Lavender Palms

by Petr-Johan

24 Jun 2019 1718 readers Score 8.7 (29 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


I've been kidded so often about my going other places for sun and the beach that I wrote this to chide my friends in the East to point out that just maybe, Palau, Mar del Plata and Estoril do have some value over Florida. 

Now in January, it warmed my heart to take a modest revenge on Snow Birds who often fly into storms for which they are not prepared.

PJ,  18 January, 2013

 Lavender Palms


Only love could make Stanley go with his partner, Mort, to a men’s only, clothing optional resort in Florida. Worse, Mort made it clear that when they absolutely had to wear clothes, they would wear matching bathing suits that Mort found online from someplace in Australia that had almost no butt. To dress them up, there were two T shirts which, Mort again, had their initials on their back in about 50 point type face. Stanley was a nice guy, everyone liked him but the sight of him in the nude or, worse, in that bathing suit made it hard to suppress at least a grin if not a guffaw. While he wasn't fat, no, one couldn't say that, he was, well, going toward stout. Yes, definitely stout. In his suits he looked like what he was, a nice guy who was at the top of his game as an accountant  but at the Palms in the suit-which was really worse than nude as it made every curve, every lump more apparent, he would look a fool and he knew it. Mort, on the other hand was rail thin and on more than one occasion had been warned by his doctor that he was getting dangerously more so. He could fit in the skimpiest of clothes but they did nothing for him, other than to make the viewer think he was in the final stages of some disease and couldn't help his thinness. Also, in addition to the nudity and the demeaning clothing choices, Mort went through some sort of retrograde psychology that turned him into the biggest, swishiest queen since....well....it was horrible. Stanley was called “Sweetie Pie” and “Boobala” and, the worst, “Sister” at any moment. Mort could seemingly not resist to raise his cockatoo voice in addressing Stanley and if it weren't for the fact that he was stark naked, he would have lept the high, vision defying fence and happily played in the traffic on nearby I-95. Worse, if that was even a consideration, Mort had booked-and paid for-two whole weeks in advance. Stanley was horrified when he noticed the big drop in their bank account and almost as bad, they were flying First Class, Prima Classe as Mort kept referring to it. Packing for the trip, there was yet another unhappy surprize, Mort had acquired two matching suits of what he called “cruise clothes” just the thing for travel to Florida. Vaguely nautical, vaguely polyester, both were wholly garish and gaudy, Stanley almost refused but there was the money and, after all, they were flying out of Newark so who would see them? Well, everyone as Mort invited to their home for a going away party so he could show the locals what the gentry who traveled well and widely wore. Of course he infinitely explained that they were going first class, that they had a suite at the “Palms”, significantly dropping the “Lavender” part and also that it was for men-presumably gay-only and a part time nudist colony. Even Mort had figured that the gentry didn't stay at single sex places and did keep their clothes on.

The flight attendants were somewhat taken aback by matching apparitions in what looked like fugitive chorus boys from a musical whose theme had to be flowers or, at the very least, pastel. At the airport Stanley bought the biggest sun hat he could find as well as sunglasses that were so deeply tinted that a gang banger in the hood would have been jealous.  Before the door was even closed, Mort had asked for, though not given, a bottle of Champagne, a Magma, he called it which, Stanley thought sounded a bit wrong, but then everything sounded wrong. As he looked out the window into the gloom of a slight fog and mists rising from the Jersey Flats he remembered thirty years ago when he and Mort had been at CCNY studying to be accountants. Stanley wasn't really good looking but he was popular, well regarded, asked home to meet the parents of innumerable young ladies who thought a new husband in a size accountant was about right-failing to snag a doctor or a lawyer in training. He was painfully polite, almost verging on the shy but could keep up a conversation and, thanks to a mother who equated some musical ability with popularity, had forced piano lessons on him. Actually, he was quite good, played easily, made the listener believe he'd played for years. And it was seated one day at the piano bench that Mort sidled onto the remaining space and asked him if he knew Sir Noel Coward's “Mad About the Boy”?

“ Hmmm?”

Apparently Mort's mother had given him the same advice in what to look for in a man. If he couldn't get a doctor or a lawyer…….

The engines were starting which signified only that his journey to hell was about to commence.

Back then, Mort actually was “sort of” good looking in a strangled sort of way. Thin, interestingly dressed in the then popular Eurotrash mode, he'd even grown a pony tail. To Stanley who bought sensible clothes in muted colours Mort looked exotic, different and, unfortunately, interesting for unfortunate reasons. For a long time he'd kept his sexuality in two places; The closet at home and most other places but on view in some local bars that had a gay population featuring, if he was there, Stanley on the piano. He'd met some nice men, men like himself who were either ashamed or embarrassed about what they liked to do in bed and found the young man playing piano to be a good guy, someone they'd almost risk taking home to Mama. But not quite. He'd had some dates with several of them gone to the theatre, had dinners. All of which he had enjoyed but...apart from a few night in a hotel, nothing much. It wasn't that he yearned for picnics in Central Park, or walking hand in hand along the river but he wanted something, well, something a little bit different and then Mort sat down at the piano with him. To Stanley Mort  was different but whether in a good way or a bad way...he couldn't be sure. But it was a whirlwind affair with his father tearing his clothes, a sign his son was dead to him, his mother locked in her bedroom howling to her sister in the Bronx that the world had just ended and that was the end of one kind of domestic life.

The start of the new domesticity with Mort began in a cheap decorator's shop trying to find animal print curtains with a bedspread, towels and pillow shams to match. For the “public rooms” as Mort was wont to call the living room and the eat-in kitchen, he'd  gone all out for Butch and, sadly, caught him. Every piece of furniture was either heavy or leather or both. English copies of copies of hunting prints were on the wall and there was even a fake fireplace, the sort that had some sort of revolving thing in it that was supposed to look like the crackling flame on the family hearth. The actuality fell considerably short of the destination. But Mort loved, loved, loved every bit of it and, for Stanley, it was comfortable, there were enough closets and if Mort was, usually, happy then so what if people who came to visit them seemed a bit taken aback by Le Décor.  

Another part of domesticity was just following his graduation (with honours) and his getting a good job, one that actually paid well enough for them to live comfortably. Mort, after accounting proved to be more than he could master...went to hairdresser school until that didn't work out, was a clerk at several department stores of descending quality, ran a dog walking service, briefly, and, through the years, a suprizingly wide variety of other jobs. Most of them paid something but it was Stanley who provided the basic income that paid for the utilities, food, rent and he did so happily. Mort compensated for his somewhat flighty ways by being spectacular in bed and always willing to drop whatever he was doing and service Stanley in the most intimate and creative ways Time passed. They grew older, Mort grew gayer and Stanley more successful. So much so that when the mention of a vacation in Florida first came up, Stanley was agreeable. The two weeks that were added in were okay although he wondered what they'd do and then....the discovery that Mort had spent over seventeen thousand dollars. Stanley was appalled more so when he found the particulars of what was planned and almost collapsed in embarrassment when he saw the clothes he was expected to wear.

They were abeam Philadelphia when Mort finally got his Champagne, although in a glass. He was bright and wildly cheerful and kept discussing how all this was class, class, class. Mort pulled his sun hat over his face and quietly suggested Mort take the window seat. This was protective of whatever shambles of reputation he had left. Some how a steward realized his dilemma and did make certain that he got good service, a drink, extra ice and that, when it arrived, his meal actually was reasonable. There had been a selection of two things; Meat and the inevitable chicken. The steward tipped him to order neither but opt for the Chef Salad. Mort, of course had the beef, first raising his voice a bit too loud when he pointed out that he'd ordered a “special” Kosher meal for himself. And that's what he got. It looked even less appealing than the special at the local deli but Mort, constantly noting that it was special, seemed to enjoy it while looking with disdain at the Romaine, Spinach and Boston Bibb lettuce, covered with cheese, ham, turkey, bacon and a dressing made right at his seat. And so it went until they touched down in Ft Lauderdale only leaving Stanley to try and figure based on the cost, what the price per minute was that he'd just paid.

Stanley was annoyed that he had forgot to engage a limousine and Lavender Palms did not offer a transfer service. They were forced to make do with a plain old taxi and a driver who, if they'd spoken Spanish, would have known the hysterical if prejudicial things he said about them. Mort had  made it plain that they were headed for that lavish resort, Lavender Palms and the driver, almost cataleptic with laughter could only stutter out, “Si Senor, I know it very well....” As, probably did every other cabbie south of Valdosta, Georgia. Stanley consulted the four colour brochure depicting, with male genitals air brushed for the sake of propriety and to be able to send them through the mail, the lush green, the sparkling pool, the hunks of male meat standing by a poolside bar, some very intimate dancing at what was referred to as “The Pot Luck Spot”.  


Stanley, however, was looking out the window at neighborhoods growing ever shabbier, more fortified with cast iron on every opening and a citizenry that suggested that a walk at night was out of question. And then with no fanfare they rounded a corner and there was a sign, worked in neon, plywood and mind searing paint that announced that THIS was the Lavender Palms. Mort looked up and saw the entrance to Xanadu, Stanley saw the service entrance at a Holiday Inn. There being no port cochere, the driver drove onto the sidewalk, blasted his horn a few times, quoted a fair that represented only how far out of their way they'd been taken, tossed their luggage on the portion of the sidewalk that was the least structurally damaged and hauled ass off, still laughing.

The tall iron gate opened and a ferret faced man of some unusual ethnic background gave them the once over and decided they were “guests of the house”. Mort announced who he was, party of two and that he and his jehu had arrived for some weeks and were to have their things, he gestured at the cheap luggage as if it were steamer trunks marked “not wanted on voyage” brought in then walked toward the entrance. Apparently Casa Lavender Palms didn't let just anybody in as both men had to show a picture ID and then suffered the humiliation of having to haul their own luggage through the passage to LIFE, great quivering nude male chunks of it. A palm rat ran across his semi sandled foot causing him to scream. Slightly. To protect the activities inside, there were a couple of switch backs on the path in to prevent prying eyes from seeing what they shouldn't see.

But Stanley saw it. Clearly; At one point, probably the fifties, Lavender Palms had been an inexpensive motel for the New York City crowd who wanted the sun but not the price that many paid for it. Then, many, many years ago, it was probably a palm frond encrusted vision of something off the Mosholu parkway with every family their own version of “The Goldbergs”.In the interval it had clearly had not so much a face lift as a face turning.

Stanley wasn't to know but along the journey to where it was now, it had been a rather opulent whore house, an apartment complex, subsidized housing, and when those being subsidized decided that living on the beach or the street was better than where they were, they got lucky and found a man with a dream in his heart, cash in his pocket and his own imaginings of how a good all gentleman's, clothing optional resort should be run; Even at the closing someone at the mortgage company wondered if he'd actually seen it.

Nathan Mohammad  Gandhi Seidleitz came from a  wealthy Middle Eastern family who had intermarried every ethnic nationality available. This, of course, led to constant quarrels between the various factions but, as he'd grown and come into his own persona, on one thing everyone agreed, Nathan had to go elsewhere and stay there. Without some of the pertinent details, such as nudity and all male told to them, he got the family to agree to allow him to run a modest resort in Florida. Not quite as far from them as they would have liked-Patagonia would have found favor-but...the hope was his time needed as a hotelier would keep him sufficiently busy for a very long time. And so it had.

For surprisingly little money, under ten million anyway, he'd been able to buy it, refurbish the place, get the permits updated and, in most cases, reinstated and then began the real work, getting it decorated. The pool was drained, thoroughly dried and then the bottom painted to look like waving water assuming that the water was lavender and aqua. Filled with water, it was said to be was used as an alternate landmark for pilots making a non instrument approach to Miami International. That and, of course, the lavender roof under which the building lived-to miss that would suggest one oughtn’t be flying…..

Over the years, no one had paid any attention to the landscaping which worked to the good as no one could see over it or through it. The kind of bamboo you don't want, the kind that just takes over, was a mainstay but there were, in season, some banana trees, some sort sof palms haphazardly placed inconveniently and what might have been called “ground cover”. No need for a sign to not walk on the grass, no one would have. The place itself was made like a clam shell with two wings, open, the large and visible pool in the middle and six floors of Nathan's decoration surrounding it. And he'd had help.

One day in the fabric district of Little Havana, he met a nice young man cutting lengths of cloth and selling it. The two got into a lengthy discussion as to the vicissitudes of decorating a whole hotel and Buffy, the drapers name, remembered that working here was only a part time job; In reality he was a decorator of some note who was on a sabbatical after a particularly difficult job involving millions of dollars and imports by the boat load not to mention very influential clients. Stanley was immediately impressed by the way Buffy carried his genitals in low slung, very low rise pants as well as his myriad representations of his exploits in the realm of Haute Couture. On the spot Nathan offered him the job of Decorator in Chief for Lavender Palms and threw in an apartment next to his. As Buffy explained, he was entering a new phase in his life, had divested himself of his former grandeur to begin again making it possible to pack everything in two Costco Sacks and a faux red Crocodile skin wig box. Additionally, he also explained, that since one of the prevalent themes would be nudity, how much better if he worked sans clothing or, and they stopped to stock up, a series of matching Speedos and Flip Flops. In warm Miami who needed more?

What Buffy thought when he first saw the shell that he was to transform into the resort deluxe that Nathan envisioned cannot be fathomed but outwardly he told his employer that with his connections and their combined taste, as well as access to quite a lot of money, anything was possible.

What Stanley and Mort saw was the result of the possibilities and while   Mort was enthralled with every bit of gilded Lob-lolly pine and velvet covered Formica; Stanley was calculating his chances of getting out and getting at least some of their money back.  

In a sense, Greek was about to meet Greek: Nathan, attractively clad in his smile and no tan line, appeared open armed to welcome the gentlemen to their luxury home for the next little while. Only a few formalities as they'd already paid, they had to sign the book-Buffy in a minimal lime green Speedo- over printed with Lavender Palms-with slightly wedged orange flip flops, was grinning at reception and added his welcome also his introduction as social director. Just to make it formal, he introduced the men to their genial “if you can't find it ask for it” host, Nathan. Whatever else he didn't know about running a hotel, he had learned that with a certain kind of client, the more obsequious the better. If he could have kissed Mort's hand as if he were a visiting Indian Pasha or Prince of the Church he would have; All of this pandering played against a roar of air conditioning. Nathan insisted on escorting them to their suite, saying that their ‘portmanteau’ would be brought up directly-just by whom wasn’t mentioned. The elevator creaked them to the sixth floor, the penthouse floor as it was called, thus to their private set of rooms, the Ponce de Leon Suite.

Nathan threw open the door and Stanley and Mark were greeted by Buffy's tribute to an early day explorer of Florida. The walls were murals showing Sr. de Leon-in an Inquisition style cod piece, on the beach, holding what may have been the flag of old Spain, and, for the seriousness of his arrival, a group of Spanish Navies, naked, on the beach giving thanks, each holding a rosary and a cross while displaying what bulls in the corrida had between their legs, apparently giving thanks for whatever they were thankful for. The bedroom was supposed to be the Fountain of youth as there were youths on the wall, again sans clothing, frolicking by a spurious tropical jungle pool that could have easily once held Esther William and Fernando Lamas on the back lot at MGM and, for some, erections pointed the way to the bathroom, a fantasy in gold and black fake marble tile, a shower large enough for two, a toilet, double sinks plus, for that continental touch, a bidet-which he flushed to illustrate this bit of porcelain ambiance.

As Nathan pointed out, there was also a standing urinal where, since you weren't wearing anything anyway, you could just walk up “flop your log on the lip and let fly”. It was all Stan could do to restrain Mort from trying it just then. With a wave of his hand, Nathan departed to let the gentlemen relax from their perilous journey and, he hoped, they might join him a bit later for the cocktail hour.

Stan was having withdrawal symptoms from life itself. He knew there was no point in telling Mort what a hole this was, what a fraud Nathan was and how he'd spent their money to get...very little. For example, did he notice there were no other guests? Anywhere? Maybe everyone took a siesta here in the tropics but, he thought, surely someone would be at least cooling off in the pool or doing...something.

Mort took a running jump and landed on the bed. “Heaven, it's just heaven, oh Stan, aren't you glad we came?” He didn't wait for an answer although he would have got one. “And look at this place, those murials, that bathroom, that pool and Nathan, such a gentleman.” He quit more from lack of oxygen rather than enthusiasm. Stan took advantage of the silence.

“Mort, I love you, I will and have done anything you wanted but this...this place is lousy. Did you really look at the bathroom? No towels, no toilet paper, and I don't even want to walk on the carpet with my shoes on or off. This whole place is dirty, shoddy, not even second rate…..”

Sniffing at the apparent rebuff, Stanley said he'd speak to Nathan, he was sure that suites such as this weren't occupied as often so housekeeping was a little behind. If he thought he'd solved the problem, he hadn't. Mort tried to close a curtain only to have the whole thing, including the valance, fall off the wall.

The two of them, now standing in a room now filled with the swirl of dust yielded when an adjoining section of wall board also collapsed and broke in several pieces, could only wonder, at least Stan could wonder, if the floor on which they stood would support them?

Mort sensed that beyond what he thought, something had to be done NOW. Finding a phone he hit ‘0’ which produced….typical of Lavender Palms...nothing. Trying to see if there was a loose connection revealed that, nope, there wasn’t mainly because it had never been connected to the wall.

Stan stood there. Mort edged toward the door.

“I’ll, right now, I’ll go find Nathan, get all this fixed...cleaned….just, Stan, this is what we want…...it’ll be great….” and eased out the door which, amazingly, only came part way off the hinges meaning that the heat and humidity of Florida swept in adding moisture to the dust which deposited itself like the crap from some unknown insect on whatever surfaces were nearest.

Love can conquer a great many things but rats suddenly appearing from the gaping hole formerly covered by wallboard isn’t one of them.

He really was a kind man, willing to be indulgent, willing to quietly understand what the superficiality of all of this meant to his partner but he was an accountant, had friends, so knew for exactly the same amount they’d hauled out to stay in this travesty of a hotel, they could be in a really fine hotel on Miami beach; Only thing it would not have would been run by someone practically sucking Mort’s cock.

He wasn’t to know, then, precisely what it was but Nathan’s demonstration of the bidet had strained plumbing somewhere so, should he have opened the door to the bathroom, he would have found the down scale version of the Baths of Caracalla touched up with the fountains of the Bellagio erupting from toilets, sinks, showers...drains…...but then he did find all that out when an estuary of the Atlantic Ocean crept out from under the door which, it could only stand the fire plug pressure from a broken water spigot just so long, blew out and down. Again, the air conditioning had concealed the sound of the formative water sports in the john.

Patience can be a virtue or its own reward depending on how long one is willing to be patient; Given Mort’s wildly overdone enthusiasm for anything, Stan had learned to stand in place and wait for the ‘latest’ enthusiasm’ to blow over. However, just now, as a gushing of water surrounding his feet, rising almost to his ankles, he noted that the offshoot of the Amazon River had hit the suite door, finishing it off so it fell down completely, joined the flow and swept over the brink  which constituted the external sixth floor. Water went across the surrounding concrete path outside all the rooms and, in an increasing amount, went over the edge. Following the door. Stan wasn’t familiar with Angel Falls but to those who were, six floors, below, it was a remarkable facsimile, particularly in the slanted light just before the sun slid behind the forest of bamboo.

Mort had just found Nathan so both were surprised by the sprinkle then deluge from a blue sky; Looking up saved them from being decapitated by a door caught up in the torrent. Interesting, if one could step back and be a non-objective observer, something Mort couldn’t do, you would notice that as the water from the bathroom crossed the carpeting it collected, well, whatever it caught so increasingly turned a sickly brownish hue as it shampooed the part of the carpet it passed over. Seen from the other end of the pool, probably the safer place to be, it was quite fascinating and pepped up by the sight of a pudgy naked man being accosted by an agitated rail of a person; Imagining what was being said added to the reality. And the cataract was increasing moving from Angel Falls, which only had one cascade, to Iguassu, that had….dozens.

What could be discerned, if you knew something of plumbing, was that the surge from one suite loosened the decrepit plumbing all through the sixth floor allowing water to seep under doors, cross the threshold and plummet to the ground then, finding a down slope, into the pool rapidly changing from swirling lavender and aqua to an overall gooey beige, something no pool boy would be able to clean with a sieve.

One other thing came downstairs, just using the staircase; Stan. In one hand he held a bag, the other the large sun hat. His ‘chat’ with Mort and Nathan was brief and pointed. He was leaving, courtesy a cell phone, he’d called a taxi-the dispatcher had laughed when she’d heard the pick up location-into which he was going to get. To Mort he said he would call him and let him know where he’d gone  so plan on joining him. To Nathan, he slipped into full blown business mode telling him that, day after tomorrow, he’d be back at which time he expected to receive  a refund check for the balance of their stay, prorating it by fifty dollars-generous in his mind-for the part of one day they’d been there. Oh, and when he collected said check, Nathan should be dressed as well as prepared to accompany him to the bank on which the check was drawn to verify they were to cash it. Having covered the essentials he walked the zig zag to the street to wait for the cab.

Something told Nathan this wasn’t the moment for hand or ass kissing, just, first, call a large plumbing service and, second, tell Mort he was….sort of sorry…..However….he did offer the ‘opportunity’ such as it might have  been construed, to ‘come back’ when repairs and renovations had been made and, his treat, enjoy their planned holiday…...his offer died as he saw Mort sag into reality. Also his attention was, again, diverted, when part of the concrete from the sixth floor fell, again missing the two men.

The highlight of Stan’s day was watching Lavender Palms recede as the taxi pulled away. Having negotiated a fee his first stop was a J.C. Penney’s where he bought some clothes he could wear into some place that didn’t cater solely to men and where being clad was an issue. On his phone a quick call to a colleague in New York had got a reservation at a hotel on Miami Beach who would expect him when he arrived. His other call ended as a text to Mort explaining where he was, where he should come or….if he wished, he could stay there until he returned to collect their deposit in a couple of days.  

As it was now impossible to reach their ‘suite’, Mort, too, called a cab and left Nathan, Buffy and a rapidly disintegrating clothing optional resort for men only to whatever would happen. Admittedly, he felt a fool walking into the Fontainbleau dressed as he’d been but Stan, ever thoughtful, had some clothes into which he could quickly change and, to raise his mood, a shopping trip was promised.

Two days later Nathan was almost glad to see someone to whom he only owed money. When Stan arrived he almost had to fight his way through a plethora of inspectors from every department at not only the city and county level but state as well plus, it was promised, another group from some Federal branch….about which he did not want to know. Actually, he’d got out with Stan at a propitious moment, as they rolled away, a rather large Boa Constrictor, an abandoned ‘pet’ now creeping through South Florida, fell from a palm onto the head of an inspector dealing with building codes; The stacks of citations could have filled a large trunk however the overall consensus was that Lavender Palms was best just demolished-leaving only the pool after it had been not only cleaned by sanitized.

Some days later, dressed like nice guys on vacation, Mort had to concede that the Fountainbleau was quit a bit nicer. It wasn’t easy to give up on his dream of nudity under the sun but he did cling to one fillip to assuage his dream of what wasn’t, at least they were flying home, “prima classe”…...

by Petr-Johan

Email: [email protected]

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