The Old Man and the Beach

Why didn't I just read at home or patronize a "non-nude"-and cheaper or even free (except for my tax money)- beach? Well...yes... I did try a few conventional beaches but returned to Sunbody for multiple reasons, despite its cost. For one, I had discovered that, yes, I was a voyeur at heart even if I had subdued my more intense reactions. And Sunbody Beach was relatively cleaner-very little trash, and safer-very little crime, and quieter-no one under eighteen, nor any dogs other than rare "service animals". (Don't get me wrong. I love kids and animals- in the right times and places. But they tend to be messy, noisy and obtrusive, not what I wanted when I was reading or contemplatively people-watching. If I missed the company of the under-eighteen set, there was a free public beach just north of Sunbody where I could shmooze with adolescents and toddlers to my heart's content.) As for reading at home-well, five or six days out of seven I did just that-when I wasn't puttering in my garden in the cooler hours of the day, or surfing the internet, or working on my Spanish or Brazilian Portuguese (yes, I did get back to that eventually).

The summer seemed to settle into a routine, though I still wondered what had become of Sally from time to time- but had just about given up on ever encountering her again. Apparently we weren't being moved by the same spirit. But no other attractive Sunbody habituée found me "interesting" enough to "hit on" me-as I believe is the current parlance. And I wasn't into chatting up women twenty to fifty years my junior. I was probably by far the oldest person on the beach; certainly I was the only white-haired, white-bearded figure there. I guesstimated that perhaps three-quarters of the regulars were in their twenties and thirties, and the balance mostly forties and, at oldest, early fifties. Even considering cases of middle age paunch with males losing the battle of the bulge and females the battle of the sag, and, rarely, a few signs of gray hairs, nobody came close to resembling Santa Claus (me), lounging on my Christmas-colored (red, green and white) towel and blue half-recliner, reading books I hadn't had time for when younger and had been consumed by my career as a professor of chemistry at a regional state university, also in San Patricio.

So I read, and surveyed and scrutinized and evaluated and went home again. And again. And again.

Chapter Five

That is...until one Saturday in early July when it was blazing hot inland, and rolling brown-outs were wreaking havoc on air conditioning-but the cool sea breeze was keeping the seaside tolerable, so...

Sunbody Beach was more crowded than I had ever seen it before and I had a heck of a time finding a place to spread my towels, though I finally was able to seize a space just then being vacated high up on a sandy knoll abutting the rock wall that backed the landward side of the beach. And the spot had the additional benefit of being a good vantage spot for people-watching.

Of course the beach's being so crowded that sultry Saturday had its pros and cons. There were more people to watch-but it was hard to pick engaging candidates-or activities-out of the milling mob scene and focus on them. I sighed and was about to rummage in my duffel for my current literary selection-an English translation of Cervantes' Don Quixote with corresponding Spanish text on facing pages ( I could at least pretend to be studying Spanish while enjoying a good classic tale at the same time) when I spotted her.

No, not Sally. Someone else. A surprisingly subtle choice. Nevertheless...

...for some inscrutable reason I focused on a tall, slender-very slender-dark-haired girl who was making her way through knee- to midriff-deep water surging towards the rock walls past the end of the sandy-rocky beach. Perhaps it was my concern for her safety that first drew my attention, but it was also the unusual fact that she wasn't nude-just nearly so. She was sporting a barely-there string microbikini- two patches little more than pasties over her nips and a G-string scarcely covering her pussy...with dark pubic hair poking out. I thought of the 1950's (1960's?) ditty "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini"...except that this girl's suit was an aqua blue-green. I considered. What was the point? She was all but naked anyway...

Perhaps the same thought crossed the girl's mind since eventually she ducked beneath the water-I was alarmed-but emerged some worrisome long moments later minus her top and bottom, clutching a fistful of blue cloth. I let out my breath-I hadn't been aware I had been holding it. Then she raised her arm and dropped the fabric into the water and appeared to watch it as it drifted away. After, she resumed her doughty march through the waves surging around her and breaking on the nearby rough dark rock ramparts. But she made it unfazed-and upright- to where the rocky wall receded inland as the sloping sandy-gravelly beach intruded between the cliffs and the rambunctious sea, and she gracefully clambered up the incline to where a group of young- mostly perhaps twenty-something-fellows were clustered in a knot, some sitting on towels or coolers, others standing about, chatting animatedly.

The girl strode up to the males without hesitation, then stood to the side of one auburn-haired, clean-shaven, medium-tall fellow, almost as slender as she, though definitely not skinny. The guy glanced momentarily at the girl, then returned to conversing with his pals. Undaunted, the girl stood there, nearly motionless, her arms at her sides, almost touching the guy, facing him, but making no move to approach him closer.

Everyone in the group was naked, of course. This was a "clothing optional" beach, though from what I could see from my vantage point, it would more accurately have been described as "nudity required." All morning long I had not spotted a single clothed person-other than Bikini Girl, though a few folks intermittently wrapped towels about themselves.

The girl had small breasts, barely large enough to make handfuls, but erect, dark, perky nipples, and her dark pubic bush appeared almost untrimmed, certainly not shaved, though with a pearly, opalescent orb peeking out. A clit ornament? I had never understood people piercing nipples or penises or clitorises-it seemed irrational, certainly painful, and prone to nasty infections. And certainly interfered with the natural functions of such organs. But each to their own...

The fellow had a medium-long penis, dangling limp, with light brunet or auburn pubic hair, but impressive testicles-"bull nuts" so-called. Though very slender he appeared well-muscled, but more on the wiry side than muscle-bound.

I idly speculated on the interaction between the girl and guy-or lack thereof. She appeared manifestly attracted to him, but he certainly was not actively responding to her. He seemed much more interested in what his buddies were saying as they gesticulated and laughed and pantomimed-occasionally spilling their beer cans or bottles. It must have been a most engrossing narrative.

I looked away. Mildly interesting but nothing entrancing for me, and perhaps there was something more titillating to see elsewhere on the beach. There often was. I pondered. In "the bad old days" nude venues often rigorously banned any sexual behavior or even "public displays of affection", perhaps in an attempt to convince the authorities that nudism was some sort of profound philosophical construct and not just a pretext for lechery. But not so in the current era; open sexual activity was more than common-it seemed the norm; and the nude beach was better than a porn website for the voyeur. And it seemed I was one; which was one reason I had continued to frequent the private, pay-for-admission "clothing optional" beach a mere thirty-five miles from my home in San Patricio. I was even considering purchasing a membership, which would entitle me to admission without having to ante up the fee every time I came-and access to the private "beach house" near the entryway to the area...with its blessed showers and private reserve-by-the-hour "guest rooms."

But I spied nothing and no one engrossing enough to engage my voyeurism. So I extricated my current literature from my duffel and settled down for a good read.

Chapter Six.

A shadow fell across me. I lowered my book and peered up, shading my eyes. A woman was standing there, her legs akimbo, her figure shadowed by the sun at her back. My heart leapt. Sally?! Then immediately fell; this female was definitely NOT Sally. Not at all.

I was annoyed at the interruption, but tried to be polite-I have never been a gratuitously rude person. Ahem... "Can I help you?" I inquired, still semi-blinded by the sun blazing over the woman's shoulder.

"Aren't you a bit old to be doing this sort of thing?" asked the woman in a late middle-aged voice.

What the heck?! I was irritated but struggled to remain gentlemanly and replied, "You are only as old as you think you are. How old are you?"

"Touché!" tittered the woman. "Mind if I settle here by you?" she inquired huskily, then immediately spread a very large black-and-white towel only inches from mine without waiting for a reply. Cheeky, pushy woman; I took an immediate dislike to her.

But as she smoothed out her towel and deposited a large carpetbag of her stuff nearby, I took the opportunity to study her physiognomy and render an evaluation: medium brunette, wavy, medium short cut hair; a rather stocky medium-length torso with some pudge; large breasts with flat, broad, light-colored areolas; broad hips; shaved pubes; thick, fleshy, protuberant pussy labia...just about everything a bit on the fleshy side. I estimated her age at fifty plus or minus five years. Evaluation: five or five-point-five on a scale of one through ten; in academic parlance a C or C-plus. Not too bad for late middle age, but definitely not on my honor role.

The woman settled herself and extended a hand, "Hi! I'm Amber...Brown. That's my second married name; I don't want to remember my first one. My maiden name's Wiesniewski...W-I-E-S-N-I-E-W-S-K-I-good and solid Polish. I'm a high school English teacher..." Another teacher? I must exude some aura or karma or maybe a pheromone that attracts teachers... "and you? I see you're minus a wedding ring. Are you divorced?"

I was even more annoyed, but I replied, "Not divorced....widowed. And you?" The best defense is a good offense...or so they say.

"Both. Once divorced, once widowed. My first husband was a gold-plated jerk with a monster dick who was dynamite in bed and elsewhere-but that was all he was good at. I would say he spent money like it grew on trees-but he was too lazy to pick it off a tree. A total slob who did nothing but stick his stick into every hole he could find." So why did she marry him? Maybe she had hole poisoning. "My second husband, Bob, was boring as slug slime in bed but did give me three great kids and was a good father, and kind and considerate and hard-working...he was a plumber...and great at home and car maintenance. Too bad he liked his beer, bacon and brats too much...I tried to warn him...and about two years ago expired of a heart attack. So I'm a hybrid divorcee-widow. How'd you come to be a widower?"

Damn nosy woman, this Amber. But I responded, "My wife died of a ruptured aortic aneurysm... You know what that is?..." ...

Amber said, "I think so-a weak area in the wall of a blood vessel that can break..."

Okay, so she wasn't stupid. Rude and intrusive but not stupid. I continued, "Also about two years ago. A real shocker. So here I am..."

...Amber... interrupted, "...lounging on a nude beach reading heavy duty books. Kind of an incongruous combination, don't you think?"

I countered, "Not really. I could be reading a heavy duty book at a pro wrestling match. So what are you doing here besides hitting on the oldest geezer on a nudist beach?"

She tittered, "I'm hitting on you? Hmm...not a bad idea..."

Oops. Open mouth, insert foot...

"..but I'm mostly here because my oldest daughter-the only good thing my first husband ever gave me...maybe... I found out I was pregnant after our divorce- talked me into coming. She said it might help me snap out of my blue funk after Bob-my second husband-died."

Me. "Has it?"

She. "Has it what?"

Me. "Has coming here helped you snap out of your blue funk?"

She. "Well...umm...yes. I guess. It's hard to watch a wild live sex show without getting one's adrenaline up..." I could agree with that. "...So I've been coming here almost every Saturday for the last few months since I don't have to teach on weekends. But I haven't seen you here before. Why not?"

I immediately resolved not to attend on future Saturdays, no matter how hard my air conditioner was struggling. I could always go down in the basement to read.

But I commented anyway, "That's because I've been coming other days of the week. I'm retired-sort of."

"Hmm...then you could come on Saturdays if you wanted, couldn't you?"

I didn't like the way this conversation was headed and I wanted to get rid of this pestiferous woman-I just didn't know how to do so gracefully.

So I didn't respond, but for some reason I glanced down the beach towards the willowy dark-haired girl and noticed she'd finally pried the attention of the object of her affections away from his male cohorts and he was now facing her. (Well, it probably helped that the male herd had apparently broken up and mostly dispersed.) She was standing very close to him-their pelvises were almost touching-chatting animatedly. As I watched she caressed her long hair with one hand, then reached out with the other to grasp one of his hands. Her posture and every action fairly shouted, "I like you! I want you! Please...please...want me! Take me!" Things were getting more interesting.

But Amber poked me in one arm-hard-and demanded, "What're you staring at so hard?"

Ouch.. Now she was trespassing into my thoughts and had just spoiled a private observation I had been savoring. I was really peeved

I should have told Amber to bug off and leave me alone, but I wimped out and responded. "Just people-watching."

"Oh? My daughter told me I'd enjoy doing that at the beach here, but so far I haven't been able to get into it. Perhaps you can clue me in."

I sighed. Well, here went nothing...maybe. I gestured toward the willowy girl and her putative beau. She was starting to tug him along behind her by one hand, pausing to scoop up a towel and drape it over her free arm. I was suddenly poignantly reminded of a petite Oriental girl-young woman-towing a white-haired geezer along the beach. Of course she was grasping his penis, not his hand- but same principle. It was a bittersweet memory though Marcus quivered a bit and rose slightly.

"Over there..." I declared, "...that tall thin girl with the towel draped over one arm... She's been trying for some time to get the red-headed guy's attention. Seems to have finally succeeded and is reeling in her catch.."

...Amber...peered in the direction I was indicating, then sighed deeply and rummaged in her bag until she pulled out a pair of wire-rim spectacles and perched them on her face. "Now you know my deepest darkest secret..." she muttered.

"If having lousy eyesight is your deepest, darkest secret...then you're pretty shallow." I snarked. Bad boy but...

She gave me a startled glance, then grinned crookedly. "Say, you're pretty witty." she commented. "What did you do before your present incarnation?"

I didn't answer. The girl was now towing the boy past us not thirty feet (ten meters) away from left to right, not even glancing our way. Of course, why should they? I wondered where they were bound for and what they were going to do once they got there. All sorts of interesting possibilities presented themselves. Marcus stirred further.

Ow!! Amber had punched me in the arm-hard. I was probably going to bruise.

"I asked you a question, mister!" declared Amber vehemently. "What sort of a job did you have before you became a beach bum? And what's your name? I told you mine! Or were you a CIA spook and can't tell anybody?"

If I hadn't been intrigued to find out what was going to transpire with ex-Bikini Girl and Her Catch, I would have gotten up, gathered my stuff, and left.

Instead I muttered, "College professor of chemistry. Edward...Ed...McKean!"

"Ed CAN speak!" chortled Amber. "I thought as much. College professor, eh? I thought you smelled like a teacher!"

Smelled like a teacher? Maybe there was something to the pedagogue pheromone idea. Perhaps I should bathe thoroughly and douse myself with stinky after shave lotion (even though I don't shave) before coming to the beach-as well as avoid Saturdays.

I tried to ignore Amber and studied the happy twosome as they didn't go much further but angled crosswise and upward on the slope to halt not forty feet (thirteen meters) away in a gap between two jagged rock outcroppings poking out of the sand-gravel. The girl spread out her white and blue towel and gestured to her prey to settle himself upon it, which he did. It was clear who was in charge of the situation. Then she lay down beside him.

I noted that the rocks effectively screened the couple from the view of most folks below and along the beach-but not from our elevated vantage point. Now why was I thinking "our" and not "my"?

Amber laid a hand on my belly then stage-whispered, "I wonder what they're going to do next!"

I whispered back, "Why don't we just keep quiet so we don't interrupt them and watch?" If I could get Amber to keep still, that would be a plus.

So we watched, though Amber began vigorously-almost painfully- kneading my abdomen- while not so gradually working her way to my pectorals. Didn't this woman do anything gently? Possibly not. I began to feel sorry for her second husband... Bob was it? Then she seized my hand and pressed it onto one of her ample breasts. "My boobs and nips are real sensitive." she growled, "I've come more than once from breast play alone." Did I really care? Not really, but being a generous soul...

I desultorily began kneading her fleshy mammary and trying to massage her nip-though it was hard to grasp her flat areola. But I tried to remain focused on the show unfolding before us between the rock pillars.

Bikini Girl-well, ex-Bikini Girl-and her catch lay hip-to-hip for some time conversing as she idly toyed with his chest and nips-yes, guys do have feelings in their nips, and the fellow intermittently stroked one of her thighs. Okay... I guessed they were in no rush to get more lively. That was okay; perhaps the girl actually wanted to get to know the fellow and not just fuck him. I thought once again of my abrupt connection with Sally. Marcus stirred a bit more. I hoped Amber didn't notice.

Amber squeaked softly and squeezed my hand that was not-so-enthusiastically toying with her breast and nipple. "That feels good...Ed! You might be okay! But squeeze and twist and tug the tip of my nip a bit too!"

So I did, though it was just out of courtesy-I really wasn't getting turned on by playing with Amber. (I lie. Despite my stern instructions to him, Marcus was growing and rising and I could feel a flush and tingling in my nips that I often experienced when I was getting turned on. Groan; my body was over-ruling my common sense. How pitiful.)

Then things got livelier. The guy and girl rolled towards one another and began energetically necking, while caressing one another's bodies. I could practically see their tongues wrestling and hear their panting. Oh my... Marcus rose further. Oh dear...