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Sep 12, 2012

Green Eyes --- Chapter 2: Beach towel




Night Owl Reviews


Just to remind you, you haven't read Chapter 1 of Michael  Ampersant's outrageous new novel, but we just had a thrilling encounter with a beautiful, green-eyed guy, who, following cruising conventions, has left the scene already, leaving me and an anonymous blond person behind, who has just suggested that we'll meet up again later.


I'm sitting on the ground, he's hovering above me, his head tilted a bit, his feet planted apart in masturbatory position, his absent-minded hand still stroking his own, softening dick, both of us naked, the beach only a hundred yards away—and he's asking for a date.
"You are asking for a date?" I say.
He halts his pointless jerking. "Yes," he replies, "an acquaintance is having a do next to the Blue Moon, midnight. I'm certain you would be welcome. We could meet up and get laid. There's always a closet or a darkroom for the occasion."



Maurice

I take visible note of my own naked body, then stare at his (this avoids a lot of explaining), and say: "We just had an anonymous sexual encounter, not really sex, but a sexual encounter. Spewing one’s cum over a person amounts to a sexual encounter, and you ask for a date? How intimate can one get?"

"Come to think of it." He studies his own bare body, "Yes, that's what I have been doing. Sorry. Don't be offended. Stupid me." He has a British accent. His hand plays with his short hair.


I get up, retrieve my clothes from the ground, re-dress. He looks around.
"You've no idea where my swimming trunks could be?" he asks with a helpless gesture.
I look around too. "You were wearing trunks, right? Where did you strip?” And, imbued with that particular sense of superiority of the dressed in front of the naked, I continue: "You were sneaking on us, weren't you, until the heat got the better of you?"
"Heat?"
"I mean your heat, your horniness."

He drops his head. "Horniness, that's an awkward word."
"We better find your trunks," I say, repeating myself: “Where did you strip?”
"Don't know, nearby, obviously."
We look around, walk around, we're in the dunes, or just behind the dunes, some trees planted on a sandy surface partially covered with dune grass and ground ivy, but there are no trunks in sight. The sense of dressed-ness still tickles: "You realize we're in the middle of a calzonade?" I say.
"Come to think of it," he says but then adds: “Swimming trunks are not strictly underwear.”

We search some more. No swim suit nowhere to be seen.
"I'm screwed," he says (Brits, apparently, use four-letter words more selectively). I can’t help it, I like him. Perhaps not in a sexual way, but I like him as a human being, enough at least to get concerned about his future as a naked alien on American soil.
"You're in trouble," I say. "You find yourself in the middle of public space, surrounded by more public space. You need a towel. There are enough towels on the beach, I'll go and get one for you."
"You would do that for me?"
"Yes, I will," I answer, already waving my hand in goodbye.
"Can you tell me your name?"
"John. And, yours?" I ask reflexively.
"Maurice."
Of course, I think. "I'll be back, Maurice," I say.

I'm back on the beach now. What am I to do? I will purloin a towel, dis-appropriate it and misplace it. And God will forgive me and remunerate the victim in a display of eternal justice. It could be in the victim’s interest, in fact, my stealing his towel, if he needs eternal justice more than I do—which he possibly does, given that I’m not much of a believer.

This is the gay part of the beach, the rainbow flag plays proudly with the easterly breeze. Most visitors have ensconced themselves in some setup involving lovers, beach towels, beach umbrellas (for the sun), wind screens (for the breeze), and assorted paraphernalia such as colorful ice boxes for the booze, each party constituting a little island unto itself.

One particular island is empty, and between the umbrella and the windscreen there are three large beach towels in evidence. Who needs three large beach towels? I climb onto the island (the sandy patch between the umbrella and the wind screen), and it's my arrogance, as usual, that is my undoing. I'm getting choosy, hesitating over which towel to take back to the Brit. And so, before long, a shadow falls over my feet, a hand touches my shoulder, and a voice growls: "What are you doing here?" The voice belongs to a mature man, soft in the middle and elsewhere.

It's during the next second that I commit the next error of the day because I'm not only arrogant, I'm also slow-witted under duress. I should have risen above the occasion and ask the bear directly: 'Could you lend me a towel?' perhaps followed by some explanation, perhaps even the true explanation. He would possibly laugh a bearish laugh, his belly shaking. Everything would be fine, and I could walk away with a towel to save a British arse.
But I don't.
"I'm admiring your towels," I say. "Trying to find out about the brand, so I could order the same."


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