When the Antidote to E.D. is Just a Walk on the Beach
For a winter break from the snow and rain, my wife took me to a sunny beach down south. I love my wife. She knows what I like, and what I might.
We went for a walk on the beach. Because it was warm, many of the people there had removed most of their clothing. Guys, yes, but the women, now they were something special. Walking around in their underwear. Bras and panties, if we’re honest, but for purposes of discussion, they called them swimsuits. Nobody swam. Some called them bikinis. I guess you could say they all bikinied, which is the word for “walking along the sand looking like you need help removing the last shred of clothing.”
My wife was looking out to sea at the sun-dappled water when I met the eyes of a woman who had either spent a lot of time in the sun or was of Hispanic origin. She wore a top that was more like a second skin. Her breasts looked like they had flowers tattooed on them. We went back from the water, behind a tree, and she lay back in the ice plant, and I removed her bottom with the flick of the bow tied at her side. She was a lawyer. She had three kids, but kept herself toned with yoga and yogurt. The slutty little manx. She had juice running down her legs. I fucked her like the deprived coyote cunt she clearly was, and she offered me a Tic Tac. God, did her titties taste like eclairs. Then, to show her my highest regard, I shared with her a panty snack.
My wife was looking out to sea at the sun-dappled water when I returned. I smiled at her. She smiled at me. “Nice?” she asked. “Nice,” I said, staring out to sea.
We resumed walking. Uh-oh. Out in the water, a woman with a piece of cloth stuck in her butt crack. She was pulling back her hair, all wet from a dip, and the poor thing seemed constrained inside a well-engineered top that struggled to contain her very large breasts. I fought my impulse to stare in awe at god’s greatest gift. I lost. She turned toward me. I glanced briefly away, then I stared, and in short order, we made eye contact. I followed her up into the dunes where she removed her top and revealed such magnificent voluptuosity as I have never seen. I love the beach, I thought, and she dropped to her knees and you can only wish you were there instead of me, the way she carried on, but I eventually got a chance to reciprocate, and I tell you what, I think she liked the beach as much as me.
My wife was looking out to sea at the sun-dappled water when I returned.
“Are you enjoying this?” she asked.
“Oh, very much,” I said.
“I saw you.”
“I did so. You looked. She was very pretty. Your type. Like me.”
We walked on a bit before we came upon three women, all of middle age, each of them slowing as we approached, so I could get a better look at their butts, their somewhat weathered skin, their gently pendulous amplitude, held ironically in the cups of their bikinis in the way my nuts are held (or were, since I haven’t worn one in years) in the cup of my athletic supporter.
These days, an athletic supporter writes checks. Back then, it developed an odor, because teenagers never thought to wash their gear. The three women and I walked away from the water, two of them on one side, each of them manually complimenting my trunks, while the one on the other side was pressing against me. As the center of attention, I needed little encouragement and shortly delivered each a complementary dose of sunscreen.
My wife was looking out to sea at the sun-dappled water when I returned. She pointed toward the water. “I think I see a sea lion,” she said. “Oh, no. My mistake.”
A very lean woman with long blonde hair emerged from the water. I thought she might have a tail, but as the water fell away, it was clear that she walked on lovely legs. She wore a single-piece swimsuit with a deep side cut and a deep front cut and a deep back cut. Basically suspenders large enough to conceal her nipples, but little else. She glanced my way, smiled and headed toward a shabby structure improvised from driftwood.
I followed, as one would expect.
Inside the structure, she stood and watched as I deftly slid the suspenders off her shoulders and revealed my favorite chicken of the sea. It was clear she had never seen anything like me, a 70-year-old man with snowy hair and a body reeking of experience, lips as full as her labia, hunger as deep as the height of her desire. I let her have her way with me. What a way she had. She swallowed my snorkel like a diver surfacing for air until I quaked like the San Andreas fault.
“Forget something?” I said, as she staggered toward the beach, glazed in sweat and sand like a most excellent donut with sprinkles.
She turned and swept some hair from her eyes. I held her swimsuit up with two fingers. She shrugged with indifferent exhaustion, and reached for it.
My wife was looking out to sea at the sun-dappled water when I returned. “Should we continue?” she asked.
“We could,” I said. “But maybe we should go?”
“It’s been a long walk. For some strange reason, I’m feeling really tired. I’m not as young as I used to be. I think I need a nap.”
When I winked at her, she smiled. As if one, the two of us turned toward our temporary habitation and the dark and cool comforts of its bed.
Thanks for looking at “.” I promise to withdraw it should some otherwise soul embrace it first. On the backside of a long journalism career, Stu Watson now devotes his energies exclusively to poetry, essay, and short fiction. His work reflects a love of human diversity and a twisted view of reality. Watson’s work has recently appeared or will soon in The Maine Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, Revolution John, Montana Mouthful, Wretched Creations and Wanderlust Journal. He lives with his wife and the world’s best dog in the Columbia River Gorge of Oregon.