April 13, 2013 by E.
A few weeks ago, I promised you an adults-only story of A.’s first visit to my family’s beach house. Now before all you land-locked individuals get excited and start begging for invitations, in Florida, people with beach houses are almost as common as people with pools in their backyard. Which is to say that even if you don’t have one yourself, you invariably make friends with someone who does, so you get to experience the sun and sand and surf anyway. So while my family’s beach house is extremely special to me, it’s certainly not anything fancy or exotic.
For example, The Island is a mere 7 miles long by .5 miles wide – at its widest. It’s a scraggy little stretch of land with no cars, no stores, no bars, no night clubs, and no resorts. There is no bridge, so in order to reach The Island, you’d need to have a boat, kayak, or the endurance of an Ironman swimmer. When you’re crossing over to The Island and water starts falling from the sky, said precipitation mixes with the salt water splashing up at you over the side of the boat, and you, your family, friends, personal belongings, and dog all get wet. It’s kind of like a bonding experience.
For those of A.’s friends who have been told that my family has an entire island, I apologize. You have been lied to. There are, in fact, other people who inhabit and vacation on The Island, there just don’t happen to be very many of them. See above for the “no resorts” qualifier. Also, “no stores, no bars, no night clubs”. It’s not exactly a sought-after vacation hot spot.
All of this detail has been provided to assure you that when A. and I walked down to the beach one afternoon and decided that sex in the ocean would be fun, we weren’t actually violating any state statues regarding indecent exposure, because there wasn’t anyone around to view our indecency. (I’m using the if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? logic here. Just go with it.)
The important detail in this story is that, on this particular afternoon, the beach was utterly and completely abandoned; not a person in sight. We swam out into waist-high water and I wrapped my legs around his waist; he slid aside my bikini bottoms and began to thrust himself into me. The waves were minimal, the current was present but unhurried, and we languorously made love as we allowed ourselves to be gently guided by flow of the ocean.
We’d gone a few hundred feet, carried by the current, still in the pleasant haze of our lovemaking, laughing when a rogue wave came by to interrupt us, observing the calm beauty of our surroundings, and wholly believing that we were the only two people on the beach that afternoon. In that moment, we could have been the only two people in existence that afternoon.
Except, of course, we weren’t.
Reality can be a harsh and startling thing sometimes, when it pulls you out of your shimmering dream world and forces you to come face-to-face with the altogether unexpected and occasionally unpleasant.
Reality is especially jarring when, for example, the current pushes you around the point of the island and you find, not 10 feet away from you, and old woman, outfitted in a wide-brimmed hat, equipped with a bucket of chum, fishing from the shore. (Just to clarify dear friends, “chum” is a mixture of fish bait that is used to catch sharks. Sharks!)
That’s one way to interrupt a good sex session.
Luckily for us, and for her, the water in the Gulf of Mexico is not crystal clear like the water in the Caribbean, so A. and I were covered (hah) from any indecent exposure charges. The more alarming issue was that this obviously crazy lady was fishing for sharks while A. and I were just trying to get it on.
Are sharks attracted to semen?
Nevertheless, I’ve never been one to let a little thing like imminent shark attacks get in the way of an orgasm, so rather than
acting like normal human beings and getting the fuck out of the water interrupting what had, thus far, been an excellent afternoon, A. and I continued drifting through the water, looking as innocent as possible, until we had rounded the bend and were out of her sight. And hopefully out of range from the shark food she was tossing into the water with reckless abandon.
It didn’t take A. and I long to get back into the swing of things, and we both finished quickly, and quietly, then hauled ourselves to the beach to recover from our orgasms out of reach of any sharks who might be looking for easy, enfeebled prey.
I don’t know if the fisherwoman got what she wanted that afternoon, but I certainly got what I wanted.