I wavered, thinking about how long it would take my hair to dry and knowing I can't sleep with it wet – then tied it up, hoped for the best and got rid of my clothes. Wrapped an arm around my chest to run in and try to avoid the crabs feeding in the shallows, gurgling like a schoolgirl as I hit the water. Dropping my arms when I got to him.
“I thought, she'll have her bra on or something, but no, look at you, that's my girl.”
And he pulls me to him and kisses me, and his hands find my ass, and I can feel him hard as hell against me. The crabs get to our feet, clawing for food and competitors, and he wades out – I scamper a bit and stand still, the waves breaking against my hips, their end a roar in my ears. And another crab nips my ankle and I turn to walk out.
Tristan is at our bundle of clothes, silhouetted by the streetlights, and as I walk up to him, out of the ocean, “This body, look at this body!” My mind goes to cellulite, to rounder-than-I'd-like hips, to spongy stomach, to saddlebags, but before I can even process it I'm in his arms and being held and having hands run over me, and my mouth moaned into. My hands find the back of his neck and I'm lost. He bends at the waist, holding me up, pulling my thighs over his hips, stretches my t-shirt out beneath us, and drops me into the cool sand-bed, and my whole world is him suspended above me, his hips pumping, his mouth curled in that half-smile I can never get enough of.
**
It's too early for this, too early for my hands to want to spill forth, a little whiskey loosening the strings. I'm not alone and that makes this all the more clandestine, all the more dirty and hidden. Both parents still awake in their isolated stupors, sitting in separate rooms separated only by a shallow two-stair staircase. Mother drunk-stoned entrenched in a miserable drivel-novel and father drunk-tired entrenched in a basketball game on a television so large it's laughable, balanced on a coffee table so small it's dangerous. Myself hidden in the kitchen corner with the computers and file folder upon file folder of bills, repairs, taxes, insurance, school forms, medical forms, et cetera et cetera et cetera ad nauseum.
“I thought, she'll have her bra on or something, but no, look at you, that's my girl.”
And he pulls me to him and kisses me, and his hands find my ass, and I can feel him hard as hell against me. The crabs get to our feet, clawing for food and competitors, and he wades out – I scamper a bit and stand still, the waves breaking against my hips, their end a roar in my ears. And another crab nips my ankle and I turn to walk out.
Tristan is at our bundle of clothes, silhouetted by the streetlights, and as I walk up to him, out of the ocean, “This body, look at this body!” My mind goes to cellulite, to rounder-than-I'd-like hips, to spongy stomach, to saddlebags, but before I can even process it I'm in his arms and being held and having hands run over me, and my mouth moaned into. My hands find the back of his neck and I'm lost. He bends at the waist, holding me up, pulling my thighs over his hips, stretches my t-shirt out beneath us, and drops me into the cool sand-bed, and my whole world is him suspended above me, his hips pumping, his mouth curled in that half-smile I can never get enough of.
**
It's too early for this, too early for my hands to want to spill forth, a little whiskey loosening the strings. I'm not alone and that makes this all the more clandestine, all the more dirty and hidden. Both parents still awake in their isolated stupors, sitting in separate rooms separated only by a shallow two-stair staircase. Mother drunk-stoned entrenched in a miserable drivel-novel and father drunk-tired entrenched in a basketball game on a television so large it's laughable, balanced on a coffee table so small it's dangerous. Myself hidden in the kitchen corner with the computers and file folder upon file folder of bills, repairs, taxes, insurance, school forms, medical forms, et cetera et cetera et cetera ad nauseum.
