Sydney Buckner. No kidding.

Author's Note: Same as usual, what follows is a bit more story driven and takes some time to get into the sexual interaction. I thought about submitting this story to a number of different categories but ultimately settled on "Mature" as it just felt the most right.

Comments are always appreciated.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real life in name or circumstance are purely coincidental. I don't know anyone by the name of Sydney Buckner. All characters over 18 years old.

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I sat on my Tommy Bahama beach chair under my Tommy Bahama umbrella, paging through my hard-cover thriller, a small cooler with drinks and snacks next to me, looking exactly the cliche that I knew I had become.

...and it didn't bother me in the slightest.

It was a Tuesday and, not surprisingly, a quarter of the beach's population were the same ol' regulars that were there all the time; an in-and-out group of about 40 of us that could always count on seeing a familiar face on any given day. I was friendly with most of them and would normally sit by at least a small random handful, all of us rotating around semi-regularly, just to have some conversation and camaraderie. That day, as I strolled down the sand and saw the smattering of raised hands and friendly waves, I simply raised my book in return, the universal symbol of "I-am-caught-up-in-my-reading-and-don't-want-to-be-seen-as-rude-but-also-am-not-going-to-sit-with-anyone-because-I-need-to-get-through-the-climax-of-my-story," and received a second smattering of waves and thumbs-up in acknowledgement.

It was at the height of the literary action when I caught the group of young women start to set up their base-camp out of the corner of my eye and their movement and conversation was nothing more than white-noise as I barrelled through the final pages of the story, my head unable to spare the mental capacity to process anything about them.

When I finally slammed the book shut, a resounding clap followed by a satisfied sigh from me, they all spun their faces toward me, seemingly shocked that I was even there.

"Sorry about that," I said, somewhat embarrassed. "It was a really good book."

A couple of them giggled and they otherwise went back about their business, sunning and chatting and taking in the fantastic day we had been given.

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It was quite a bit later when I heard hushed conversation coming from the women, enough to draw my attention. I saw that they were each taking swigs out of the same water bottle and wincing at each turn - the obvious sign of contraband alcohol - and the scene made me grin.

When the park rangers had banned alcohol on the beach a couple years prior it was due to large parties - and their associated fallout - becoming the norm. Instead of coming onto the beach with one or two drinks or a bottle of wine to be shared among a group, those who decided to push the envelope were bringing cases of beer and many bottles of hard liquor, inevitably ending with passed-out revelers, illegal public sexual acts and an abundance of polluting trash. It was a shame, really, that an unruly minority had to ruin a good thing for so many others, as I could admit that I really enjoyed having a drink on the beach some days myself.

A couple of the group noticed my gaze and I responded with an exaggerated wink and a raised finger over my pursed lips, an obvious sign that I knew what was going on but would keep quiet about it. Their wide-eyed reactions, each of their faces' initially draining white but then turning bright red, were truly entertaining to me and my smile grew wider. But when one of the women turned and held the plastic bottle in my direction - a peace offering gesture - I felt the smile drift away from my face and replace itself with one of misplacement.

I knew that face.

But, how?

The look on my face must have been obvious, and the focus of my attention, the lovely young woman with the bottle, returned the look of confusion... only for a second... before herself going wide-eyed, yanking the bottle back and practically curling herself up into a little ball, hushed whispers of excited conversation then starting up among her and her friends.

She obviously knew me as well.

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It was for quite some time that I couldn't focus. At least I couldn't focus on anything other than trying to access the far reaches of my memory to determine where I knew her from. I found my eyes darting back and forth between the water and their group, where I inevitably found her, or one of her friends, returning my glances. Of course I wanted to just walk up to her and ask where we knew each other from but it somehow felt wrong.

Maybe it was because I was a single, middle-aged man and they were a group of young, vibrant women.

Maybe it was because I had an inkling of worry that our previous shared life experiences were somehow negative and her memory of me was not pleasant.

Maybe it was because I was suddenly embarrassed about all of us being nude.

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I started coming to the nude beach with my late wife after our daughter had moved out of the house and we were searching for things to do as empty-nester's. At first it was a novelty, something we had never dared to do in our younger years but had been on each of our bucket lists. I still remember the first walk, from the parking lot to the sand, each of us nervous about the prospect of being nude and out in the open, yet by the end of the day we were hooked. Not only was the experience wonderful by itself - the heat of the sun, the warmth of the breeze, the friendliness of the atmosphere - but we also realized that our fears were unfounded. The shared experience of the nudity meant that there was anonymity in it. We weren't the oddballs stripped and on display, everyone was just living their normal lives as they would on any other beach, just without the burden of clothing.

When she got sick we came less. Not because we didn't want to, in fact she begged me to bring her to her "happy place," but because she became so weak that, even in the special beach wheelchair we got her, she couldn't tolerate being out in any sort of element.

Thankfully, the place that she loved so much did not end up being an emotional burden for me after she passed, rather a loving support. The friends we had made over the years ended up being a wonderful asset to have and reminded me of the positives, not the loss.

So, a few years moved on, the pain and loss no longer quite as sharp, I found myself on the beach as often as possible. The aforementioned cliche... or stereotype... or caricature... of the random dude on the beach with not a care in the world. It was my happy place too, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Well, not every minute.

Not then at least.

Not while I was wracking my brain, not being able to place my on-the-sand neighbor.

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It turned out each of us was spending the entire day on the beach and, for that entire day, we were checking each other out. When I went in the water, I was checking them out from different angles on my way to and from. When I was in my chair I was practically staring at them from a 4-o'clock position. When they took the same actions it was all in reverse.

For me, my focus was singular, one in a group of five. A dirty blonde with hazel eyes and soft facial features. For them, it was 5 pairs of eyes that I caught when my own gaze would dart up-and-down from the sand to wherever it could find them, their own attempts to be conspicuous about as unsuccessful as my own.

At a certain point I actually started laughing, an action that probably made me look insane, and of course immediately drew focus of all 10 individual eyeballs, though somehow felt appropriate as I legitimately thought I was going nuts.

But, the strangest thing about the entire day? Neither of us left or moved. Both of us stayed on the beach, soaking in the sun, breathing in the salty air, staying true to the vision we had crafted for it when we got out of our vehicles in the parking lot earlier that day.

When the sun was finally going down and all of us were packing up - and had gotten covered up - I decided to address the divide head on.

"So..."

It was a single word that came out of my mouth when I was still about 3 meters away from her group.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to come over here," she responded, a nervous grin on her face as she finished packing up her belongings. "It's obvious you can't place me but, before I tell you, do you at least have any guesses?"

It was an easy answer for me: not a single one. That's what was most frustrating about the entire situation.

"I'm Sydney Buckner. Katrina was my nanny."

Sydney Buckner.

No kidding.

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Katrina is my daughter and my only child. This is mostly due to the fact that the cancer leading to my wife's death had not been her only experience with disease. Unfortunately, soon after Katie (what she was often called) was born, my wife was diagnosed with uterine cancer and underwent a proactive, full hysterectomy. It thankfully did everything it was designed to do, removing any trace of a tumor, but limited our options for any more biological children.

Of course, Katrina was no longer a child. Instead, at that point an adult, 34 years old and with 2 kids of her own. But, half her life prior she was a nanny to a little girl from a few streets over for a small handful of years. The reason that I couldn't place Sydney was the context of my knowing her. Katrina's nanny-ing was more of just summer and after school babysitting and usually done at Sydney's house... or in Katrina's car as she drove her little charge between play dates, sports, and piano lessons. But, there were a couple of circumstances when Sydney was at our house, and in the recesses of my memory I could recall her calling me "Papa" - apparently unaware that it was something to call your own father and not just my name - and loving that I would give her ice cream.

That little girl now stood in front of me, but the little girl had grown up.

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"Oh, my God! Sydney! I can't believe it! How are you? Can I give you a hug?"

She stuck her arms out with a big smile on her face and I wrapped her up the same way I did when she was little. Well, except that she wasn't little anymore. She was a fully-grown woman.

"I'm really good," she responded when I finally let her go, myself oblivious to the fact that I could have been making her uncomfortable. "Done with undergrad and starting a masters program in the fall through a program at work."

Sydney told her group to leave without her, assuring me that she had her own car at the beach, so she could stay and catch up with me for a while. We talked about her schooling - she had passed her boards and was a registered nurse - and what she was up to. And, of course, she returned the inquiries, asking me about Katrina and asking me about myself.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," she responded with heartfelt warmth when I told her of the passing of my wife and then, to my complete surprise, added some news of her own. "Actually, my parents died right around the same time."

It was news to me and quite a shock. More lives, like my wife, taken too soon. Unlike my wife, it was a car accident that took them, but condolences were nonetheless given. Though I didn't know him, I thought her father and I were maybe around the same age, me having had my daughter very early in life, him a bit later. It was actually why she was moving back, she informed me. Her parents house had been held in a trust since their deaths and she was gaining access to it now that she had turned 21. She admitted to being a little scared about homeownership but figured there was no time like the present to take over her family residence.

There was an obvious pause in the conversation and I was thankful that she took the lead in digging us out of the odd conversational hole we had put ourselves in.

"So, uh... ya' come here often?"

There was a bit of tongue in cheek sarcasm to her voice, a nod to a pick-up-line delivered one too many times and how out of place it was given the scene we found ourselves in. It made me laugh.

"Actually, yes, I do. Jokes on you!"

My response brought a smile to her face.

"Really?! That's pretty cool. This is my first time here."

"What about your friends?"

"Oh. They don't actually live around here, so it's the first time for everyone. They were all friends from undergrad in town visiting and checking out the house. It was a bit of a fluke that we were even here to begin with... kinda' a long story. Anyhow, it's actually the reason I have my own car, they are going their separate ways, I am going mine. You know, I wasn't too sure about coming here at first but I can see why people enjoy it. It's really nice to not have a swimsuit with sand stuck all up in it."

"I can imagine," I said with a wink.

"Besides, all they were interested in was seeing the naked guys. It would probably be better not to come back with them. If we were all here again you would probably not be able to relax as they would be hitting on you the entire time while I just sat awkwardly to the side."

"Ha, right."

"No! I'm serious, Papa. You look really good!"

Her comment made me blush and she gave me a light punch in the arm to bring me back down to earth.

"Don't let it go too much to your head," she chastised.

"I won't, I won't. And, if you ever do just want to come out here, like I said, I am here a decent amount. Don't hesitate to join me."

"Thanks. That's nice of you to offer."

We began walking back to the parking lot and filled the time with random small talk before saying our goodbyes.

Sydney Buckner.

No kidding.

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As much as I would like to say that her comment about me looking good didn't go to my head I know I would by lying in saying so. After stripping down - but before hopping in the shower - I had to have wasted ⅔ of the hot water tank while I stood and checked myself out in the mirror, flexing and relaxed, posed and casual. It was a bit pathetic.

In reality, it wasn't like I had a low opinion of myself. While I may not have been the embodiment of Thor, I actually thought of myself as a pretty attractive guy to the opposite sex: 6'2" and 205lbs, ever so slightly heavy around the midsection just due to middle-age, but otherwise proportionally ideal. Plus, a solid butt, decent muscles and a nicely sized dick.

'Yeah,' I thought to myself. 'Not too bad.'

As I finally got around to rinsing off a day's worth of sweat, salt, and sand, I found myself daydreaming about life and the interaction today on the beach and was fascinated by a couple of realizations.

First, I couldn't force myself to remember Sydney as a child. I had snapshots of emotion from a couple of interactions though I could not remember what she even looked like. I could vaguely picture a small blonde child but realized that it very well could have been from a magazine ad or some other media, my only clear image of her was of the woman she transformed into.

Second, I could only picture her face. I realized that, in trying to place her, I never truly objectively sized up her body - a shocking realization for a red-blooded man who admittedly appreciated the nude female form - though I felt like I could at least offer basics on the handful of friends she was with.

Did either of those things mean anything? Damned if I knew. I spent my working career in sales and consulting. I certainly wasn't a psychologist.

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It only took a night's worth of sleep to get the thoughts out of my mind and, before I knew it, it was a couple weeks later. My routine hadn't changed one bit. I was still spending at least a small handful of days of the week on the beach and the rest of it living my "normal life:" working my purposefully abbreviated consulting hours, running errands, paying bills, cooking myself nice meals, and virtually visiting with my daughter and grandchildren as often as they would tolerate.

I found myself on the beach one day, strangely alone but still enjoying myself, when a happy voice announced itself from just outside my peripheral vision.

"Hey, Papa!"

I wasn't surprised to find Sydney standing there, not because I was expecting her to be at the beach, but because she was the only person who called me Papa. Heck, even my own daughter had switched to Dad some years back.

"Hey, you!"

My response was authentically pleased and I found myself hopping out of my chair to greet her, not even thinking about my nudity when I stepped in for a hug. She seemed not to have cared as she wrapped her arms around me tightly.

"I was wondering if I was going to find you here," she said as she stepped back away from me to a more normal speaking distance.

"Here I am," I responded.

I watched her eyes as they quickly surveyed the lay of my land - my body that is - hovering for a hesitation longer on my dangling penis, but then quickly darting to her belongings on the sand.

"Are you alone?"

"Surprisingly so," I said, looking around as if I was going to find someone and leave her on the spot. "It's kind of strange, but nobody from the groups I would normally hang out with are here. Maybe I forgot to read the newsletter details right."

"You have a newsletter?"

Her reaction was incredulous.

"Ha! No, that was just a joke. But I was surprised that literally none of them are here today."

"Okay if I join you?"

She had a hesitant smile on her face. It was obvious she was looking for me to verify my previous open invitation for her to join me whenever she felt like it, but also another level of nervousness. I simply attributed it to her lack of experience around me and, more so, on the nude beach itself, and thought nothing more of it.

"It'd be my pleasure," I said, opening up my arms to the area around me as an invitation for her to get herself situated.

Unlike myself, she didn't have much gear. No cooler, no reading materials, no umbrella. Just a chair, towel and a small bag.

"You travel light," I remarked as I settled back down in my chair, cognizant of the fact that she did not need any assistance from me.

"Well, I don't really have any more stuff," she responded. "But I have what I need, I think. Maybe if I get too hot I can huddle under your umbrella?"

"Absolutely. Open invitation."

She set up surprisingly far away from me and, unlike myself, who faced directly toward the water, she turned more toward me, facing directly at the sun.

When the time finally came, there was little hesitation in her stripping down and I did my best to not stare at her while she was doing it... but most likely failed.

"Could you do me a favor and get my back," she asked, a bottle of sunscreen in her outstretched hand. "I saw a video online of a guy applying to his own back with a paint roller but I didn't think to bring one."

I laughed as I stood up and took the lotion and got to work.

"All good," I responded. "If you're gonna be out here it's completely necessary. I may ask you to return the favor in an hour or two."

Of course, the time she spent disrobing in front of me and the time I spent covering her back with a nice, even layer of SPF30 were more than enough for me to check out her body. And, while I hadn't been able to recall any details after our first meeting on the beach, this time I did what I could to take everything in.