“Maggie, would you like to go to Greece?”

The question broke me out of my focus on the column of numbers on the computer screen in front of me. “Excuse me?” I asked, puzzled.

Dorothy, the president of the Christian charity, had posed the question. “I’m serious,” she explained. “I’m organizing a tour of our major contributors to visit Greece this summer. I’m calling the tour ‘In the Steps of Saint Paul.’ I need an assistant to help me.”

“But I have never traveled and I know nothing about Greece.” At age 37 my travels had all been in an orbit around my home town in Kansas.

“That doesn’t matter,” Dorothy answered. “The travel agency does the logistics. What I need is somebody to help me keep twenty women contented. I know you well. You’re attractive. You’re sensible. You can pamper them, pray with them if necessary, and with a little study you can help me explain the places we’re seeing. You’ve read the New Testament?”

“I know it backwards and forwards, but I can’t afford a trip to Greece.”

“You’ll go free. I can’t pay you a salary but it will be an all expense paid trip. Unfortunately, you’ll have to put up with a crowd of rich, spoiled women for 10 days.” Dorothy laughed. I was well aware that Dorothy’s patina of Christian piety often yielded to cynicism. “Think about it.”

“I will.” That afternoon I could barely focus on auditing the charity’s financial accounts.

Greece! I had always dreamed of seeing the world. Five years ago I had broken out of the routine of being the wife of a small-town evangelical preacher and passed the examination to become a certified public accountant. The customers of my one-woman business were Christian organizations, churches, and preachers scattered around Kansas and neighboring states. I was efficient, painstaking, willing to travel, cheap – and working only part time I now earned as much money as my husband, whose congregation was neither large nor wealthy.

My business travels had an ulterior motive. I escaped from the boredom of my small-time life and had several sexual encounters, the first of my married life. They were hurried and self-conscious and with married men as nervous as I was. I overcame my initial guilt at being an adulteress and now was fearful only that my indiscretions would be discovered. Moreover, I had begun drinking alcohol, a vice I concealed almost as fervently as I did my illicit sex.

At home I was a different person. Three or four days a week, I was the exemplary preacher’s wife: self-effacing, tireless in my duties, the mother of two teenage children. I tried not to show signs of my newly found independence and professional confidence. A preacher’s wife in a small town in Kansas was expected to be humble, dowdy, and mediocre.

I went to sleep in my hotel room that night with images in my head of the blue Mediterranean and bright shining villages on rocky islands. Early the next morning I telephoned my husband. In adherence to the principle of female subordination in our evangelical Church, I always asked his permission for any endeavor. I anticipated his approval. He enjoyed the almost-new automobile my income had purchased too much to deny me. “What would you think if I went to Greece in July for two weeks?”

“Greece? We can’t afford that.”

“It won’t cost anything ... Well, not much ... Mostly paid for. I’ll help out with a women’s group following Paul’s route in Greece.” Our church did not believe in saints. So, he was just “Paul,” not “Saint Paul.”

I continued. “I’ll take photos so I can give a presentation to the Women’s Missionary Union after I get back,” I promised. Then, I threw in the clincher. “There will be a group of rich women on this trip. The contacts will do us good.” My husband still had the ambition, fading though it was, of becoming the pastor of a large, rich church.

He conceded. “Thanks, dear,” I said happily. I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll help you collect some of those donations that are slow coming in.”

“That would be useful,” he replied. “There’s talk, you know, that you’re ... uhh ... not as active as you used to be in the church.”

“I’ll lead the prayer meeting next Wednesday. Promise. I love you.” It was not entirely a lie. My husband was not a bad man but he was sedentary and unimaginative. I would have gone mad had I not found a way to carve out a slice of independence.

“I love you too, Maggie.”

I bought a guidebook and read about Greece. It sounded enchanting and I was truly interested in the travels of Paul two thousand years ago to promulgate the new religion of Christianity. I asked Dorothy, “Do I need to come back to the U.S. on the airplane with you?”

The president thought a moment. “No. Once we put all the members of the group on an airplane home your job is done.”

“Then, I’ll go – but I’ll plan to stay on for a few days to visit one or two of the islands. They sound wonderful.”

I was on pins and needles for the whole ten days of the visit to Greece. I dealt with carping, tardiness, diarrhea, homesickness, and penny-pinching. Most of the women were congenial, but I was chained to a couple who were perennially unhappy.

“I never promised you a rose garden,” said Dorothy as the group waited in the international airport in Athens for the early morning flight to return to the United States.

“I hope they all enjoyed the trip.” I said cautiously.

“You did splendidly. Nobody died. None of them got thrown in jail, or lost, or in a fistfight.”

“Thank God.” I looked up at the sky. “God, I meant that.”

“How long will you stay?”

“I have plane reservations to leave for home in five days. Today, I’m taking a flight to one of the islands.” The prospect of being on my own in a foreign country frightened me, but I was resolute. “I will do this,” I said to myself.

“Best of luck. I’ll need you to audit our books when you get back.” said Dorothy.

The island of Skiathos was my destination. The guidebook said its only village oozed charm, the beaches were good, and the island was not overcrowded as the airport was adequate only for small airplanes.

My flight got me to Skiathos mid-morning and I caught a bus from the airport into the village. I had made a reservation in a small and inexpensive hotel, choosing to stay in town rather than at one of several luxurious beach hotels dotted around the island. It was hot and I felt conspicuous on the bus. Everybody else, mostly young Europeans, was wearing shorts and light-weight cotton shirts or blouses. I wore a skirt that reached below my knees and a long-sleeved blouse. I felt like a refugee from a tent revival.

I got off the bus at the main plaza and searched out my hotel, carrying my suitcase down a maze of narrow, cobbled streets and up steep, stair-stepped walkways. My hotel was old and inconspicuous, three stories high, of whitewashed native stone with blue shutters. A purple bougainvillea curved around the signpost next to the front door. In a narrow interior was the front desk. I checked in with a friendly older man who spoke good English. My room was small, a double bed with an end table and lamp, a chair and dressing table, and a tiny bathroom with shower. The room opened through double doors onto a balcony that looked out over a sapphire-blue sea and low, stone buildings so white they hurt the eyes to see. It was hot. The hotel was not air conditioned.

I was exhausted from ten days of stress, but decided to take a walk and have lunch before an afternoon siesta. I took off my skirt, blouse, and panties and packed them away and put on my bikini bottom. This was the first bikini I had ever owned. It was modest as bikinis go. I put on a pair of shorts over the bikini bottom Then I took my bra off and replaced it with the bikini top. My small breasts had more than enough room. “I should have been more attentive when I tried this on,” I said to myself. “The cups are too large.”

“I’m almost pretty,” I thought, looking at myself in the mirror. I debated in my mind taking off my wedding ring and decided not too. “I don’t want to portray myself as what I am not,” I reasoned. I ran my fingers through my hair to jumble my severe hair style to look like I was on holiday, donned a pair of flip-flop sandals, and away I went – nervous but excited.

The Plakes beach was a ten minute walk from my hotel. It was small and pebbly, falling off in rock ledges to crystal clear water below. Pine trees shaded the margins. A dozen women and an equal number of men were sunbathing on the rocks or swimming. Most of the women were topless. Some of them had breasts burned as brown as leather; others ranged in color from sunburned red, to rosy pink, to as white as a winding sheet. I guessed that I could tell how long the women had been in Greece by the color of their exposed breasts. Mine, beneath my bikini top, which hung too loosely on me, had never seen the sun and were shockingly white. I wasn’t yet brave enough to reveal them to the world. I sat down on a rock overlooking the beach.

“Well, Sheila, fancy seeing you again.” A young, handsome man sat down on the rock with me. He set his backpack down beside us. He was wearing only shorts. He was of medium height, well-muscled, and bronzed from the sun.

“Have we met?”

“I said hello to you when you got off the bus.”

“Oh, okay, if you say so. But my name is not Sheila. It’s --”

He interrupted me. “Sheila will do. I’m Rory. Skiathos is a fantasy. As are we.”

I giggled. “That’s very profound, Rory. Are you British?” His accent was not American.

“You know how to wound a man. I’m Australian.”

“Sorry.”

“And you’re American, Sheila?”

“Yes.” I looked him over closely. He had a pleasant smile. He didn’t seem threatening. I had day-dreamed of meeting a nice man on Skiathos. He was almost a boy, younger than any man I had ever fucked. (Well, there was that one boy in high school who I tried to erase from my memory.)

“How about a swim, Sheila? You look uncomfortable in all those clothes.” His eyes focused on my chest.

I looked down. My bikini top gapped open. He was peering downward at breasts mostly or totally exposed. “The barely seen is more interesting than the obvious,” he commented, nodding toward the topless women laying on the rocks.

I blushed and maneuvered my breasts back under the fabric. I was embarrassed, but not offended. A dozen women were parading around the beach with exposed breasts. I tried to be both amused and knowledgeable. “That’s very philosophical, Rory. That sounds like something Plato might have said.”

“Who?”

“An old Greek.” I looked up at the sun. “It’s too hot and bright for me to get into the sun and swim. I’d get sunburned.” I nodded toward my lily-white breasts, now modestly covered.

We continued chatting amiably. He asked, “May I invite you to lunch? Dutch treat? I’m a bit short of the ready, but I know a good cheap restaurant.”

“I’m also on a tight budget. Very tight.” It seemed advisable not to give him any illusions that I was rich. I had read about “kamakis,” handsome young men on the Greek Islands who ensured that wealthy older women had a memorable vacation -- for a price.

“I can pay my own way,” he assured me. He pulled a t-shirt out of his backpack and put it on and shouldered the pack. “Let’s go. The restaurant is nearby.”

“Lead on, Rory,” I said.

“Righto, Sheila.”

We strolled to a restaurant on a pedestrian street with outside tables shaded by a grapevine growing on an overhead trellis. We ate a Greek salad of tomatoes and cucumbers, grilled octopus soaked in olive oil, and bread with a crunchy crust and drank a large bottle of beer each. I loved the octopus. I had never eaten it before – or even imagined it could be eaten. Then, chatting amiably, we each drank another bottle of beer. He told me about himself. He was 25, from Perth, and he had been on the Greek islands for two weeks. He was nearly out of money. I didn’t ask him his real name, nor did he ask me.

After that second beer, I could barely stay awake. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m enjoying our lunch, but I can’t stay awake. I’m tired and I’m woozy from the beer”. I yawned. “I desperately need a nap.” I hoped this was not the end of our relationship.

“May I escort you to your hotel?” he asked. “That is truly a fetching top,” he added. My bikini top was gapping again.

I shrugged and tucked my breasts in. I was already getting used to my tits being exposed. Tomorrow, maybe, I go topless. “I need to buy one that fits,” I said.

“I need a nap, also,” he answered. “I’ve been sleeping on the beach for two nights. Beneath a pine tree. A money problem. I didn’t sleep very well.” He yawned. He paid half the bill for lunch with a grimace and looked at me with beseeching eyes. “That sand is awfully hard.”

I laughed. “Oh, all right. I get the hint. I have a double bed in my hotel room. Do you want to nap there?” I was ignoring my inner mind which told me to be cautious. I had fucked a couple of men who I later wished I hadn’t. Proceed with care, I told myself. “Why is this lovely young man interested in this aging, not-glamorous, un-rich, and flat-chested female?”

“Thank you for asking. I’ll reward your kindness by showing you the town tonight. If you pay for the beer.”

“Perhaps ... but first a nap.

“I’m up for that.”

We walked back to my hotel, rubbing shoulders companionably in the narrow streets. Arriving at my hotel, I dropped off my money and passport in the hotel safe and made a point of introducing Rory to the old man at the front desk – just in case Rory might turn our to be something other than a pleasant, charming boy. I led him up the stairs to my room.

“This is home,” I said, opening the door and entering. I felt the warm breeze from the outside coming through the open double door to the balcony. We marveled together at the view. “I pointed to the bed. “We can share the bed. For a nap,” I added cautiously. Before laying down I evaluated myself in the mirror, also eyeing Rory. “Oh, God, he’s so young – and I’m so old!” I wiped away rivulets of sweat between my breasts and commented, “I need a tan.”

“Untanned women here are called ‘island virgins,’” Rory commented.

“I absolutely must nap,” I answered. I lay down on the bed, put a pillow beneath my head, yawned, and stretched, He took his t-shirt off and joined me, their bodies touching on the narrow bed. I said something to Rory. When he didn’t answer, I turned to him. He was already asleep. “This is nice,” I thought. I turned over on my side, my buttocks pressed against his and in a minute I too fell asleep.

I woke up staring at the ceiling. The sun was low in the sky and the room was cooler. Rory was in the shower. He came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Hi, Sheila. Sleep well?”

He sat down beside me on the bed. I raised my arms and stretched luxuriously and my breasts popped out of my bikini top. “Oh, shit,” I said. I reached down to cover them, but he caught my hand in his.

“May I?” he asked politely.

I thought. “Do I dare?” I held his hand for a long moment and looked into his eyes. I had a moment of fear mixed with anticipation. He smiled. I moved his hand to my bare breast.

He leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I take that as a ‘yes.’ Don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you.” He laughed.