I never actually really liked beaches. Sand would find its way into places on my body that I didn't know was possible to even get sand in, and it wasn't like I rolled around on the beach or volunteered to have my cousins bury me in the ground and build a curvaceous bikini-worthy model on top, like those cheesy photos where the idiots are grinning just above obscenely large sand boobs. No, just thinking about doing that made me want to run and hide in the hotel room.
I know the first thing people tend to think of when they think "Latino" and "beach" are those genetic lottery winners that strut around Rio de Janeiro wearing the absolute least amount of coverage possible, but safe to say I had none of those genes switched on in my DNA. If there was any sort of genetic prize I won, it was my fast metabolism; I could eat, and eat, and eat, and not gain a pound. It didn't mean I wanted to prance about and show off my body. I felt painfully awkward wearing my board shorts and T-shirt while watching frat bros with ballcaps turned backwards toss a frisbee and rough house with each other.
Okay, I enjoyed seeing all that hot, sweaty man-flesh collide and would absolutely fantasize that I could be in the middle of that frat sandwich. But it wasn't enough to make me wish I could be just a little more covered, or that there should be less people around. I hated feeling like strangers were sizing me up, trying to figure out why the gawky Mexican was on a beach. Or worse: if they wondered if I was illegal. Which wasn't the case. I always look out for that hesitation in people's eyes before they open their mouths, making the split-second decision to speak normally or if they should e-nun-ci-ate in case I didn't speak English.
My cousin Lucy smacked me on the knee with her paperback, drawing me out of my confused daze of simmering lust-demon and quiet wallflower. "Gabrielito, you need a drink or something because you need to chill the F out."
"I'm fine," I replied, tearing my eyes away from the frat boys and scanning the horizon for ships to avoid Lucy questioning me about where exactly my eyes were focused before she interrupted.
"This is your last summer before your senior year! How are you not living it up? Get on that app thing you use and find yourself some action!" She shimmied her ample chest, no doubt catching the attention of the aforementioned frat bros. It was easy for Lucy to say: she had guys throwing themselves at her left and right, and she was discerning enough to choose her company wisely. And those that made it past the first round could either handle her vivacity or they were quickly left behind. I envied her luck; that hadn't been my experience so far through college, and even with the final two semesters ahead of me, it didn't seem like my fortune was going to turn around anytime soon.
She noticed my eyes flitting towards the bros before they went back to the horizon, and she grinned. "Oh, is that it? Should I reel you in some grade-A college boy?" I saw her eye them one by one, making mental notes to herself, and I tried not to laugh when they obviously began putting on a show for her: flexing but not flexing, attempting to get what abs they had (some clearly spent more time in the gym than others) to pop, coming out on top of some playful scuffle over the frisbee.
"Lucy," I began, grinning, "you don't even know which of those boys isn't straight."
"Isn't it a 10% chance one of them is gay? I guess if you add in the bi boys, that increases the odds. At least one of them has to be bi!" She looked proud at rationalizing the odds, though I didn't actually know if her stats were even in the ballpark. It wasn't like every gay guy scanned a group of men and did some quick statistical calculations to figure out which of them he could hook up with. Well, maybe some did, but that wasn't me. I kept my head down and focused on making it through school unscathed. Sure, there were a few hookups, but they were infrequent—one or two a year at best. Somewhere, some poor gay angel wasn't getting its wings because I wasn't spraying my spunk underneath every college stud I came across.
"Lucy, I appreciate the support, but I think your energy is better spent back on that book."
"Oh, I don't know," she replied. "There are a couple of guys over there I wouldn't mind getting to know a little better." Then she grinned wickedly. "Maybe at the same time."
"Don't let me stop you."
"Didn't plan on it." Lucy put her sunglasses on and stepped from underneath our beach unbrella, tying her sarong around her waist and fluffing out her voluminous hair for maximum bounce before sauntering over to the frat bros. I watched as she made a big fuss about how good they all were at frisbee and felt the arms of the guys she planned to snare. Flirting came so easy for her; I was lucky if I ever managed to ask for a guy's name.
I turned my gaze back to the horizon, watching the waves rush in then recede, the kids splashing around in the ocean under the hawklike eyes of their mothers. The water did look inviting, especially with the heat rising off the sand in a shimmery haze. With my luck, I would be carried away by a riptide and drowned while my cousin was busy getting spit-roasted, and I wouldn't be missed until she got back to the beach and our umbrella and towels would still be on the ground. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about my GPA.
I saw a head pop up out of the ocean, a man; a woman surfaced next to him. They were laughing, probably having a good time doing whatever they had just been doing underwater. Getting handsy, maybe? I crinkled my nose, imagining how brackish it would be to give head in the ocean. True, some cum could be salty—there had been one hookup that nearly made me gag after he came on my tongue—but that didn't mean that salt water and cum were the same.
The woman emerged and I had to admit she was nice to look at. She could give Lucy a run for her money, and I glanced over to watch her frustration as her current targets' attention briefly drifted to the fit woman walking out of the water like she was some Atlantean mermaid queen, if that were even possible. She stretched her arms out wide as she looked upwards, giving the entire beach an unobstructed view of her breasts barely covered by her bikini top.
My eyes darted to the man coming up alongside her. If the woman was the physical embodiment of a siren's song, then the man was her male equivalent. Water dripped off his close-cropped dark hair over his bearded face, and I held my breath as each inch of skin rose above the water. A broad, tanned, muscular chest lightly dusted by hair gave way to a sculpted stomach, and—oh fuck—a pair of black swim briefs that looked like they were straining to contain him. He stepped from the ocean on powerful legs, and wrapped his large arms from behind the woman, nuzzling her neck as they shared a private joke and laughed. I felt a stirring between my legs as I imagined myself in the woman's place, those strong arms around my chest instead of hers, his deep voice rumbling in my ear.
The woman gave the man a quick peck on the cheek and sauntered off towards the resort behind us. The man, left alone, seemed unsure what to do next until our eyes locked. I felt my stomach drop at being discovered and quickly grabbed Lucy's discarded paperback, flipping the book open and pretending to be far more interested in Augustus laying bare Miranda's supple milk-white skin before inserting his rigid member between her inviting womanly folds than I really was. I frowned. Was that really what Lucy was reading? I took a look at the cover; it proudly proclaimed the title was "Lady in Waiting," by Claire du Champs, superimposed over a photograph of a shirtless Scotsman boldly embracing a woman in ecstasy wearing too little clothing for a wintry Scottish highland setting.
"Is that any good?" a voice asked above me. I looked up, past a prominent black bulge, past a broad chest, to see a sinfully playful grin on a handsome face that had no business being anywhere near me. I saw now that there were touches of gray at his temples and in his beard.
"I, uh, don't know," I stammered, dropping the book to the side. "It's my cousin's."
He squatted to retrieve the paperback; a ring on his finger glinted in the sun. "'Lady in Waiting.' It doesn't make any bones about what's inside, does it?" he asked as he turned the book towards me to show me the cover.
"I guess not."
He sat down on Lucy's towel and I suddenly felt the heat coming off his body, and how little space there was between us. "You'd think that this lady in waiting would be wearing more layers for a Scottish winter."
I shrugged, my mind racing to come up with something, anything, to say. I couldn't understand why he was talking to me. Was it because I was staring at him? Was he going to gay-bash me? I didn't think Lucy had brought her pepper spray to the beach with her, or maybe she did. It could've been in her bag, but it was behind the man.
"I'm Eric," he introduced himself, holding out a hand.
"Gabe?" I replied, the uncertainty creeping into my voice. His hand, still slightly wet, felt warm, too warm, dangerously warm. Like a cold winter morning where the bed implored you to stay in all morning because the icy chill would hit you the moment you crawled out from underneath the covers. I shivered slightly, fighting to control the primal urge within me to crawl all over him.
"Not sure of your name?" He grinned, but I didn't feel like it came from a place where he was mocking me. He seemed genuinely entertained by my reaction to him.
