Here's something you might be interested in.
Picture it: Ocean Beach, California, a sunny summer day on the beach.
It's August 2000, and there I am, a bright-eyed and eager lad in my early 20s, splish-splashing around out in the surf. I've recently moved back to the Point Loma/Ocean Beach area after four years of college on the East Coast. I'm bodysurfing here and there, but mostly I'm just enjoying that heavenly blend of warm, dry air and cool salt water that, for me, defines summer in San Diego.
As usual, the beach crowd includes a healthy assortment of attractive and scantily clad women. As usual, I'm single. So I’m keeping an eye out for any nice ladies who happen to wade into my general vicinity.
Soon enough, I notice an attractive woman in a one-piece standing in waist-deep water nearby. She's well-tanned and pleasantly chubby. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, so she's got at least ten years on me, but I've always appreciated older women. Age is just a number. Maturity is sexy. Some men like princesses, while other men prefer queens. Et cetera, et cetera.
My interest, initially passing, begins to turn to full-fledged as I realize this lady is checking me out rather blatantly. My horny instincts quickly assert themselves, compelling me to make some sort of move. After briefly raising my eyes skyward in an appeal to the mighty Ra, I walk toward the woman until she's in earshot.
"The water's great, isn't it?" I ask her, spreading my arms open to indicate I'm talking about the ocean around us -- and to send a subconscious signal of availability.
"It's wonderful," she replies, intrigued by my daring, and saying as much with solid eye contact and a warm smile.
"This as much fun as you can have with your clothes on," I say with a grin, throwing caution into the wind. She giggles -- and the game is afoot.
After a few minutes of conversation there in the water, I've learned a lot about her: she's new in town from the Midwest, working 9-to-5 as a receptionist, just realizing how pleasant this sparkling new city she's moved to really is. To this information I add my own hopeful appraisal: she's lonely -- love-starved, even -- and she's seriously intrigued by the potential of getting friendly with a young beach bum like me.
With a look toward the beach, I begin the trickiest part of any pick-up: the segue from initial flirtation to a course of action. "I think I'm headed in...where are you sitting?" I say.
She hesitates briefly, casting a nervous glance shoreward, but quickly regains her composure. "I’m over there by that lifeguard tower," she says, standing on her tiptoes to point.
"I'm down closer to the pier," I say. "Can I grab my stuff and join you?"
"Sure," she replies. After making our way to the shore, we part for the moment, both of us smiling.
As I walk to my towel, I can't help but marvel at my bold maneuvering thusfar. I've rarely demonstrated this type of amorous initiative –- at least, not without trusty alcohol leading the way. And even less frequently have the targets of my affection responded with such encouraging signals. Could it be the beautiful day on the beach? Could it be the return to my home court? Could it be that, after many years of bumbling and bungling, I'm finally developing some semblance of game?
In any case, things are looking up. "It's on," I think, "it's so on," and I'm feeling so good that I don't even reprimand myself for the cliched Swingers reference.
Soon I've picked up my towel and my sandals, and I'm making my way over to her location. As I march across the sand, I'm growing increasingly giddy at the potential of a drink from the well of feminine goodness.
When I reach her, she's sitting Indian style on her towel, smiling at me, looking even better than she did in the water.
“Hello again,” I say with a grin as I spread my towel a few feet away. Our conversation picks up right where it left off. She's the new person in town, I'm the native who knows a few of the town's best-kept secrets. We chat comfortably, with laughs from her, here and there, at my cute little jokes.
"All right, champ," I'm thinking to myself. "Where do you go from here?" A good conversation on the beach is nice and all, but my summer -- like my life -- has been characterized by a deficit of romance, and I know I'll have a hard time forgiving myself if I let this opportunity slip away.
"What should I do?" I'm wondering. "Ask for her phone number? Ask if she'd like to go get a drink? Ask if I could give her a ride back to her place, and then, back at her place, give her a ride?"
My mental strategizing is cut off in mid-deliberation when fate abruptly intervenes -- in the form of an overweight boy of maybe 12 years old.
The kid seemingly materializes from nowhere to waddle across the sand and position himself at the foot of our towels. He's shirtless. His gut hangs over the waistband of his swimming trunks. He's got a half-eaten, blue raspberry snow cone in one hand.
The kid stands there, looking back and forth from me to the woman who I'm hoping to hook up with all night long. The vibe in the air shifts from sensual to surreal. Time seems to slow down. A bright blue drop of melted snow cone takes an eternity to drip off of the kid’s chin and splash on his oversized belly.
For what seems like forever, no one says a word. The kid takes a big slurp on the snow cone and chews on it for a second. Then he points at me and says, "Who's this guy, Mom?”
Picture it: Ocean Beach, California, a sunny summer day on the beach.
It's August 2000, and there I am, a bright-eyed and eager lad in my early 20s, splish-splashing around out in the surf. I've recently moved back to the Point Loma/Ocean Beach area after four years of college on the East Coast. I'm bodysurfing here and there, but mostly I'm just enjoying that heavenly blend of warm, dry air and cool salt water that, for me, defines summer in San Diego.
As usual, the beach crowd includes a healthy assortment of attractive and scantily clad women. As usual, I'm single. So I’m keeping an eye out for any nice ladies who happen to wade into my general vicinity.
Soon enough, I notice an attractive woman in a one-piece standing in waist-deep water nearby. She's well-tanned and pleasantly chubby. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, so she's got at least ten years on me, but I've always appreciated older women. Age is just a number. Maturity is sexy. Some men like princesses, while other men prefer queens. Et cetera, et cetera.
My interest, initially passing, begins to turn to full-fledged as I realize this lady is checking me out rather blatantly. My horny instincts quickly assert themselves, compelling me to make some sort of move. After briefly raising my eyes skyward in an appeal to the mighty Ra, I walk toward the woman until she's in earshot.
"The water's great, isn't it?" I ask her, spreading my arms open to indicate I'm talking about the ocean around us -- and to send a subconscious signal of availability.
"It's wonderful," she replies, intrigued by my daring, and saying as much with solid eye contact and a warm smile.
"This as much fun as you can have with your clothes on," I say with a grin, throwing caution into the wind. She giggles -- and the game is afoot.
After a few minutes of conversation there in the water, I've learned a lot about her: she's new in town from the Midwest, working 9-to-5 as a receptionist, just realizing how pleasant this sparkling new city she's moved to really is. To this information I add my own hopeful appraisal: she's lonely -- love-starved, even -- and she's seriously intrigued by the potential of getting friendly with a young beach bum like me.
With a look toward the beach, I begin the trickiest part of any pick-up: the segue from initial flirtation to a course of action. "I think I'm headed in...where are you sitting?" I say.
She hesitates briefly, casting a nervous glance shoreward, but quickly regains her composure. "I’m over there by that lifeguard tower," she says, standing on her tiptoes to point.
"I'm down closer to the pier," I say. "Can I grab my stuff and join you?"
"Sure," she replies. After making our way to the shore, we part for the moment, both of us smiling.
As I walk to my towel, I can't help but marvel at my bold maneuvering thusfar. I've rarely demonstrated this type of amorous initiative –- at least, not without trusty alcohol leading the way. And even less frequently have the targets of my affection responded with such encouraging signals. Could it be the beautiful day on the beach? Could it be the return to my home court? Could it be that, after many years of bumbling and bungling, I'm finally developing some semblance of game?
In any case, things are looking up. "It's on," I think, "it's so on," and I'm feeling so good that I don't even reprimand myself for the cliched Swingers reference.
Soon I've picked up my towel and my sandals, and I'm making my way over to her location. As I march across the sand, I'm growing increasingly giddy at the potential of a drink from the well of feminine goodness.
When I reach her, she's sitting Indian style on her towel, smiling at me, looking even better than she did in the water.
“Hello again,” I say with a grin as I spread my towel a few feet away. Our conversation picks up right where it left off. She's the new person in town, I'm the native who knows a few of the town's best-kept secrets. We chat comfortably, with laughs from her, here and there, at my cute little jokes.
"All right, champ," I'm thinking to myself. "Where do you go from here?" A good conversation on the beach is nice and all, but my summer -- like my life -- has been characterized by a deficit of romance, and I know I'll have a hard time forgiving myself if I let this opportunity slip away.
"What should I do?" I'm wondering. "Ask for her phone number? Ask if she'd like to go get a drink? Ask if I could give her a ride back to her place, and then, back at her place, give her a ride?"
My mental strategizing is cut off in mid-deliberation when fate abruptly intervenes -- in the form of an overweight boy of maybe 12 years old.
The kid seemingly materializes from nowhere to waddle across the sand and position himself at the foot of our towels. He's shirtless. His gut hangs over the waistband of his swimming trunks. He's got a half-eaten, blue raspberry snow cone in one hand.
The kid stands there, looking back and forth from me to the woman who I'm hoping to hook up with all night long. The vibe in the air shifts from sensual to surreal. Time seems to slow down. A bright blue drop of melted snow cone takes an eternity to drip off of the kid’s chin and splash on his oversized belly.
For what seems like forever, no one says a word. The kid takes a big slurp on the snow cone and chews on it for a second. Then he points at me and says, "Who's this guy, Mom?”