Ron Taylor: High school hot pants

Anyway, the place is mostly staffed with college kids earning themselves a beach vacation. The girls all sound like they're from Boston or someplace… you know – 'Pahk the cah' – but some of the guys are definitely righteous, and I just wish you were here so we could ogle them together. And there are bikinis even skimpier than mine on the beach. I saw a girl who was wearing what looked like two Band-Aids and a cork; she was brown as a Negro, and if you know my Dad, you know who he was looking at. Mom got a little pissed, of course. I don't know why. She oughta be glad he's thinking about putting it to somebody else, if she doesn't enjoy having it put to her. Greg, of course, is the hit of the seashore. I hardly ever see him. He's usually surrounded by an army of girls, most of them disgustingly beautiful. Maybe you should have tried that little scheme on him the other day, after all.

There are millions of boys here, or so I'm told, but I haven't seen that many yet. Mostly middle-aged men, balding with paunches and sicky patches of white skin all over, not to mention fat wives whose best friends should have told them how terrible they look in tight swim suits. Someone saw a shark this morning, but no one seems to care. The people on the beach are thick as ants at a picnic; I don't think I'm even going to venture down today. Maybe I'll go for a walk instead. They tell me that the crowd thins out considerably a mile or so down the beach, and since nobody's paying my string suit enough attention, and since I just mined the mail pickup anyway, think I'll go strolling. Bye for now.

"Dee – I am back and you honest to Jesus God will not believe this!"

Let me get my head together, sugarplum. I need a drink to steady my nerves, I think. Or do I? Who knows? Who gives a shit? This is too fabulous to hold back, so sit down and get ready!

I went for my walk, right? Past the lines of beach umbrellas and past the yelling little kids and their sunburning parents, and I just walked and walked. I was wearing my new bikini, the sexy one, and the sun was cooking me on the way, and it felt good, sooo goooooddd, I just wanted to splash in the water and maybe do a bikini ballet on the beach or something. The sky was incredibly blue, and the smell of sea water made my head giddy.

Well, I must have walked two or three miles, just strutting along, and after a while I didn't see anybody at all. Just me and God and the seagulls, communing with nature. Until I rounded a little point of land that angles down to meet the tide, and THERE… HE… WAS! Just like in a book or a movie, Didi! It was a boy, and he was lying on the sand watching the sea, almost as if he were waiting for me. Stretched out on a blanket, six and a half feet of tanned manhood-his height, I mean; he had two feet like anybody else – and he was beautiful. Try to imagine, if you can, Michelangelo's David come to life. Swim trunks covering up the most interesting part, sure, but they were tight trunks, the kind Greg was wearing the other day, and they didn't exactly do a figleaf's job of concealment.

I saw him first, and I just stopped, dead in my tracks. My heart was beating a mile a minute and I was getting wet between the legs. God, it was just like when Robert Redford took off his shirt in that movie and you knew he was gonna go to bed with the girl and both of us were sitting there moaning, wondering why it couldn't be one of us – or better still, both of us…

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah! I stood then, staring at him the way a dog stares at a fresh juicy bone, and finally he must have realized I was present, because he looked in my direction, hit eyes sparkling as they surveyed me up and down, and then he kinda sat up and said "Hi." "Hi." Two little letters. Why should they make you break out in a sweat all over? Why should your legs get so weak you don't think you can stand on them another second?

So I said "Hi", too, and he smiled – ohhhhhhh, did he ever smile!!!! And I still couldn't move, not even when he patted the blanket and said, "You going anywhere special?" At least I didn't think I could move. Silly me! When I looked down at the tips of my toes, I noticed that they'd come to a stop less than a foot from his nearest, prettiest thigh. Sitting down with him was a surprise, too, but it was a very nice surprise. And I looked at his face, Didi, and it was so and it was so beautiful that I fell love right on the spot.

He asked me what my name was, and I told him, and he said his was Kerry. Kerry Sullivan. Very Irish, huh? And he speaks with a marked New England accent, so I suspect he's from that rich Boston Irish crowd, you know, like the Kennedys? Well, we didn't get down to backgrounds, exactly, though we may later. And before you bother asking the question, the answer is yes! There will most certainly be a later for me and Kerry!

Why you're probably asking yourself. Why does one of our fair city's matching pair of storks believe that she has the wherewithal to capture the attention of the world's most gorgeous piece of boy? Let me tell you, darling, and promise beforehand that you won't hand me any moralistic bullshit or, even worse, hate me for jumping the gun, so to speak.

We talked a little while, me and this lovely boy, and he told me I was really cute, and he put his hand on my leg. Well!! I turned to jelly inside, you'd better believe me. His fingers were like five little sticks of fire burning my all-too-willing flesh, and I said "Ohhhh," in a dreamy, moany kind of voice, and then he kissed that moan right off my lips.

I put my arms round him, not to fend him off like a good girl should, but just to steady myself. You can't imagine the way he kisses! He uses a lot of tongue along with the lipwork, but his hands am even more interesting.

He put one of them way, high up, the inside of my thigh. If we hadn't trimmed me, Kerry would have been finger deep in my pubic spillover. I know you've been touched there before, just like I have, but Didi – this was completely different! He wasn't some nervous classmate testing to see how far he can get before we bop him in the snout. He knew what he was doing. His fingers danced a minuet on my skin. They didn't paw me, they didn't rape me with insistence. They caressed, they stroked. Tenderness – finesse – oh, look in the dictionary or the thesaurus or whatever! All I know is that when he got those fingers inside the brief bottom of my suit, he found himself in a swamp of damp hair and tingling, vibrating skin!

His other hand was just above my navel, stroking a provocative circle on my tummy, till I felt butterflies inside me and I held him all the tighter. He kept kissing me, too, moving from my lips to my cheeks and chin, to the tip of my nose – he let his tongue glide across the ticklish areas surrounding my mouth, and little pins and needles of excitement darted through my brain. And while I was rippling with that excitement, Didi, he untied my bra and it fell away and he put his hand right on a nipple that was harder than I can ever remember it being before. He closed his warm fist upon me, and he squeezed my boob until I couldn't breathe, and I think I jumped two feet into the air. Or maybe I jumped because he was touching my slit with one finger, just rubbing up and down, soaking himself in the free-flowing pussy juice I couldn't control if I'd wanted to. I thought I had a firm hand when it came to finger-play, but I learned more than I can ten you in the briefest space of time imaginable. I don't think now that I can ever be satisfied with doing myself again!!

So there I was, Didi, sitting with Kerry on the blanket, the sun bathing us, and my bra was off and he was kissing me and feeling me, and fifteen minutes ago neither of us had known the other existed. It was an incredible feeling, let me tell you!

Oh, it makes me drip just remembering it for you now! My thighs are sweating, and so is something else, if you can call it sweat. Ha ha. I think I smell like a Chinese whorehouse, or if I don't, I should. You figure it out.