He’s like Lenny Kravitz and Taye Diggs all mixed into one juicy love stick.

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)

He has skin made of dark chocolate and muscles made from either good genetics, weight lifting, doing triathlons, or maybe…bar-backing.

I get a ping on my new Blackberry. It’s a text from Ireland: I had sex!

I smile, happy Ireland is finally getting some action. But my attention quickly turns back to…

He’s tall and smooth; an array of dreads fall just past his chin. He’s like Lenny Kravitz and Taye Diggs all mixed into one juicy love stick. I lower my sunglasses, my gaze skipping past the dazzle of the pool, to get the full effect—again.

“Lola has it all, doesn’t she?” I sip my Mai Tai, wondering when my über-rich paternal father I never knew will suddenly croak and leave me all his millions, including a vacation house in Maui. Then I could make passionate love with a Jamaican god on virgin white furniture in front of picture windows for days, maybe even weeks, on end.

I text Ireland: Wish I was having sex.

“I don’t know.” Jack responds from the lounge chair next to mine. “She looks like she’s put on a bit of weight.”

I adjust the extra-large sunglasses I purchased to cover as much of my healing (yet still not socially acceptable) face as possible, and look over at my best friend. He’s playing with his phone with one hand, popping bon bons with the other.

“Stop being bitter,” I say, disapprovingly. Jack retorts by shoving another chocolate-covered something into his mouth.

After Jack and I exchanged emotional hugs and kisses midway between our arrival gates at the Kahului Airport, we walked down to baggage claim, and Jack confessed he was having a hard time finding work.

Apparently, after Dr. Sanchez’ wife “forced” herself onto Jack (again), she started gloating about it to everyone—including Dr. Sanchez. Jack had managed to wedge himself—sexually and otherwise—into the middle of an ugly battle between the Sanchez’, and the gossip had spread like wildfire amongst the nouveaux riche of San Francisco. No one wanted to touch Jack with a ten-foot pole—or come within ten feet of touching his pole, for that matter. This had left Jack very stressed. And Jack deals with stress only one way: comfort food.

“Oh my god!” Jack yells out. “My popularity meter is at 2.6! I am so over!”

“What the hell is a popularity meter?” I scan my e-mail for anything non-work-related.

“It’s this new iPhone app that tallies all your texts and phone calls against how many people you have in your address book. This is such a disaster.” Jack licks what looks like pink caramel off his fingers as Lola struts over in her silver lamé bikini with her bon bon.

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