Living On The Beach

In my mind, the transformation is complete and I have stolen away to this refuge on the beach. I walked the last mile with a pack over my shoulder, gritting my feet under its weight while my feet sank, ankle deep into the soft sand.

Now I wake, cosy enough in my bedroll on the bare wooden boards and survey my room and the few, practical things I have brought with me. Is this kitchen or bedroom? In my mind they have become fused and I know that preparing and eating food has slowly replaced the greatest sensual pleasure and so I would pound you with textures and pull your hair with flavours and make your eyes roll back into your head with sweet delights.

Even so, I still want to see your pale thighs spread on these rough boards and then fold and press your body beneath mine as I hold you and fuck you like the waves.

The Old Man Talks To The Sea About The Ghosts Of His Childhood

Oh my old friend the sea, everything has gone.

The bits & pieces and odd & ends that delighted my boyish eyes and which I held in my small hands have been gathered together, taken away and sold. All is gone.

It was just the flotsam and jetsam of the lives of my parents and grandparents but my brother's ghost hid among those things and I can hardly bear the loss.

I find myself caring less and less for possessions. I have walked around in a daze, making a note of what I would carry me away with me when I run to the sea for the last time. It would make a sorry little pile but then I dream about a simple life.

I have lost the pleasure that I once had in the things that surround me. Why hang on to them when they could be lost in a careless moment and why preserve them just so they have to be divided and bring more hurt or, worse still, so that they can be secretly gathered and divided, some "for safe keeping" and the rest for sale.

I hate this bitter taste but I cannot bear this happily.

I don't have the words anymore. Forgive me, my old friend the sea.

My Old Friend Pain

I awoke and there she was again: my old friend maddening pain exploring me with her terrible fingers; burning me behind my eyes and knotting my stomach with waves of nausea.

Far too late, I groped for the tablets beside my bed and drank long draughts of water, before dampening a face-flannel and making a cool mask for my eyes and then laying back to play the game that my old friend and I have played so many times before.

I started to explore the pain, quantifying it and pushing at its boundaries; mapping and pinning it down. Then I provoked it and goaded it to make it worse and thought "Is that the best you can do? I have the measure of you my friend"

Finally, I relaxed and sought refuge in that safe place in my mind and my bed became cool damp sand and my fingers stopped clawing at bedclothes and plunged deep down into it. The face-flannel that covered my eyes became seaweed to cool, calm and caress me.

Then seawater flowed round and held me in a silent, chill embrace and, yielding to its comfort and peace, I slept.

A Tale For A Summer's Evening

We had corresponded from time to time, seldom met but now found ourselves undressing - not uncomfortable in each others presence - and laying our wet swimwear on the bare wooden floorboards of this beach hut. It was the height of summer and the day visitors had long disappeared into the pubs of the town or driven sleepy children home to their beds; a few locals strolled in the evening light that lazily illuminated us through cracks in the wood and an old tattered net curtain drawn across the window to preserve the modesty of those who were changing.

No such modesty restrained us as I spread an old blanket over the rough boards and we sat down, facing each other, our faces wavering between excited grins and lip biting seriousness, We did not touch except for where our ankles crossed at one point. Instead, our hands started to caress our own bodies. I ran fingers along my arm to my shoulder and then down across my chest; you cradles a breast in your hand and then our eyes met.

We held each other's eyes in a level gaze as our fingers explored further, running freely over our bodies but inevitably settling between our legs where hardening cock and wetted cunt awaited our attentions.

I could hear your wetness and smell your arousal but my eyes were always on your face, closely observing your growing arousal. From time to time we would smile or grin like impassioned fools and, at others, we would withdraw into ourselves and the growing sensations that made our legs shake and breathing heavy.

Just once did I glance down. Your fingers were hooked and curled deep into your cunt, noisily pleasuring yourself as you gasped and trembled and approached your release. I lay back a little, supporting myself on my left arm as my right hand wanked my cock harder and faster until I cried out and, my eyes still fixed on yours, I came gloriously in union and in unison with you and we both fell back to eak out our pleasures, feeling our skin on the rough boards beyond the blanket and laughing and being caught up in the sheer joy of it all.

We cleaned ourselves with damp beach-towels and quietly climbed into our dry clothes. I turned my key in the rusty lock and we crossed the beach, leaving two sets of footprints in the cool evening sand and walked, hand in hand, to our cars and our separate lives.

Salt Water

They say that there is nothing that
cannot be eased by salt water,

whether by sweat, by tears

or by the sea