Sep 23, 2012

Green Eyes --- Chapter 3: Sex on the beach (or: "I feel like God gave me our friendship")


We had a thrilling encounter with a beautiful, green-eyed beach boy, but he has already left the scene in the dunes behind the beach, leaving me and a naked, crew-cut man behind, a Brit in desperate need of a towel to cover his private parts. I'm trying to find a suitable towel on the beach, but am interrupted by a suspicious towel-owner. The story continues:


"I don't believe you," the towel owner replies. "I think you are trying to steal something, possibly the booze."
"No," I say, “no, never." This round man isn't slow-witted, and he's developing dubious schemes behind his forehead.
"You were trying to get hold of our champagne, a Bollinger vintage, ten years old, that George and I brought to the beach to celebrate the first week of our friendship, worth a hundred bucks."

Update, update: this picture comes up on Google search with
the search term I feel like God gave me our friendship

In retrospect, I could have said so many things, like 'What's your friendship worth?' or 'Bollinger is not my thing, I prefer Moët.' Or I could have confessed and plead for a towel for a hapless Brit. Instead I say: "Believe me."

That was the last thing this beach bear intended to do. "You're in trouble," he says with a clear sense of my apprehensiveness, "I'll get the Beach Guard, they'll take care of you." There’s a brief, mutual pause as I consider my future as a convicted felon while the bear mulls over his dirty thoughts.


"OK, I'll show you the towels," he says. "Get down."
I sit. He does not sit with me, rearranging the wind screen and the umbrella instead. Our little island becomes an open-air cubicle with more privacy than I could care for. "The towels," he says, "are from Nordstrom, and they are very expensive, but also very useful, especially when you have to change out of your swimwear." He strips, picks up a towel, wraps it around his hips, posits himself above me, his legs apart, and says: "I'm ticklish."
"Do I need to know?" I ask.
"Tickle me," he says. It's clear what he means. 'Prison or sex,' I think a low-information thought. I raise my arm, get under his towel, and tickle what comes my way.

The beach bear grins, shakes his hips, and orders: "Wank me off."

We're long since past the point of return. I close my eyes, imagine a dark, dark room, and stroke his softish member. "You need to cooperate," I say.

Let's recall, I'm sitting on the ground, he's standing above me, legs apart. I'm reaching out to his parts under the towel, discerning his little sausage by my sense of touch, and now I'm fondling it, doing what I can to further a swelling, but nothing happens. ‘This is not how erotic novels are meant to evolve,' I think to myself.

"Harder," he says, "we don't have much time."
"How so?" I ask.
"We don't have much time," he insists.
'We don't have much time,' I think, 'but we don't want to say why.' I sense the tables turning.
"Faster," he orders—he senses the tables turning, too.

My slow wit is coming to its senses. George, his partner of last week, is expected back soon and this is not the moment to transform a one-week relationship into an open-air relationship while the champagne is still on ice. I abandon his willie, get up. Now or never. I grab his towel and run for the dunes. He's naked now, no way for him to run after me. Dog-eat-dog.



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