The summer right after graduation and before college, the family trade, the reality of taking care of one's self onward and forevermore. Seems like everyone remembers that summer. I got a little lucky myself, mostly because I didn't have a plan in the first place.
I had been so glad to get out of school that I resolved to do nothing for the next three months, but a buddy of mine had moved out to the coast the day after the graduation ceremony, then had sent word that he needed a roomie to make ends meet. I had a bit saved up and decided that maybe I needed to spend some time thinking about my future on a beach.
Another bud drove me out as an excuse for a road trip. We found my friend's place at the dark end of a dilapidated culdesac. It was three miles from any beach and littered with broken bottles and the occasional needle. My part of the rent was twice what I had expected, and I decided I better get a job as soon as someone would give me one.
The town's economy seemed to be based entirely upon the seven almost-identical tourist shops that ran along the small strip of coastal highway, so I took a day to walk down and investigate. One shop had a sign in the window, and the woman running the place must have thought I looked trustworthy. I started a couple of days after, having invested in a parted bicycle that happened to be for sale by a man in the back alley.
The woman gave me an overview of running the shop with a mixture of broken English and pointing at various items. I was to spend most of my time behind a glass display case on top which lay the till. A cracked white plastic chair was crammed behind the case and the back wall. A yellowed scrap of paper was taped to the back of the till upon which was scrawled "Cash Only / No Return".
From my vantage point behind the till I could watch the store window and entrance on my left, and the battered shelves supporting rows of beach-related plastic trinkets and piles of t-shirts. One row contained dozens of animals constructed with seashells and epoxy, and an enormous pig made out of shells had been suspended from the ceiling above the shelf as if in a place of honor. She handed me the keys, smiled, and left.
So I sat looking at the rows of decorated shot glasses and plastic crap until six, then shut the blinds that covered the store window, locked the door and went home. The next day I quickly realized that it was going to make for a long summer, but I felt responsible for the store and the kindly woman, and she had assured me that on Friday she would be back with a week's wages.
She was true to her word, pointing at the envelope at her hand and repeating "every Friday pay". She quickly cleaned out the register, counted the week total (around eighty dollars worth of coastal-related plasticware) then was gone. That no concern was made that they were paying me more than the till contained made me suspect that perhaps selling trinkets was not how the shop made money, so I decided to not worry about it and settle in for the summer.
I spent the days sitting in the cracked chair gazing out the shop window, either contemplating the seashell pig or watching the beachfront on the other side of the road. Most tourists pulled over onto the beachside, got out to take some pictures, then drove off to the next beach down the road. Only a few tourists made their way to our side, and I could sense all the other bored clerks watching through their store windows perk up.
But then there were the locals. I rarely saw the serious surfers since they were already done for the day by the time my 10 am opening time came around, but there were plenty of beach bums and the current generation of bored teens and college students. I got a hold of some discrete binoculars and would watch the beach come to life every day.
I was pleasantly surprised by the willingness of the local women to arrive at the beach already mostly stripped down. At first, my attention was focused on the wayward college students, their tits perked, puffy-nippled and pointed skyward, straining against their brightly patterned bikini tops.
One girl, in particular, reminded me of Angie Silverman, my unrequited crush of the previous two years. If her parents had known I'd spent time every night in bed furiously painting every square inch of Angie's body with splashes of white, at least in my mind, they would have strung me up by my balls from the oversized cottonwood tree in their yard that frustratingly screened her bedroom window.
But I came to appreciate some of the older women as well. There were the young moms, harried and unorganized, their bikinis no longer bright and cheerful but darker as if their bodies no longer had time for frivolity. Some of the newer moms still burst with milk, breasts engorged, while others passed the nursing stage filled their tops a bit less perkily, but more rounded now. They were sexy in a different way now, though of course, they'd never believe it if you told them.
And then there were the women who might have been moms but for whatever reason, weren't. Their tits were perkier than the moms for sure, but they too were fuller and lower than the even the most developed of the college girls. In any case, I spent a lot of time studying the local fare. A couple of times I was caught unawares by the front door opening and rushed to retreat behind the display counter to hide the obvious erection bulging in my jeans.
Halfway through August, I was starting to get jumpy. As much as I appreciated the low-stress job and the hours of girl watching, the lack of anything to keep me occupied began to grind. I'd refined my breast identification skills to the point I could call out measurements after a momentary glance, but I couldn't figure out a way to make that a paying position. Still haven't.
One day, my dull gaze was broken by a couple quickly walking by outside. They were arguing, the woman gesturing angrily toward the man, the man stoically watching the ground ahead as they walked. The woman appeared to be in her late 30's, the man a bit older.
I'd already placed her as a 36 C, based on the contours of the black sweater constraining her chest, and childless, based on the firm bounce that occurred with each step she took. Brunette hair tumbled down just past her shoulders, her eyes masked by fashionable sunglasses, and she carried a small clutch bag in her left hand.
As they passed, I lowered my gaze down a bit. Her ass was rounded and well maintained, wrapped in a flirty yet responsible floral-patterned skirt, the exact type of skirt a moneyed woman wears on vacation. I'm not much for noticing men, but her companion seemed particularly unmemorable, though to be fair, I was distracted.
Soon they were past the shop, and I was intrigued enough that I got up from the chair so that I could get a bit longer view of the woman's hips as they rocked her skirt back and forth with her steps. She was still giving the man all that he could handle. I wondered what he might have done wrong. I wondered what their make-up sex would be like. Probably loud, based on her current behavior.
They disappeared down the way and I returned to my station behind the counter. I'd gone back to studying the pig when I noticed the woman was back, using her reflection in the window to check her lipstick. She raised her sunglasses to take a closer look and immediately caught me staring at her. I looked away and probably blushed, and then scrambled to attention when the door opened and she entered.
She had put her sunglasses up, nestled in her dark brown locks. Her eyes were green and a bit startling, the newly-applied maroon lipstick accentuating her plump lips. I don't mind admitting she terrified me a bit; I could tell she'd put together my entire life story, my weaknesses and my perversions in that first split second she had stared right through me.
Then she was inside, the door closed behind her.
"Hi, welcome to the sea shack."
She smiled. "Thank you."
She scanned the store, then began to browse a bit, making her way towards the seashell menagerie. She laughed a bit as she looked at a dog made of clamshells. "Does anybody ever buy these?"
"Not yet."
