There is a nice crowd out today, but it’s nowhere near as
commercial (and, therefore, as congested) as other beaches.
Hemi surprises me when he leads me to a small
square of empty sand right in the thick of things and sets my bag
in the center of it. “This oughtta do.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why are we
here again?”
“To observe.”
“To observe what?”
“People. Bodies. Your canvas will be this,”
he says, sweeping his hand over the throng of beach-goers. “Folks
just like these. The more familiar you are with the human body, the
way the skin moves and shifts, the way it stretches over bone and
muscle, the better able you’ll be to craft a great tattoo.”
“Oh,” I respond, not knowing what else to
say, but duly impressed with his philosophy. “Sounds good.”
As I spread out my towel, I’m keenly aware of
Hemi. He’s standing to my left, facing me. Behind his glasses, he
could be looking out at the people beyond me. Or he could be
watching me. I can’t be sure. Either way, it makes peeling my
shorts down my legs unnerving. And exciting.
I stretch out on my towel and take advantage
of my own shaded eyes, tilting my face toward the sun and
surreptitiously watching Hemi. I find that I’m much more interested
in observing his form than I am in looking at the other half-naked
bodies on the beach.
I see his lips curl up again—just the tiniest
bit—and I wonder if he knows I’m watching him. He slips his glasses
off as he pulls his shirt over his head. He pitches it onto the
sand and, before he puts his glasses back in place, I see his eyes
meet mine through my own aviators. Yes, he knows I’m watching
him.
I’ve seen Hemi in a tank top before, but
without it, he’s even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. His
shoulders are impossibly wide, one side covered with an intricate
tattoo that crawls over onto a perfectly-defined pectoral. His
chest is covered with a smattering of hair that narrows as it
approaches the washboard of his abdominals. On one side of his trim
waist is a series of beautifully designed letters and numbers that
travel from his hip, beyond his jeans, up his ribs to his armpit.
I’m just about to ask what they mean when he reaches for the
closure of his jeans. The words die in the back of my throat.
Hemi unfastens his button fly, his fingers
working nimbly to undo each one. He looks practiced at it and I
can’t help but imagine him expertly loosening the clasp of my bra.
And my shorts. And whatever else lies between his skin and
mine.
He eases the material down his legs,
revealing black swim trunks and, beyond them, the most perfect legs
I’ve ever seen. They’re muscular and not overly hairy, and I can
see the end of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the hem of his
shorts. It must cover his right thigh.
He pitches his jeans on top of his shirt and
turns to face the ocean. My mouth is dry as I look at his amazing
back side. I hope to God we get in the water and I get to see what
all that looks like with the thin material of his trunks stuck
wetly to every wonderful inch of his lower body.
“You did bring sunscreen, didn’t you?”
he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Of course. I’m obedient like that,” I tease,
reaching into my bag for a tube of lotion. Hemi gave me meticulous
care instructions for my tattoo, one of which was to protect it
from the sun.
“Obedient? Mmm, I like obedient.” Something
about the way he says it, something about the rough quality of his
voice draws my eyes back to him. He’s still looking back at me,
watching me. And my mouth is still dry as he does.
“I’m a good girl, remember?”
“How can I forget?”
I’m not sure what that means, so I’m thankful
when my fingers meet the familiar shape of the sunblock. I drag it
out and hold it out to Hemi. “Want some?”
“Please,” he says, taking it from my fingers
and squeezing some out into his palm. He hands me the tube and I
take it. But
commercial (and, therefore, as congested) as other beaches.
Hemi surprises me when he leads me to a small
square of empty sand right in the thick of things and sets my bag
in the center of it. “This oughtta do.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why are we
here again?”
“To observe.”
“To observe what?”
“People. Bodies. Your canvas will be this,”
he says, sweeping his hand over the throng of beach-goers. “Folks
just like these. The more familiar you are with the human body, the
way the skin moves and shifts, the way it stretches over bone and
muscle, the better able you’ll be to craft a great tattoo.”
“Oh,” I respond, not knowing what else to
say, but duly impressed with his philosophy. “Sounds good.”
As I spread out my towel, I’m keenly aware of
Hemi. He’s standing to my left, facing me. Behind his glasses, he
could be looking out at the people beyond me. Or he could be
watching me. I can’t be sure. Either way, it makes peeling my
shorts down my legs unnerving. And exciting.
I stretch out on my towel and take advantage
of my own shaded eyes, tilting my face toward the sun and
surreptitiously watching Hemi. I find that I’m much more interested
in observing his form than I am in looking at the other half-naked
bodies on the beach.
I see his lips curl up again—just the tiniest
bit—and I wonder if he knows I’m watching him. He slips his glasses
off as he pulls his shirt over his head. He pitches it onto the
sand and, before he puts his glasses back in place, I see his eyes
meet mine through my own aviators. Yes, he knows I’m watching
him.
I’ve seen Hemi in a tank top before, but
without it, he’s even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. His
shoulders are impossibly wide, one side covered with an intricate
tattoo that crawls over onto a perfectly-defined pectoral. His
chest is covered with a smattering of hair that narrows as it
approaches the washboard of his abdominals. On one side of his trim
waist is a series of beautifully designed letters and numbers that
travel from his hip, beyond his jeans, up his ribs to his armpit.
I’m just about to ask what they mean when he reaches for the
closure of his jeans. The words die in the back of my throat.
Hemi unfastens his button fly, his fingers
working nimbly to undo each one. He looks practiced at it and I
can’t help but imagine him expertly loosening the clasp of my bra.
And my shorts. And whatever else lies between his skin and
mine.
He eases the material down his legs,
revealing black swim trunks and, beyond them, the most perfect legs
I’ve ever seen. They’re muscular and not overly hairy, and I can
see the end of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the hem of his
shorts. It must cover his right thigh.
He pitches his jeans on top of his shirt and
turns to face the ocean. My mouth is dry as I look at his amazing
back side. I hope to God we get in the water and I get to see what
all that looks like with the thin material of his trunks stuck
wetly to every wonderful inch of his lower body.
“You did bring sunscreen, didn’t you?”
he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Of course. I’m obedient like that,” I tease,
reaching into my bag for a tube of lotion. Hemi gave me meticulous
care instructions for my tattoo, one of which was to protect it
from the sun.
“Obedient? Mmm, I like obedient.” Something
about the way he says it, something about the rough quality of his
voice draws my eyes back to him. He’s still looking back at me,
watching me. And my mouth is still dry as he does.
“I’m a good girl, remember?”
“How can I forget?”
I’m not sure what that means, so I’m thankful
when my fingers meet the familiar shape of the sunblock. I drag it
out and hold it out to Hemi. “Want some?”
“Please,” he says, taking it from my fingers
and squeezing some out into his palm. He hands me the tube and I
take it. But
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