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Wet Spot, Hot Spot (VH)

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Vala Hafstað's picture

The pools in Iceland are more than pools. They are a center of discussion and entertainment—especially the hot tubs. To the regulars, they truly are a hot spot. Take my cousin. She used to spend her lunch hour at the pool. Little by little, she became acquainted with the three men who joined her in the hot tub. As is the custom in such relationships, she knew them only by the names of their occupations. There was the mechanic, the electrician and the taxi driver.

One day, the mechanic said, “The weirdest thing happened to me once at the pool. I was lying comfortably on my back by the poolside, sunbathing, with my arms stretched out and my eyes closed when all of a sudden this heavy-set woman sat down on my right hand. I was too slow to remove my hand in time, and once I realized what had happened, it was too late. I decided there was no way I could move my hand now, out of fear she would then accuse me of sexual harassment. Therefore, all I could do was be a gentleman and wait for her to roll to the side. That took at least 20 painful minutes and by that time, my hand was completely numb and aching.”

To which the electrician responded, “That’s nothing compared to what I had to go through. I was standing by the edge of the pool, ready to kick off. There was a woman ahead of me and I decided to wait until she was at a good distance. At that point, I kicked off as hard as I could. I glided close to the bottom of the pool, but when I emerged to the surface, guess what? I emerged with a woman clinging to my back.”

As if that were not bad enough, the taxi-driver was not impressed. “Your stories,” he said, “will pale by comparison to mine. I had come to the pool with my wife and as I stood close to the brink, I saw her swimming, rather slowly, ahead of me. All of a sudden, I had this urge to tease her, so I swam after her. The moment she turned around and kicked off, I had almost caught up with her and was swimming right against her. I dove deeper and with a sudden movement of my hands managed to grab both her breasts. When she responded with furor, I discovered to my horror that this was not my wife, but an elderly woman wearing the same sort of swimsuit. I, of course, was very sheepish and asked her to forgive me, explaining I had mistaken her for my own wife. Luckily, that explanation seemed to increase her confidence and I was quickly forgiven.”

That’s all my cousin told me about the day her hot tub buddies recounted stories of themselves in deep water.

Vala Hafstad—valahafstad(at)icelandreview.com

Views expressed here are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Iceland Review.