My husband, Gerald, chose where to set our beach chairs. “Best seats in the house, Gracie, best in the house!” Another pair of bikini-clad women sauntered along the surf in front of us on their way to the lifeguarded area. Gerald was wearing his magical sunglasses, which rendered him and his girl-watching activities invisible.
“Gerald, dear, don’t gawk.”
“Aw, they can’t tell, Grace. I’m playing it cool.”
Sure.
Gerald indulged my love of being in the sun as he sat under the umbrella in his trunks, t-shirt, hat, and (of course) his sunglasses. I was reclining in my chair in my tastefully tight one-piece, the one with the deep scoop up front and the high-cut bottom. I was people-watching as well, although not nearly as obvious about it as some others that I won’t mention.
“Why bother with that little triangle thing above the ass?” my beach fashionista husband asked. At least he wasn’t just looking at boobs that day.
“It’s not polite to point,” I pointed out and shifted my chair a little farther away from the umbrella.
A gentleman stood up a little straighter and sucked in his gut a bit as he walked past me—he wasn't the first. I’m always flattered but rarely affected when that happens. I smiled at his effort and looked out over the ocean at the younger men who were on those little surfboards.
We were on the New Jersey shore, and I understood that the waves were small when compared to other beaches. However, I wasn’t thinking about what it might be like to fuck a wave.
A surfer was riding in, and I admired his, well, grace as he made it to shore. “I’m going for a swim,” I told my husband as I walked behind and to one side of him while he was looking the other way. He might not have heard me; the crashing waves can get pretty loud.
The man was already heading back out, so I waded ankle-deep in the chilly ocean (someone said it was only sixty-five degrees) and waited. Speaking of triangles, I mentally drew one across his wide shoulders, pointing down to his taut butt, and imagined him to be Isosceles, the Greek god of the surf. I watched him until he was close enough to the beach to notice me, at which point I spun on my heels and marched back to our spot.
“Right, Grace, right?” I don’t think Gerald realized that I had left.
I pulled a bikini out of my beach bag. “You’re always right, dear.” I hoped that I hadn’t agreed to something that I shouldn’t have.
Once I was sure that Isosceles was looking my way, I shook my hair down in front of my boobs, peeled away the top half of my one-piece, and replaced it with my bikini top (speaking of triangles…). I sensed that I had his interest when he dropped his board, so I dropped the rest of my swimsuit to the sand. I pulled my bikini bottoms up (with my backside tastefully cupped) and told Gerald that I was going for another swim.
I have a walk. I’m sure I’m not the only one. It’s the kind of walk that tells a man that if he moves even an inch, I’m turning around and not looking back. It involves swiveling hips, swinging arms, and an unswerving attitude. (Could I have a show of hands from those of you who are familiar with the walk? Uh-huh. Okay, you can put your hands back on your laps.)
Isosceles’ front was even prettier than his back. As I got closer, I thought that if I had a gut to suck in, I’d have done it for him. With my chest out and hands behind my back, I said, “Hi. I’m Grace.” I shushed him with a finger to his lips when he started to introduce himself. “Shh! I know who you are.”
“Do you like surfing, Grace?”
“I’m not sure. Why don’t you go back out and we’ll see?”
He had a look. He took me in, up and down and up, and there was a little twist of the head as if he could see around at my backside. I liked the look. He nodded, smiled, and bounded into the surf. Once he was waist-high, Isosceles climbed onto his board, and I followed him into the cold water until it was up to my chest.