Cellular Memory

In the way that Paul Gauguin's paintings of Polynesia are sultry and sensuous, almost radiating a sexuality that emerges from the very landscape itself, I find sunbathing on a tropical beach a sultry and sensuous act in and of itself. Perhaps it is because I live in a northern clime, and while my winter weather is moderated by the coastal connection to the Pacific Ocean, we still spend about 4 to 5 months of the year bundled up in layers of clothing against the cold. The contrast, then, which emerges when I find myself wearing three triangles of barely there cloth - in the case of my bikini - loosely connected by a flimsy set of strings prone to coming undone without any warning, starts the sensual liberation.

A lotion, scented with coconut oil and aloe, lingeringly massaged into skin that leaves a literal and figurative glow, eroticizing my skin. The sun's rays which lightly trace the rounded contours of my breasts feel like the lips of a long missed lover teasing my nipples erect. The heat, lingering warmly, parts my thighs and nudges my ass cheeks into a relaxed and receptive softness. My back muscles comfortably arch with the lazy cat-like quiver of an all over awareness of this female body I inhabit. Even "back in the day" when, as a young 18 year old, I traveled to the tropics with my family and another family I knew so well that they were like a "second" set of parents and siblings, I can remember the irresistible eroticism of the place that caused me to lose more than my inhibitions.

He, lying beside me on the tropical beach on his back, had on a tight bathing suit, outlining the delicious bulge that was his package. Our families had been friends since before we were born and we spent so much time growing up together that we knew each other's vulnerabilities and strengths and could trust each other with our very lives. We could, and did, talk to each other about everything and anything. We knew what made each other laugh, and what made each other cry. And, while our friendship had previously emerged from childhood into young adulthood unscathed by anything that would move it beyond a strong "brother and sister like" bond, puberty had definitely shifted our perspective on who we each were. Hence, I noticed, that clear outline of M's "junk" in his bathing suit, made me look at this dear friend with a new eye; an intrigued eye, and eye that suddenly wanted to be more intimately acquainted with an already intimate friend.

At 18, our families deemed us old enough to find a spot further down the beach from the family hotel - he was born two months before I was - and we left our parents and siblings around the pool while we sought out a more remote location. But, at least at first, although I knew for sure where my impulse would take us, I shushed myself inwardly; a friendship such as mine with M should have nothing that would threaten its continuation, althouououough, the strength of such a friendship was, wasn't it, that we could share everything with each other? Nothing would destroy it, could it? We had grown up together, we could grow together, couldn't we, into adult people with adult bodies and adult desires. I either sighed or giggled a bit, I cannot remember which, but he turned his head to look at me.

"What?" he asked. A shy smile, no, more of a grin was on my face.

"Ummm," and I nodded toward his crotch, "you aren't leaving much to the imagination."

And then, I am sure, I did giggle a little, perhaps because I had taken one small step toward breaching that gap between platonic friendship and sexual intimacy. He glanced downward at his crotch and then blushed slightly. He looked away from me, down the beach slightly, and then after a moment's hesitation, he rolled on his side so that he was facing me.

"What do you mean?" his tone of voice made it clear he knew exactly what I meant and I noticed a slight movement in the crotch of his bathing suit. I giggled again, not sure what to say, suddenly unsure of what exactly what it was I wanted. But I could not take my eyes off the bulge of his cock and my eyes widened slightly as I realized that underneath that bathing suit things were happening. I quickly glanced up to meet his eyes and saw his expression had changed slightly although whether he was dismayed or delighted I could not tell.

I, too, rolled over on my side so we were facing each other, inches separating our beach towels and our sun heated bodies. I glanced back to the crotch of his bathing suit and saw that, definitely, he had swollen. For a moment all we could hear, it seemed, were the distant voices of those playing on the beach, a remote cry of a shore bird, and the quickening of our own breaths. My bikini was, literally, just a set of small triangles and just as he could not hide his growing erection, I could do nothing to mask my almost painfully erect nipples. He reached a finger out, and in the gentlest of movements lightly traced the aureola visible through the white cloth. It was the first time someone male had touched my breasts and I was astounded at the pleasure his stroke evoked in me. Again our eyes met, and this time I am sure his expression was slightly taunting.

"What do you want?" he urged.

"To know what it is like," I confessed.

"What?" he questioned, "what what is like?"

I licked my lips. In the barest of whispers, "To touch a... " I hesitated.

"Yes?" he responded, and then sensing I would not, could not, go further, reached out and took my hand in his. He kissed my palm, then tilting my chin to make sure we had eye contact, placed my hand firmly on his crotch, holding it there for a moment, before moving his own hand back to my bikini top and sliding his finger under the triangle of cloth so that he could feel my nipple, skin on skin.

The bathing suit covered topography of his cock under my hand was so entrancingly different from my own anatomy that I could not help but move my hand exploratorily. He stilled for a moment in his finger stroking of my breast and looked down at my hand on his crotch. And, it was as if he had been cautiously holding back, for when he let go of whatever control he had had, his cock seemed to explode in size exponentially under my hand. His long hard shaft was distinctly visible under his bathing suit and the head of his shaft emerged from under the waistband.

"Touch it," he murmured, "touch it."

And I did. I slowly traced the tip of my fingers back and forth around the waistband of his bathing suit, grazing the head of his shaft with each circular stroke. He groaned then shifted his position slightly so the head of his cock was able to fully emerge. His hips began to flex toward me ever so slightly, and I looked at him with a question on my face.

"Go ahead," he whispered, "do it." And I did, I reached down into his bathing suit and brought his entire cock out into the shadow that lay between us. He groaned again and I noticed his head had arched backwards, every muscle in his body seeming to match the rigidity of his penis. His hand was still resting on my breast but I am sure he was barely aware of it as his entire body seemed focused on the sensation of my hand on his cock. Had we not been on the beach I am sure he would have been thrusting his hips with wild abandon, but we were visible to others farther down the shore, and it must have taken an inordinate amount of will to, as I found out later, suppress his response to the feeling of the first female hand on his cock.

"Stroke it," his voice had a certain erotic agony to it, "please," he added.

And again, I obeyed him moving my soft fingers over the length of his member and then increasing our skin on skin contact by using my full hand and grasping it with more confidence, instinctively stroking up and down, up and down. Of course, it did not take long for a hot load to erupt volcanically from the head of his cock, glazing it and my hand with glistening milky cum.

Did this change our friendship? Of course. During that tropical vacation, and the few times in the future we could manage to escape the company of our siblings and parents, our friendship grew into a heated, intense first love for both of us as we explored each other's bodies with the fond intimacy of having known each other all of our lives and the frenetic lust of late adolescence.

Did our friendship last? Yes, it did. Did our physical intimacy? No. Why? Perhaps, I might posit, it is our first, our very first, sexual experiences that lodge themselves in our cellular memory and shape all our subsequent desires. For M, then, while I was the first female hand to stroke his cock to a cum, mine was not the first hand, and the rapturous recollection of that first hand that stroked his cock, he told me, became an irresistible underpinning or undermining, as the case was with us, in all of his subsequent sexual encounters.