Living in the Moment

This story being submitted for the 2019 Summer Lovin contest. Your votes are appreciated.

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How did you spend YOUR summer vacation? I spent part of it at the beach during the Woodstock fiftieth anniversary celebrations that went on at the original site. Me and my good buddy Brent debated whether to head up to Bethel, New York or Ocean City, New Jersey and the latter won out.

Brent and me, Bryson, the narrator of this improbable tale. We were good buddies from childhood. We're '69ers, born in the same year as the iconic Woodstock rock festival. While some of the original attendees returned to that now almost sacred stretch of farmland, that special place from their youth, we decided to relive our own nostalgia.

Both divorced and, like so many of the single guys that come to the shore every summer, we went on the prowl for female companionship. We did this kind of thing as high school and college students, so we thought it might be fun to try again. Our problem, of course, was trying to interest young millennials in us, men old enough to be their dads. Comically absurd, right? We thought so too. We were on a lark, not some serious quest to find romance, although we didn't expect to turn it down if given the opportunity.

We paid for a four-night stay, and for the first two days, we didn't do anything but gawk at all the young poon, the teens and twenty-somethings, daring each other to make a move, to take advantage of the so-called "opportunity" that abounded.

"Opportunity for millennial guys," Brent said, "not for us."

"We can tell them we're twenty-five," I suggested, "that it's the premature gray that makes us look older."

In fact, Brent was the one with gray hair, fast turning white. My hair, other than barely visible flecks of gray, is dark brown. Well, at least we still have our hair. Not only that, we're both in great shape, in better shape than some of those chubby millennials we saw around us. Brent runs, I ride a bike, and we both lift weights. "But you still can't hide your age," one of my married friends had said after I told him about our upcoming trip. "You'll look ridiculous trying to pick up girls your daughter's age. What could you talk about, have in common?"

Good questions, and ones that didn't escape us when we planned this little caper. What could we talk about? That's assuming we'd even get past our opening line, whatever that might be: 'You're from Philadelphia, I bet.' Or, 'We were wondering how girls your age might vote in twenty-twenty.' Or, 'Are you sorry you weren't born early enough to attend Woodstock?' Brent liked that last one.

Why didn't we start with women around our age? Truth to tell, we didn't see many of them, and those we did were coupled up. That left the millennials, some of whom were hot as the sun beating down on the beach. Not that we needed that. No, we figured we'd have a better chance approaching "average" looking chicks or even slightly below average. Back in the day, back when Reagan sat in the Oval Office, we did okay. We eschewed the same old moldy, corny lines. 'What's your sign?' Not for us. We'd approach them about politics or cultural events, and did quite well with those that were dialed in. Quite well didn't mean we got laid, far from it. Quite well the way we defined it meant hours of stimulating talk and, if we got lucky, some serious necking, sometimes on the beach, other times in our car.

"We were young gen-Xers then, not divorced middle-age men," I said to Brent on day three.

"But in our minds, we still are those young gen-Xers," he responded.

"On some level you're right. But try convincing these girls of that."

We tramped down to the ocean and began to wade in. The water could've been warmer, especially for mid-August. But we got used to the low to mid-seventies water temp soon enough, bodysurfing alongside the boogieboarders and others, including a couple of cuties (they all looked cute from our age perspective) whose enthusiasm for riding the waves appeared to match our own. I made eye contact with the brunette in the red and white one-piece hopping on one foot to clear water from her ear. She smiled at me, then quickly turned away. Her blond friend in the white bikini noticed and grinned in a strange kind of way—as in 'these dudes are much too old for us.' But that was only my perception, perhaps gleaned from being self-conscious about the so-called generation gap.

The lifeguards didn't give us much room to maneuver, packing us in between green flags. I got where they were coming from. Still, with near-perfect waves such as these, people were bumping into one another. One wave sent me smacking into the brunette's head. "Sorry," I said when we surfaced in the shallows.

Nodding, she rubbed the water from her eyes. "Great waves, too many people," she said. She flashed me a warm smile, then turned and wadded back out, looking for the next ride. I watched her hands and legs churn through the water, noticed her hair, long enough to reach the middle of her back.

Moments later, we saw the girls heading out toward the beach. We watched, hoping to see where they were sitting, then lost sight of them as they melted into the crowd. Brent turned to me and said, "We'll find them, they can't be far."

"Yeah, but something tells me that being found by us doesn't top their priority list," I said.

Brent chuckled. "Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained." His sarcastic tone said it all—he was no more optimistic than me.

Before returning to our beach spot, we decided to hunt them down. As Brent said, they couldn't be far. Even so, finding people among all those tourists lounging on their towels, chaise lounges and under their beach umbrellas wasn't easy. Not exactly your proverbial needle in a haystack, but no mean feat either. We trudged along the sand, on the hunt. "If nothing else, this gives our calves a good workout," I said.

"And you could use a good calve workout," Brent ripped. He was always teasing me about my smallish calves. No matter, because then I remind him of the disparity in our strength levels: he's never even been close to me in the power lifts.

We walked close to where the beach and boardwalk meet, when Brent made an abrupt stop and pointed. "There they are. Or at least I think it's them."

I gazed into the distance, using my hand as a sun visor. "Could be," I said, seeing two girls sitting on a blanket, applying sunscreen to themselves. "Their suits match what we saw in the ocean. I think you're right. Now what?"

Brent clicked his tongue, tsk, tsk. "Can you fucking believe this? Fifty-year old men discussing pick-up strategy. Are we pathetic or what?" He laughed.

He shot me a look of amused skepticism when I said we were really only nineteen. "Okay, twenty-five." His expression stayed frozen. "Okay, would you believe thirty?"

We had a good laugh while still scouting our "quarry." The blond lay on her stomach reading, while her friend sat up, arms splayed behind her, listening through ear buds. At that moment, we felt fifty going on nineteen, twenty-five or whatever age we were before becoming embroiled in the responsibilities of marriage and then parenthood. Perception's reality, as they say, and this was a weird, mixed-up reality, to say the least, feeling the way I did back in my free-wheeling days, yet still anchored to a middle-age mindset.

"The time is nigh," Brent announced. "We've got to start somewhere. Might as well be those two."

We argued who should be point man in this operation. "You exchanged some words with the brunette already," Brent reminded me, "so you should."

Fair enough. Brent kept a step behind me as we approached. That nervous-excited feeling swept over me, something I hadn't felt in years. I could picture us being shot down, even laughed at. But what the hell?

"So, we meet again," I said, standing on the edge of their blanket.

The blond looked up from her book, then looked at her friend who removed her ear buds, then looked at me. "Huh?"

Oh boy. "I smacked into you riding that wave. Just wanted to apologize."

The brunette nodded. "Oh. Right. But, um, you don't have to apologize. The lifeguards should move those flags further apart."

Brent looked down at the blond in the white bikini, she with the adorable butt and long legs. "Any good?" She blinked her pretty blue eyes, looked at him as if to say, 'what the hell are you talking about?' He craned his neck to see what she was reading. "The book, I mean."

She grinned. "Oh." She held it up, A Brief History of Time. "I like, just got it out of the library. Fascinating."

"Haven't read it but it's on my list," Brent said. I surmised that he was just feeding her a line.

My eyes scrutinized the brunette in the red and white one-piece, built like a long-distance swimmer, full-figured but solid. Big legs. Hazel eyes. Pretty smile. Alabaster white teeth. I asked what she'd been listening to. "A little of everything," she said. "From Spoon to Luke Combs. Even Vivaldi. I'm a girl of eclectic tastes when it comes to music."

I almost couldn't believe we'd made it this far. We'd established a beachhead, no pun intended. Time for introductions. "I'm Bryson and he's Brent," I said.

"Layla," the brunette said.

The blond raised her arm. "Alisha here." She sat up, looking us over. "Are you guys married?"

The girls traded giggles. Then Layla said, "She asks because when we were in Wildwood last summer, two older guys tried to pick us up. It was like, really hilarious, because about an hour into our conversation, their wives came down to the beach and caught them. It made quite a scene."

"No wives, not anymore," Brent revealed. "We're divorced."

Layla, sitting cross-legged, Indian style, pulled and twisted her long hair above her head, then tied it into a knot. "And now you're here...why? To meet young chicks like us?"

"They're going through a mid-life crisis," Alisha said. More giggles.

"Mid-life crises, hell," I insisted. "We're not a day over twenty-nine."

"In our minds, he means," Brent said.

"That I can believe," Layla said. She sang the old Pepsi jingle that Brittany Spears revived: "Now it's Pepsi, for those who think young."

"And we do," I insisted.

"Seriously, how old are you guys really?" Alisha asked.

Facing Brent, I raised my eyebrows, as if to ask, 'should we tell them?'

Brent kicked some sand around and gave a why not shrug. Then he said, "Born the year of Woodstock. Aren't you girls sorry you weren't born early enough to attend that concert? The original, I mean. Cause we sure are."

Incredulously, Alisha shook her head. "You guys are fifty years old?" We nodded. "Well, you look great for fifty. Look at them, Lay, six-packs and all."

Lyla nodded in agreement. "Yeah, our dads should look as good."

Speaking of twenty-nine, I was guessing these girls weren't even THAT old, a guess they confirmed when I asked. Alisha said she was twenty-three, Layla twenty-four. Recent college grads, they were down here for a week. They were from McKeesport, a small town in western Pennsylvania. "Our last fling before diving into the world of work," Alisha said.

"More school for me," Layla chimed in. "I'll be diving back into academia for a master's in computer science at Penn State, courtesy of my parents' largesse in allowing me to pursue higher education." She paused to let that sink in. Then: "So what do you guys do when you're not acting like you're eighteen? I mean that as a compliment, by the way."

Burt revealed he was a pharmacist. Me, I wore two hats; one, as a high school math teacher; and two, as co-owner of Kobin Sports, my family's sporting goods store, specializing in bicycles and ski equipment. My grandfather started Kobin in the nineteen-forties. "On Saturdays during the school year, I become a bike wrench, making repairs, getting my hands greasy," I explained. "It's a refreshing change of pace from teaching all week."

Layla seemed impressed. "Cool. It just so happens that I've been looking for a decent road bike. Perhaps you can wiggle me a discount?"

I didn't take her seriously, not with that shit-eating grin. Still, I said, "Come to Baltimore and we'll see. Meanwhile, can we wiggle our way onto your blanket?"

The girls looked at each other and shrugged. "Sure, why not," Layla said. "There's plenty of room."

Now we were getting somewhere, no doubt helped by our "respectable" means of employment. To extend the military metaphor, we were moving off our beachhead and marching inland. I'm not sure where this was leading, and didn't really care. Like life, it's the journey that counts, and thus far, I was enjoying the ride. My expectations, such as they were, had been exceeded, especially when the conversation got more personal. The young ladies weren't surprised when we told them we had kids around their age. We weren't surprised when they told us they had parents around OUR age. I asked if they'd yet to meet guys in their own generational ballpark. "Yes, last night," Layla revealed. "We drove down to Wildwood to check out a few of the clubs. We met lots of guys, most of them total jerks."

Alisha rolled her eyes. "Ohmygod, what jerks. One of them, like, began touching me at the bar while whispering in my ear about what a stud he was in bed. We'd love to meet a couple of nice guys, guys who respect women."

"Guys like us, you mean" Brent said, flashing that smart-ass grin of his and raising his bushy eyebrows. "We respect women."

Layla raised HER eyebrows, looking a bit skeptical. "Was that always the case? I mean, how did you treat women when you came to the beach as young dudes on the make?"

"The same way we do now as old dudes on the make," Brent said. "With deference and respect."

"He's right. First off, we didn't go to the bars. We met girls on the beach, sometimes on the boardwalk. We're not big drinkers."

"Yeah, and we always took no for an answer," Brent added. "And the noes outnumbered the yeses. Right Brice?"

"Yeah, but not by much. I'd say we batted around four-hundred."

Alisha turned to Layla . "I'd bet these guys packed plenty of condoms on those trips."

I laughed. "We did bring condoms. But honestly, we never got the chance to use them. Our noes refer to those gals who shot us down right away. The yeses were those times we did what we're doing now, spending time with those we approached. Sometimes, it went no further than this. Other times, we got more intimate, but never beyond second base."

Layla, now sitting up with her legs bent and arms wrapped around her thick knees, nodded. "Well, you sound like the kind of guys we enjoy meeting at the shore. If only you WERE no older than twenty-nine."

"Hey, age is just a number," I said. "And remember, with age comes wisdom." I winked.

"I imagine so," Layla said. "So what great words of wisdom can you impart to us?"

"Never get married." I paused for the laughter. "No, actually, my ex wasn't that bad, we just didn't see eye to eye on some important issues." Brushing down my growing mustache, I groped for an answer. "Great words of wisdom...hmm. Okay, just do the best you can in what you pursue and don't sweat the small stuff. Not great or original, but there you have it."

Layla reached out and patted my shoulder. "I like that."

Brent told them not to take life too seriously, then quoted the great Satchel Paige: "'don't look back, someone might be gaining on you.'"

"Satchel Paige?"

"One of the greatest pitchers of all time."

"Before my time," Layla said.

"Ours too," I said "but we know our baseball history."

Layla nodded, while looking at my shoulders and back. "You know, you really ought to re-apply some sunscreen, cause your skin is beginning to redden. Here let me help."

"You too," Alisha said to Brent, and the next thing we knew, the girls were lathering our shoulders and back with their number thirty Coppertone.

The sensuous feel of Layla's hands created a stirring between my legs, one I didn't expect. Of course, I kept that to myself. 'You're giving me an erection,' isn't something I figured she wanted to hear. I was half-erect when the girls suggested another dip in the ocean. Self-conscious, I walked toward the water with one hand over my crotch. Letting the girls walk ahead, I whispered to Brent what was happening. He laughed, told me to "save it for later. The best might be yet to come," he said. "No pun intended."

We kept each other company for the rest of the afternoon, bodysurfing, lounging on the sand, tossing around a Frisbee the girls had brought. The awkward formality that existed when we first approached them gave way to a relaxed informality. We began to pair off, holding two, two-way conversations—Brent with Alisha, me with Layla. It reminded me of meeting girls during those summers long passed, when what began as a "collective" of four, evolved into a pairing off, based less on looks and more on temperament and personality.

The real proof of that came when the girls suggested a walk down the beach, and the pairing held. We walked near the water's edge several yards apart, Brent and Alisha in front (I thought I did a yeoman's job of being discreet while sneaking peeks of Alisha's sexy butt). Layla laughed when I told her that anyone seeing us would think that I was her dad or uncle. I then asked if she felt she was walking with a father figure. "Yes and no," she said. "I mean, you're older and wiser, yet youthful in looks as well as in spirit." She paused and looked up at me. "And damn handsome besides."

I stopped and placed my hands on her shoulders. "May I kiss you for that?"

She grinned like a shy schoolgirl, looked down and said, "You certainly may."

Nearly six-feet, I bent slightly forward to reach her, all about five-foot-four of her, then pressed my lips to hers. It was brief but warm and sincere, and we followed up with holding hands, just as Brent and Alisha were doing already. We talked in more detail about our lives, her upcoming semester and possible career choices, my work life, my son who was going into his last year at Maryland and my daughter who was a dental hygienist. When I asked about her past relationships, she revealed something that she hadn't yet mentioned, a former boyfriend who was killed in an automobile accident. "Oh, that's terrible, I said. "I'm so sorry."

She squeezed my hand. "Thanks. Yeah, we were getting closer, even talking about getting engaged after college. Then a drunk driver..." She looked away and blinked. I stopped and pulled her close to me. She admonished herself. "Oh gosh, the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of you. I've spoiled the mood, I'm sorry. I hope you're not turned off."

Brent and Alisha turned around. "Everything okay?" Alisha asked.

Layla stepped back and wiped her eyes. "Everything's fine. I should have known better than to bring up what happened to Roger." By Alisha's nod, I knew she understood.

We resumed our walk through a few minutes of silence. Then Layla spoke up. "Thanks for comforting me. That was nice. Now, may I kiss YOU?"

I stopped and held her, looked into her face, her beautiful hazel eyes and the few freckles that sprinkled her porcelain skin. "Like you had to ask." We did it longer this time, pressed our bodies closer. Once again, my organ drifted north in response. There was no hiding it this time, even if I wanted to, and at that point my former inhibition collapsed like a sandcastle. I couldn't help but be seduced by her warm lips, the sensuous feel of her yummy thighs, her soft breasts pressing against my chest and the smell of her, a strange but delicious mix of salt water, sunscreen and her own wonderful scent, something akin to fresh oranges. In short: distinctly feminine.

Alisha and Brent were grinning at us when we decoupled. "Hey, we can do that too, you know," he said to Alisha. And for a few moments they did, during which time Layla and I got back into it. There we were, standing by the ocean's roar, two middle-age guys making out with these two young honeys whom we'd known for just a couple hours. Did it get any better than that?