... Or: If You Are Gonna Fuck Me, You Have To Talk Dirty To Me
He ran the fingers of his right hand into the left leg of her white walking shorts, out the right leg, grasped the whole of the bottom of the white walking shorts in the palm of his hand.
"We need to take off these shorts," he said.
"My! ... Are we brazen, or what?"
She was already undoing the one button, running down the zipper, lifting her hips. She ran a hand under her tee shirt; she parted her legs, granted him access.
"You like my pussy," she asked.
**_**
LJ's house faced the beach. She had a husband over in Charleston, always in court defending white collar litigants; or hobnobbing with congressmen or senators, or maybe the governor. She, a full-grown woman, in her mid-40's, looked good on his arm.
Dead-hot summers she spent in Cashiers: the North Carolina mountains. Spring and autumn were 'beach days'. She walked at dawn and dusk; volunteered with the Isle of Palms Sea Turtle watchers club. Marking and protecting the turtle nest.
The music came from her back door neighbor's place, it facing the marsh; the Intercoastal in the distance; boats of all sorts moving past, all day long. A couple from 'off-up-north', Minnesota or maybe Wisconsin -- where folk 'talked funny' -- had purchased it. Bankers up in Charlotte, they showed up only on the occasional weekend.
Now, a young man had appeared. A son, maybe. Come down from Chicago; played guitar. Was gonna be the next Les Paul, or the next Eric Clapton. He walked, sometimes, the public beach access path past her house; watched the shore birds, collected sea shells. Some days he ran on the beach, maybe up to Dewees Inlet and back.
He played back-up guitar, she learned, in a band at some beer joint over in Mt. Pleasant. Came home late at night, slept late; 2:00 AM or so. Twelve hours later, mid-afternoon, he would be out on the second floor deck endlessly working on jazz riffs: Wes Montgomery and Django Reinhardt stuff.
She studied him. An athlete, she decided. Maybe a swimmer, or a tennis player. A couple of years older than her son; a cadet over at The Citadel. He does have a nice ass, she noted. Long legs, long fingers... and a nice ass.
She found and bought, at the local bakery, two dozen macadamia nut macaroons. She took them out of the box, threw it away. She put the macaroons into a sweet-grass basket; covered them with a white and red checkered tea towel. He didn't walk past her house that day; just played jazz on his guitar; went off at sun down to entertain drinkers and dancers over in Mt. Pleasant.
The next day, the second day, he did make the short trek to the beach. Put his 'things' down near the end of the access path; ran off up the beach. She intercepted him, ambushed him on his return.
"Hey," she said. "I'm LJ Sawyer. I live here; we're neighbors."
She handed him the basket of goodies. "Welcome to my beach."
"Anders," he said, "Anders Christensen."
"You could come and sit on my second floor deck Anders Christensen, see the ocean while you work on that jazz stuff," she said. "Even go up on the widow's watch; get a really good look."
He lifted the checkered tea towel, checked out the cookies. "... and what might I get a really good look at?"
"Why, all that sand and water. Some birds; any number of different kinds of birds.... Kids building sand castles," she added. "Their mamas working on a sun tan..."
Anders Christensen ran his eyes up and down the length of her; from her open toed sandals up to the wide brimmed straw hat.
"I might just look at you," he said. "Might not watch the kids, their mamas."
He came over later, knocked on the door. A bottle of white, a bottle of red, a couple of cokes. "I don't know which you prefer," he said. An acoustic guitar rested at his feet, leaned against the door frame.
"I think I'll have a pale ale," she said; gave him a quizzical look.
"Pale ale it is," he said. "We'll save these for another time."
He handed her the two bottles of wine. LJ stood sideways in the door, gestured for him to 'come through'.
"Beer's in the fridge.... There's an opener already out there." She pointed toward the 'ocean' end of the house. "Bring me one."
They probed each other's past; their respective stations in life:
"No. Not tennis or swimming," he told her. "Crew. A four man boat; Purdue University."
She informed him straight away:
"I have a husband, you know... he's too busy; almost never comes over.... Unless he has a client, wants to 'show off'."
There were pauses, silences from time to time. Neither of then felt pressed to 'fill up the time' with conversation.
Then:
"... what is that brown and white bird?" Anders asked. "I know sandpipers, I don't know that one."
"A plover," she answered. "We almost lost them; now they're making a come-back."
Or:
"This 'joint' where you play; what is the music?"
"Western swing mostly," Anders answered. "Some 'straight' country. Lot's of swing dancers here-abouts."
"But you play Wes Montgomery, some Django -- jazz."
He laughed, "... man's got to make a living; play what the customers want.... Some day I'm off to Chicago, maybe even New York. Play in a real jazz club."
And later:
He took a deep swallow of the pale ale. "This is good shit," he said; studying the bottle.
"Park Circle," she told him. "Owner's an acquaintance.... Keeps me supplied."
Finally, the sun fully behind them, going down:
"I gotta go." He picked up the guitar.
"But you didn't play," she said; admonished him. "Didn't even pick up that instrument."
"Next time. There will be a next time." It could have been a question -- or a declaration.
**_**
The next time:
He didn't come over the next day, just waved at her when he left to go and play back-up guitar in a country and western club. He did, however, knock on her door the following day; a six-pack of already cold Park Circle IPA in hand.
They made it to the second floor deck that overlooked the beach, the ocean. But just barely. They paid scant attention to the sandpipers, the plovers; did not notice the kids building sand castles, or their mamas working on their suntans.
