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A resort manager found, twenty beautiful dolls at his mercy, or was it the other way around? Anyway, he decided paradise can be overdone.

"The Lonely Women of Lesbos Island"

by Ted Poole


Sir! Annual

 Spring 1959

    I SAW the ad in the Sunday paper:

WANTED: RESORT MANAGER. Vigorous young man with sound resort back ground to take complete charge of isolated Caribbean spot. Salary open. Write fully, including resume, references and photo. Box 47D.
    I got the job. It was handled through a 42nd Street employment agency, and I never saw the people who were hiring me. All I knew was that I would get six hundred a month, plus room and board, and that I started immediately.
    "You'll report to an L. Harding at the Carlton House in Nassau," I was told. "Go down to the Atlas Travel Agency in room 305 and pick up your plane tickets. And this should cover your expenses."
    "This" turned out to be an envelope containing five 20-dollar bills. I took it and rode the elevator downstairs, picked up my ticket, and went home to pack.
    The Carlton House is about a twenty minute taxi haul from the airfield, through narrow, hilly streets. The hotel itself turned out to be quiet, and half a block off the main drag. I put my suitcase down and went up to the desk.
    "Mr. Harding," I said.
    "I have an appointment." The clerk checked her card file. "We have a Miss Lucie Harding," she said finally. "Shall I call her?" A miss, I thought, shaking my head. Boss ladies were funny. I don't like working for them too much.
    Lucie Harding turned out to be a cute blonde of about 25, with long, unbound hair that tumbled down over her shapely shoulders. She looked more like a high class model than a hotel owner.
    "You're Ted Poole," she said, offering me a drink. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other."
Half an hour later, we were in a beat-up old power boat named the Mary K., heading out past the breakwater and turning south between New Providence and Andros Island.
    "What kind of operation is this?" I asked. "How big, I mean."
    "You'll see," she told me. And that was all I could get out of her.
    The island was about six hours out of Nassau. It wasn't very big--only about two miles in length, and couldn't have been more than half that across. It was covered liberally enough with trees, and, as we putted into the lagoon, I saw several tiny islands not much bigger than football fields scattered inside the reef.
    "This is it," said the girl.
    The boat slid gently up against a rickety, home-made pier. It was nothing but a catwalk on wooden stakes that had been driven down into the sand.
    I heard a voice in the pilot house of the boat yell, "Dammit it all to hell!" and it startled me, because it was a woman's voice. I hadn't looked much at the slim skipper, and only when I heard the voice did I realize it wasn't a man who had piloted the boat.
    But I wasn't paying much attention to this. Because what I saw on the pier held my attention. There were about five of them--young women, and all moderately pretty. But that wasn't what startled me the most. Two of them--a cute little red-head and one striking brunette--were completely naked. And not for the first time, either. For they were tanned a rich-copper hue--all over. The others wore shorts and halters.
    "Get those naked broads out of here!" yelled the voice from the pilot house. "We got a man on board!".
    The naked ones squealed in horror and ran for cover. One slipped and landed knee deep in the water. I tried not to look too hard at her cute, bouncing behind as she high-stepped it out onto the beach.
    The "skipper" came back on deck and stuck out her hand.
    "I'm Mickey," she said, almost breaking my fingers in her strong grip. "Glad to have you aboard."
    We went up to the "hotel," which lay in a clump of trees a couple of hundred yards back from the beach. It was more like a sprawling one-story mansion. Lucie noticed my surprise at its size.
    "This island used to be headquarters for a group of importers," she she said, smiling. "During prohibition they imported Scotch for the burning throats of Miami. These days, we have to import it back here from Nassau."
    The main room could have passed for at least half of Grand Central Station. The walls were lined with soft, comfortable-looking sofas and chairs, and they in turn were lined with even softer, more comfortable-looking blondes and brunettes, red-heads and in-betweens. I counted 18 women--and not a single man.
    Lucie introduced me to the ladies as "the new manager," and drew a series of ill-concealed titters that baffled me. We went into the office that was to be my business head quarters, and she spent the next hour outlining my duties.
    It seemed that I was on Lesbos Island, a British possession, held on a long-term lease by Island Resorts, Ltd. The clientele was exclusively female and until my arrival, the girl had been running the island by themselves. A quick inspection convinced me that they hadn't been doing a very good job of it, either. The hired help consisted of a cook, two general workers, and the manager. All except, me were women.
    The resort could handle up to 35 guests, although the average was under 30. And the minimum stay was three weeks, for which the basic fee was $435, plus taxes. Operating nine months out of the year, I could see where the joint was coining money.
    "Our last manager left four months ago,". Lucie told me. "We tried it a while by ourselves, but it didn't work out."
    Personally, I couldn't imagine why all these healthy, good-looking girls wanted to go off somewhere by themselves. Granted, the bar was well stocked, and there were 16 millimeter movies every night. But there are certain things movies, and liquor just can't replace.
    I got settled, in my room, and had a nightcap. I was sitting on the bed, planning a rough work schedule, when I heard a tap at the door. When I opened it, I saw the little redhead who had shown me all she had down on the pier. She had an electric fan in her hand.
    "Thought you might want this," she said, smiling. I did, and she came in to help me hook it up, and we had a drink and the next thing I knew it was morning, and the new manager was in bed with a guest. One very tired manager at that.
    I spent the day getting the kitchen organized, and preparing lists of supplies that would have to be ordered. For dinner, I changed into a white jacket and black tie, and went down, to the dining room to make sure everything went all right.
    Lucie Harding caught my eye. I went over and sat down.
    "How's it going?" she asked.
    "Okay. We need some butane for the stove. And I think we ought to get some spare parts for the generator. You don't want to lose your juice in the middle of the night."
    "Order whatever you need. Oh, and here's a schedule I'd like you to look at."
    I glanced at the paper. It listed, various functions of the resort, including sporting events, movies and games. Down at the end, marked "around sundown" was listed the one word, "canoe."
    "What's this?" I asked.
    She explained that the small island in the lagoon had particularly fine views of the sunset. As manager, it would be my job to take some of the girls out every evening in the canoe. It seemed like a good idea. I posted the notice on the bulletin board. The next afternoon, just be fore sundown, I went down, to the beach. Waiting for me by the canoe was Lucie.
    "Looks like nobody else is coming," 'she said.
    It was beautiful there, with the water deep green, and the sun, low in the sky, bouncing yellow off it. We pulled up on the sloping beach of one small island and sat on the blanket I'd brought, watching the sun sink beneath the horizon. Suddenly, Lucie was in my arms, and the sunset was forgotten. Hours later, we beached the canoe silently, and crept up to the big house making as little noise as possible.
    The next afternoon after a quiet day, I found myself alone in the canoe again with a woman. Only this time it was Mickey, ravishing in a red blouse and tight shorts that barely contained her curves.
    We tried a different island, and the same damned thing happened, and once again, late in the evening, two people beached a canoe and sneaked up to the big house in the grove of trees.
    Well, I did a good job of running the place. Things went smoothly; meals were well prepared, and on tine. There was enough hot water. Things like that. But my recreation program didn't seem to capture the interest of more than one guest at a time. And, more than half of the time, I wound up all covered with sand and sneaking in late.
    One day, a couple of weeks after I'd arrived, the girl waiting at the beach was Lucie again. And I suddenly saw what was going on.
    "What a fool I am!" I yelled, laughing. It was all so simple. Lucie threw herself in my arms and laughed with me.
    Manager, my eye! Sure, I knew my business, and things were going smoother now. But that wasn't the real reason I was down here. The whole situation was now suddenly transparent. One fairly good-looking man in the middle of a batch of sex-starved women. You know why girls take ocean cruises, And that was the very reason most of them came down to this island. Of course, It didn't work too well without a manager.
    "You don't want a manager," I told Lucie triumphantly. "You want a king. Somebody to exercise his feudal rights and carry you off in his arms."
    No wonder the ad had said, "Vigorous young man!"
    But why only one man? I wondered. It would be much simpler with three or four.
    "No Ted," Lucie told me. These girls are respectable working types. Sure, they're out for a fling. But the fewer people who know it, the better."
    THIS was a deal that guys dream of. Over 20 beautiful women--and I could take my pick! King of an island, that was me--and my subjects were willing slaves. During the day, in my office, I worked for them. And at night--on one of the little islands, or out in the canoe--or perhaps in the large bed room I had prepared especially for guests--I received my kingly rewards.
    The days went by swiftly. Once, with a shy little thing from Arkansas named Virginia Daly, I went out to the smallest of the islands, and we watched the sunset. But when I made my usual pass, instead of responding, she drew back. When I insisted, as I imagined she wanted me to do, she hauled off and gave me a backhand slap that almost broke my nose.
    "I don't want to," she sobbed. And then she began to talk.
    It seemed that there was a "canoe" roster. No wonder only one girl at a time had shown up. To night was Virginia's time, and out she had come, but at the last moment, her devotion to her fiancé back in Little Rock won out.
    "Whenever you come out here with one of the girls," she wept, "We all know what's going to happen. Some--some of them even make bets on how long you'll he out here. And--and one of them even has a telescope!"
    Before I said anything else, she began to plead for me to take her back. I did, and next morning, be fore I'd gotten up, Mickey and the boat had left for Nassau. Aboard it was the quiet girl from Arkansas.
    I said nothing about the incident. But my male ego was starting to wilt a little. Apparently not one of these females gave a damn for me personally. I was part of the service, like the cook and the electricity generator. And why not? I asked myself. Wasn't that what I'd been hired for?
    It still grated on me, though. A couple of times I took the girls out to the island and just sat there, talking about the sunset. Boy, did that burn them! After the second time, Lucie came around to see me.
    Some of the girls have complained," she said.
    "So what?" I exploded. "What do you think I am? A stud bull? Sometimes I don't feel like it."
    "But you're being paid to feel like it."
    That was what I'd been expecting. Until someone said it, I could kid myself that I was just making out like Bugs Bunny because of my good looks and virility. But once Lucie brought the money into it, I had to face up to the facts.
    Whether I liked it or not, I was nothing more than a male prostitute. Part of the service, like I said.
    "How much extra do you put on the tab for me?" I asked. "And is it a one-time rate, or do you charge every time I go out with one of your customers?"
    "That's my concern," she said coldly. You're being paid to do your job. So do it."
    I couldn't see any point in arguing. I went to my room and started packing.
    Sure, I liked being the king of Lesbos Island. A different gal every night...good food, good liquor. I told myself a dozen times that I was a sap to give that all up. But I went right on packing.
    It all boiled down to self respect. Knowing that the girls expected my lovemaking because it was something they'd paid for changed it into a perversion that I couldn't continue. My morals don't stand in the way of good fun, in or out of the hay, but this was too much.
    Besides, I had to admit sheepishly, I was a very wan and tired little king. If you don't think so, try it yourself. You may have a chance to, you know.
    It won't do you any good to look for Lesbos Island on a map. The real name is much duller. But, as I learned later. the three advertising women who were behind this strange resort, had chosen the Lesbos name as a joke.
    I'm running a quiet little family hotel in upstate New York now. The customers all call me "Mr. Poole," and I hold the doors open for the ladies. My playing is strictly for play these days.
    Just watch your newspaper, buddy. They seem to hit different cities each time. But I never heard of anyone who managed to last more than a couple of months. Believe me, from one who knows, it's no picnic, being king to all those lonely women on Lesbos Island.

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