I remember it well. 

Across the Solent the lights of Wight glimmer on the sea surface.  Gentle, unseen, waves break on the shingle driven by a soft onshore breeze.  High above Vega twinkles in a black sky dotted with summer stars. 

The shingle is lumpy under my body; I wriggle to smooth a bed before lowering myself to rest. You lie beside me, your hand caressing the bulge in my shorts. 

You lift yourself up, the outline of your head blocking the stars. Tresses of blonde hair, now black as the night, softly graze across my face. You lower your lips to mine, pressing gently on my flesh before pushing your tongue inside seeking my response. 

My arm folds across your back, pulling you deep into my embrace. Expert fingers find and release my waistband button, then gently pull down the zip. Gentle fingers explore, pulling my hardness free before grasping the shaft and starting to pump.  Your thumb circles inside the space of my foreskin, spreading the slippery wetness around me, sensitising the flesh of my helmet. 

My desire mounts, my body responds, and my hips flex in anticipation. 

I pant and groan with the pleasure of masturbation; you pant and groan with the exertion of masturbation. Suddenly the end is coming; my body contorts, lifting off the shingle, just shoulders and heels holding me to the ground. I shout into the void of your mouth as mad, uncontrollable thrusts wrack my body, and my seed jets over your hand and arm. 

Spent, my needs met, I melt back onto the shingle bed. Gentle kisses, gentle exploration of tongues in mouths as we affirm our love in the darkness. 

I remember it well, my love, my wife, fifty years ago.