling you about our fabulous adventure, but was sworn to secrecy. You see, old boy, only members of a very secret, select group are invited to participate. And, since you’re so much like me––same spirit of adventure, you know?––I'd like “V.O.” to sponsor you. It might help your arthritis too. But it is expensive––twenty grand for you, twenty for Evie––and strict conditions.”

“I'd pay ten times that to get rid of this,” Walter said, moaning as he briskly rubbed his sore, inflamed hip.

Charles nodded, then defined the conditions: “First, you must swear never to reveal what I tell you to anyone but Evie and the couple you’ll later sponsor; second, your wife must accompany you on the cruise; and, third, it's absolutely imperative to follow instructions carefully. If you want my sponsorship, then I can tell you what happened to me and Barb––but you'll never believe it until it happens to you.

“Uh ... there’s one more thing––the cruise must be this summer. Only two couples are selected each year––one for the summer cruise, one for the autumn.”

When Walter gave a look of suspicious bewilderment, then opened his mouth to speak, Charles leaped from his chair, clipped him playfully on the chin, and said, “Not another word, old friend!” Glancing at the other bankers from the corner of his eye, his voice crackled with excitement as he whispered, “What I'm about to reveal would cause a stampede to the nearest travel agent, so let’s talk in the library.”

After they were comfortably seated in forest-green leather chairs beside the crackling fireplace, their drinks on the table before them, Charles said, “Although I wouldn’t trade the incredible dining experience in Mexico for all the beef in Texas, you have one last chance to change your mind. While I think the adventure is, in some inexplicable way, responsible for rolling back the years for me and Barb, there are a few minor inconveniences. One of them is that our youthful appearance and superior strength is causing a stir among our friends and the medical community. Since we don’t wish to be probed or waste time guesting talk shows, we’re thinking of relocating where no one knows us.”

“But ... but it’ll be hard to start over again at your ages,” Walter said, momentarily forgetting his friend’s new virility.

Charles’s jaw twitched and his hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “Look at me and say that again––now are you in or not?”

His friend’s brusqueness surprised Walter, but he mentally weighed the advantages of recapturing his lost youth––and his health––against the inconvenience of relocating his home.

Eagerly, greedily, he bobbed his head up and down. He reminded Charles of a Hawaiian hula-doll that once jiggled on his old Studebaker dashboard. He grinned, showing a perfect row of brilliant white teeth.

“And one more minor thing,” Charles said, “when you return from your cruise, food will taste bland for a while, but your appetite will soon return––a good old prime rib will still be a good old prime rib.”

Thoroughly intrigued, Walter steepled his gnarled fingers and assumed a judicial expression as he leaned forward in anticipation.

“Well,” Charles began, with a sweeping gesture around the room, “it started last year in this very room when another banker––my sponsor––swore me to secrecy and told me the same story I’m about to tell you. After talking to him, Barb and I took the cruise post haste––fortieth wedding anniversary, you know.

“As we were leaving the ship in Ensenada for a day in Mexico, I summoned the captain and showed him a special card the banker had given me.” As he spoke, Charles retrieved a blood-red, business-sized card from his wallet and placed it on the table. Walter eyed the card so keenly––trying to read it from a distance––that Charles said, “Later, Walt. Hear me out first. Well, the captain removed his hat, wiped perspiration from his dark, weathered brow, then repeated the instructions my sponsor had given me.

"As directed, I hired a driver to take us to the rural restaurant my sponsor had described as the most fabulous dining experience on earth––‘the highlight of your lives.’ He went on to tell me it was 'an offering from God. Well worth forty big ones––and more.’

“Barb and I had already seen how fabulous our sponsor had looked after his cruise, so–– hang the expense––we even gave the captain a thousand-dollar tip.

“As our driver pulled onto the long gravel road leading to the restaurant, the first thing we saw was a humble church on a hillside above a dilapidated building––a tan stucco hacienda structure, with no markings whatsoever indicating it was a dining establishment.

“When we alighted, movement caught our eyes and we gazed towards the church where six brightly-dressed young couples strolled hand in hand down a cobblestone path. From that distance they resembled vivid, colorful flowers swaying in the dusky breeze, brightening the otherwise drab, dusty landscape with bursts of brilliant color.”

When Walter rolled his eyes and shook his head, Charles said, “I know––I know.... I tend to get descriptive, but just wait––you’ll see.”

Walter disregarded the bemused, faraway look in his friend’s eyes, but could not ignore his hoarseness. So he rattled the ice-cubes around his empty glass––summoning the waiter for another round––and a few swallows later, Charles nervously toyed with the red card, then continued: “After the couples disappeared behind the building, we entered the front where the maitre de––a tall, raw-boned man with a big-toothed grin and mirthful crinkles around his eyes––greeted us. He was dressed to the nines in an immaculate black tuxedo––top hat, white silk scarf, and all. After a minor adjustment to his gold hoop earrings, he bowed deeply, introduced himself as Hernando, and led us through a pink marble-tiled foyer to the dining room.

"To make a long story short, the decor was perfection––soft Persian rugs, crystal chandeliers, luxurious silk drapes. And ours was the only table in the twelve by thirty room; it was covered with a white Battenberg lace cloth, flanked by two tapestry-covered throne chairs, and set with Baccarat crystal, Limoges china, and heavy gold cutlery.

“Since the exterior of the restaurant was so plain, Barb and I were stunned by the sheer elegance of the interior; it was even more luxurious than the European restaurants we’ve visited. ‘Must be Hernando’s Hideaway,' Barb quipped, as we breathlessly collapsed onto the rare antique chairs.

“But that was only the beginning, old boy. Hernando bowed regally from the waist, then snapped his long, bony fingers, and a mauve silk curtain about twenty feet from our table parted, revealing the lovely young couples we’d glimpsed outside. As they strutted towards us, more beautiful young people filed in behind them, remained in place, and began playing the most unusual music we’d ever heard. A quartet of men blew into some type of home-made wind instruments, others played violins, and the women clicked castanets.

"The six couples portrayed an air of serenity quite rare in youngsters these days; their broad, genuine smiles remained fixed, and their laughing eyes looked steadily at us––as though searching into our souls. While the men centered on Barb, the women on me, their direct, honest gazes unnerved me. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Barb, too, was bothered.”

Charles paused for a moment to see if Walter––who had interrupted several times earlier––was following his monologue. Satisfied that his friend was enthralled––eager to hear more––Charles took a long, thirsty gulp of V.O. and picked up where he'd left off: “Hernando directed the couples, parading them before us as though they were auditioning for a movie. Then he insisted that I choose one senorita and that Barb choose a senor. They were all perfect, but I scrutinized them closely, thinking, This is ridiculous! I’m not choosing a wife––just a waitress. But I finally settled on Juanita; although all were exquisitely formed, she was more voluptuous and radiated a seductive kind of impish innocence.

“After Barb selected Juan––she later told me she’d chosen him because he and Juanita seemed to be a ‘matched pair’––the couple began dancing. Juanita wore a high-necked, long-sleeved, floor-length gown of vibrant green satin with side-slits and a minimum of white ruffles, while Juan wore a white tuxedo over a white ruffled shirt, accessorized by a green satin cummerbund and matching long scarf. Though the costumes covered them from neck to toe, they hugged their tight, tantalizing bodies like second skins.”

When Charles said that, Walter let loose a loud, raucous roar, causing a sedate, silver-haired man at an adjacent table to glare at them with distaste. “Jesus, Chazz,” Walter muttered, “you’re even beginning to talk like a young man.”

Charles snorted disdainfully at his friend, then absently finger-combed his thick, wavy hair and resumed speaking: “Yes––certainly––I might sound flip about it, but it was a marvelous, magical evening.

As the wondrous couple danced, they still played to us––and us alone. Their movements were so perfectly symmetrical they moved as one, yet––at the same time––Juan seemed to move to a silent melody orchestrated by Barb, while Juanita was perfectly attuned to me.

“Accompanied by the haunting melody of the primitive music, the performance was mesmerizing. The stunning dark dancers defy description––a magical blend of innocence and sensuality in one dynamite package all tied up with our quivering heart-strings. I felt an aching in my heart––and in my groin––and became aware that the couple was having the same disturbing affect on my wife. We were enchanted.

“Following the mysterious power of their dance, Juanita and Juan separated, she coming directly to me, staring intently into my eyes, then prostrating herself before me as though I were God. Juan did the same to Barb. It was only the recollection of the innocence in Juanita’s flashing eyes that restrained me from jumping her bones while she was helpless on the floor. Barb felt the same about Juan.

“Because of our advanced age and usually staid natures, Barb and I were highly embarrassed. To tell the truth, we were so unsettled we wriggled uncomfortably on our seats. But the spell was momentarily broken when the beautiful couple served our meal––until they started hand- and spoon-feeding us in the most erotic demonstration of servitude I have ever encountered.

“Looking back, I can’t believe that Barb and I––practical conservatives––went along with it, but it was impossible to deny Juanita and Juan anything. It was as though they were sorcerers who had cast a spell on us. They served the drinks, appetizer, soup, and salad in that same intimate way, and it was the most mouth-watering food we’ve ever eaten. With each bite, Barb and I became more vitally alive. And I swear, Walt ... You won't believe this, but I saw the deep wrinkles around my wife's mouth plump out right before my eyes.

“When we asked about the recipes, they explained that everything was liberally sprinkled, cooked, or laced with a secret ingredient called V.O., but would tell us nothing more. When I hinted at it being Seagram’s V.O., Juanita’s eyes met Juan’s and a gentle, knowing look passed between them. After replenishing our drinks, they explained that they were needed in the kitchen to help prepare the main entree, so while we waited, another couple––Carla and Carlos––danced for us.

“We never saw Juanita and Juan again.

“To our disappointment, Carla and Carlos served the main entree, and when we asked about Juanita and Juan, Carla pointed to my entree, stating, ‘Compliments of Juanita.’

“Carlos spoke to Barb, saying, ‘Compliments of Juan.’ Then when I tasted the first morsel of that exotic meat––whatever it was––so help me God, old boy, every bite was more satisfying and delicious than nibbling on the succulent, sweet breast of a hot-blooded lover. My loins began to ache.”

Walter’s eyebrows shot to his hairline as he hooted. Then: “Barb been reading those romance novels again?”

In reply, Charles shrugged his shoulders, shot his friend a drop-dead look, and continued: “Laugh while you can, Walt, but that was the most sensual, arousing experience––incredible! Sure beat the hell out of my most erotic fantasies. Neither Barb nor I could bear to leave one morsel of that heavenly food, and it took all our restraint not to ravish each other right then.

“Later––en route back to the ship––we necked like teen-agers on the back-seat of that dilapidated old taxi ... to the amusement of our driver. And once back aboard ship, we sprinted to our cabin and ravished each other shamelessly. And, except to dine, we bounced around the bed for the rest of the cruise.

“Hell, Walt, we were a couple who had slept in twin beds the previous five years, but now we’re growing younger and have a to-die-for sexual relationship. Now do you understand why I want to sponsor you? If for nothing else, to get rid of your arthritis.”

As Charles finished the tale, Walter gaped in stunned silence. Rubbing absently at his swollen, deformed knuckles, he finally said, “Unbelievable! That’s a lot to digest––but Evie and I will be on that cruise before they can say, ‘Dinner’s served.’”

Charles chuckled as he handed Walter the red card that read:

PRIVATE DINING EXPERIENCE for V.O.* CLUB MEMBERS ONLY
*V.O., an exotic offering guaranteed to add years to your life and zest to your sex life

Five weeks later, Charles drummed the fingers of one hand on the back of the other while waiting in the Club library for Walter. When he spotted his friend making his way through the lobby, he frowned on noticing a hesitancy in his step, then Charles flashed a dazzling white smile upon seeing he no longer limped.

As the old friends shook hands, Charles rejoiced at the long, elegant fingers enmeshed in his own. “God, Walt, you look wonderful––arthritis no longer bothering you, I see.”

A sudden bleakness washed over Walter’s aristocratic, now-youthful features as he dropped into an adjacent chair and held out his hands for Charles's inspection. But a worried frown creased his tanned forehead when he looked at Charles through hooded eyes. “But at what price, old friend––what price? The mysterious ingredient was on the back of the card all along.”

Alarm evident on his boyish features, Charles reached out, snatched the card, turned it over, and read:

V.O.
(virgin offering)

As the truth dawned on Charles, he felt the bile rising up in his throat. Oh-h, my God––they’ve turned us into cannibals! A chill skittered up his spine––like hundreds of red ants. “Poor Juanita. ... Poor Juan. ...” he muttered.

Charles leaned forward, dropping his head to his hands. As he briskly rubbed his forehead in an effort to ease the tension, he said, “Jesus ... God ... Why’d they do it, Walt? Why?”

“Anxious to serve us, I suppose,” Walter answered dryly, but his eyes were haunted by inner pain.

“Who ... Who did you choose?”

Walter blew out air through clenched teeth in an expression of his frustration. “Carla and Carlos.” He pounded a fist on the table, then: “Damn it––they’re conditioned from birth for that ancient Aztec religious rite!”

Charles sucked in his breath. “Are you ... you going to pass the card on––to sponsor someone else?”

“I have a few months to think about it, but who am I to interfere with anyone’s religion?” Walter's voice was filled with sarcasm, his face twisted in anguish.

The question needed no immediate answer, so––as they stared into a distance only they could see––the bankers thought about their good fortune at the young people's expense. They could not comprehend why those magnificent couples had given their lives for them; the altruistic deed tormented them.

Tears stung their eyes as they ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels, then toasted their benefactors.

It was a good day to get drunk.

Betty Dravis is a retired, award-winning California journalist and newspaper publisher who also hosted a Cable TV talk show. She was listed in several Who's Who books, is an honorary Kentucky Colonel, an esteemed "Dame of Dialogue," a member of American Author's Association, former member of Sigma Delta Chi and San Jose Newspaper Guild. She is the recipient of many California awards, including city, county and state and was a San Jose Woman of Achievement.

Betty is also working to promote Stem Cell Research, along with her daughter Mindy James whose son Seth suffered a spinal cord injury in a motocross practice race. Read Seth's story on the Internet at Bridges to Hope.

Dravis was born in Ohio, but is a long-time California resident. She has four surviving children, two angels in Heaven, nine grandchildren, four "greats" and a great-great granddaughter. The author now lives in Central California where she's working on her first serial-killer thriller.

Another of Dravis's favorite things is interviewing celebrities; among those she has interviewed are the "living legend" actor/director/producer Clint Eastwood, country singer/actress Tanya Tucker, the late actress Jane Russell, the late Senator Ted Kennedy, Tanya Tucker, Bryant McGill, author and founder of the Good Will Peace Treaty, actresses/singers Jenny McShane and  Katherin Kovin Pacin, actor/producer/director Tony Tarantino and many more...the list keeps growing.

Of writing, Betty always says, "It's exhilarating––like sliding down a rainbow with a huge smile on my face, filled with love for the whole of God's magnificent creation." She laughs as she adds: "Yeah...and marketing is like trudging through a field of 'chewed' bubblegum on a hot, sticky day."

What others have said about Betty:

"Betty Dravis is a fantastic mix of Shirley Jackson, Edna Buchanan and Janis Joplin. Don't ask me how I came up with that unlikely comparison––I just feel it, and I haven't been drinking much tonight...." - Mark LaFlamme, author of "Dirt: An American Campaign", Box of Lies and more.

"Betty Dravis's ability to present real people, places, and things in the midst of a fantasy story is very close to what I strive for in my own writings. Characters with last names and problems who live in real places, but still have fantastical things happen to them, make for a wonderful story. "The Toonies Invade Silicon Valley" is truly a modern "James and the Giant Peach" or "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" kind of tale." - J. H. Sweet, author of The Fairy Chronicles.

Betty Dravis also has a number of published short stories and writes reviews for Midwest Book Reviews and is an Amazon top reviewer. For more information visit: www.bettydravis.com