She was blond, a surfer girl, and married at nineteen.Besides those three things, I could completely describe her with only five more words; they are
as Nickleback sings, “Are we having fun yet?”So, as the Beatles once sang, “I shoulda known better with a girl like you.”But I didn’t.‘Cause I was a chump, the thick and blunt end of
I met her through a mutual friend Marc, when he said,
“You wanna go over to Terry’s house and smoke a joint?He’s got a wife and kid now.”
“Wow,” I thought, “We’re only a year out of high school.”
So, like the right guy smoker I am, I answered “Yes,” and my fate was sealed.
When we got to the door, I tripped on the rug walking in.But instead of that kind of feeling, I felt like I had stepped on a rollercoaster that was
already moving.Is that weird or what?
So here was a dude I hadn’t seen in over a year, his blond wife, their baby upstairs asleep, all real domestic like.It’s just the kind of situation
you don’t mess with outta respect.
We smoke a few, laugh a bit, say goodnight.The next week we’re over there playing board games far into the night.Jerry has to work; he’s a mailman,
goes to sleep early.Uh-oh, I’m in trouble. I shoulda seen it coming. Someone shoulda said,
“Red flag.”But we didn’t have the phrase back then.
She has a girlfriend, that’s good, makes someone for my friend Marc to hook up with.But after the ol’ man crashes, that leaves me for her. I wanted to
keep my distance. So we make it a foursome.
One night we crawl up into a storm drain to smoke a joint.The next night it’s the beach.By this time we’ve been partying for weeks, and are pretty
We drove to the jetty at Ocean Beach, O.B. Jetty.It’s deserted, but we look for a more remote spot to smoke.Police were tough in those days. Finally
Marc and friend wander off leaving us sitting on the sand alone.She sits real close, ‘cause there’s an on-shore breeze, cuddling up for warmth.The combination of fog and darkness were handing us an
invitation to exchange secrets. Our confessions were in innuendoes and doublespeak, but finally the meanings slipped out when nobody was looking.
“I can’t understand,” she said, “why you don’t get close.”
“It’s just that…” but words failed me.
I had a stick in my hand, and drew a small circle in the sand. “It’s just that you’re…”
She grabbed the stick from me, and scratched a jagged line through the ring, breaking it in two.Then she grasped me by the collar with both hands, and
drew me close.
“That’s just it,” she said with serious longing in her eyes, “It’s not working out.”
I’d had good news in my life and recognized it when I saw it.
At this point her lips had entered the danger zone, so close I couldn’t resist. I believe what happened next was the best kiss on the beach I’d ever
had.After that …let’s just say sex and the beach at night, there’s nothing like it.The black velvet darknessquietly envelopes her breasts. The sound of the pounding surf effortlessly invades her
abandoned southern shores, where pearls lie carelessly scattered on the sand.This provides white noise allowing a woman to concentrate on what matters; herself. And let's face it. There's nothing
artificial here. For a woman who wants to get down to the nitty-gritty it's a real sand-in-the-panties experience. That is, if she's the kind that wears them.Thereare nothingso precious as our
secrets, or anythingso terrible.
Two weeks later she was in an apartment , had filed for divorce, and was on her own. That put a whole different spin on the situation. But that was
O.K. with me. My gyroscope was ready.
© Copyright 2016 Steven Hunley. All rights reserved.