0 comments/ 5861 views/ 1 favorites Beach Reading By: zagrebzagreb She listened to the recording constantly, or so I hoped. I wanted her to play it back to herself dozens of times and re-live those three minutes of ecstasy. Three minutes, because that was all my cell phone would record. I imagined even then, though we had spent only a few hours in each other's company, that she would want to remember it like I did, and with a kind of foresight I rarely possessed I grabbed my phone, pressed the correct buttons, and then positioned it on the nightstand beside the bed and captured the sound of us together. The next day I forwarded the recording to her number as if she were a co-conspirator in my reckless fantasy. And so I imagined her pushing the buttons on her own phone, holding it to her ear, and then again listening to everything. There was the bed moving that particular way, painting a clear picture of our motion together. There was the sound of her high heels (which I insisted she keep on) occasionally brushing on the sheets. There was the sound of her breathing that built like a long crescendo, and her sighs that urged me to keep pace and fill her completely with each plunge. I wanted her to listen to all of it and think about the details: the barely audible squeak in the bed, the waves breaking outside on the beach, and even the air-conditioning quietly whispering in the background. But what I really wanted her to hear again was the abrupt and unexpected silence just before the end of the recording. That silence was from when I pulled out of her, and then from the startling thing I did next with her... I knew even at the time it was that damn book at work. That trashy novel I was reading had invaded my thoughts and was making me view her and myself differently. That book, in spite of its ridiculous plot and silly characters, worked and invaded my mind, and so when I stopped, pulled out of her and looked down at her I saw something I didn't expect. In that silence we were both half real, half fiction. **************************** I was bold and vain in many respects. I felt I was connected to this beauty even before I had a chance to learn her name. The first time I glimpsed the way she sat on the couch in the hotel's lobby and held her book carefully with both hands, I felt I knew something about her. I studied and measured the way she seemed totally focused on the pages of the novel and off in her own dream, and I felt I understood her in way that other people were unable to... I put a carefully chosen phrase to her: She's surreptitiously passionate, I thought. I sat near her, waiting for my morning coffee to show up, trying not to look in her direction for fear I would break the spell and intrude on her self-contained world. From the short distance away I considered the cover of the book that kept her so absorbed and memorized the title and author's name for reference at some later point. I smiled to myself as I gathered that the two long dark shapes on the cover were actually a woman's legs dressed with fishnet stockings, and the little shimmery ends were some variety of outrageously sexy high heels. With nothing else for evidence, I jumped to a ridiculous conclusion about her - and what she wanted in a romantic partner. A book with a cover like that was for a particular type of girl. That was what I imagined, anyway. But the real mystery to me was her solitude. Where was her boyfriend or husband? This was, after all, one of those paradise escapes that couples dreamed of, and it hardly seemed likely that events would transpire to bring someone like her here alone... Her blonde hair did all the more to advertise her presence and set her apart from the others that milled about; she was impossible for me to ignore and I couldn't believe that she was here without company. My drink arrived, served in a perfect little cup and saucer with sterling-silver accouterments for sugar cubes and cream, just as a person would expect from such a resort. I took in its smell and relaxed, thinking for the hundredth time that this getaway served-up a bewildering assortment of characteristics. I kept waiting for a mosquito or an insect of some sort to land on my arm -- but there were none. That was a benefit of such a small island: it seemed all the negatives were engineered out by man or nature. My mind was sliding into a meditation then... I listened to the gentle break of the waves, heard an occasional splash from someone jumping into the nearby swimming pool, and tried to detect the language being spoken by a group of young children that scurried through. I dropped a sugar cube into my coffee and stirred. I wondered perhaps if their giggles were tinged with a Russian accent. How out of place, I thought... Suddenly, I noticed her looking at me from that small distance away, her book to the side for one moment. She gave me a disarming glance, as if she could read my thoughts, and yet I felt that my distracted half-smile in return showed me as a nonevent. There was a polite smile from her and then her eyes were quickly off mine and back to her much more interesting reading material; I had clearly missed a chance to engage her, or at least make a few seconds of harmless tourist-style banter. I might even have learned her name. The name I did have, however, was the author printed in bright lipstick-red on the cover of the book that consumed all of her energy. I finished my drink, signed the bill thinking that I had budgeted for only one week of this extravagance, and yet I couldn't resist another long glance at her as I left and returned to my room. My curiosity was peaked. Once I was ensconced behind my desk I flipped open my computer, connected to the Internet and proceeded to find, purchase and download a copy of the book in question -- The Good Girl's Club. The cover image, with the long fishnet clad legs and sexy high heels, suggested the obvious irony of the title. This book was clearly not about good girls. ********************************** As I read the first chapters I made mental notes. I tried to approach the book from my mystery girl's point of view, though I knew essentially nothing about her or who she was. Yet after delving into the novel for an hour or so, there was one aspect of the story that was clear to my jaundiced view: Most of the men were not very interesting characters - with a single exception. He was a rogue, a rake, and a scoundrel. This character was, to put it gently, an aspiring broker of illicit trades. He was the sometimes comedic villain of the story and occasionally gained an advantage over the 'good girls'; he used his guile and wits to further his own agenda, and he described himself as "a 21st century sextrepreneur." How charming and silly, I thought. He sometimes even wore a fedora, which I read as a nod to the old feathered pimp-hats that sometimes made an appearance in 1970's cop TV shows and movies. I smiled to myself as I slowly digested the pages, sometimes rolling my eyes at the impossibility of the plot: A group of women are exhausted from working difficult jobs and getting nowhere; they decide to go into business for themselves... as escorts. It was pure tripe of course, but as I read I came to a conclusion -- I was being pulled in because I cared about the girls and what happened to them. They were passionate and lovable. They made mistakes and had flaws I could sympathize with. I also appreciated the way the author described the sex scenes, which constantly made it seem like the girls actually craved the physicality of their work. They took clients based on attraction. They allowed themselves to break their own rules about touching and connection. They did what they wanted with whom they wanted. I was drawn to them; I saw that through the haze of sex it all meant something beyond mere physical release. As I 'turned' the pages on my computer I thought back to my aloof vixen, sitting on the couch consuming this same book, and I tried to reconstruct how far she was through the story at that moment when I first glimpsed her - how many pages had she turned in her copy of the book? I wanted to know where she was when I found her with that transfixed stare. Surreptitiously passionate - I again ran that strange phrase through my head. What scene was unfolding and being given life in her head just at that instant? I returned to the book. The 'good girls' were at this point having an impromptu meeting in a restaurant, strategizing about how much they should charge for certain acts, and holding their conference out of ear-shot from other Jane and Joe Average types. One of the good girls joked - or was she perhaps serious? -- that with the occasional right guy 'sixty-nine' should be free. Her escort name was Pandora, and she was often the immature girl of the group. The other good girls dismissed her frivolity: "This is for money, Pandora, not just pleasure. Never forget that..." I suddenly decided that this frivolous girl, however lackadaisical and guileless in business, was my new favorite character. My watch and stomach told me it was close to lunch, and so I gathered myself together, taking a quick survey in the mirror before I headed out. It occurred to me that I might not be my blonde mystery girl's type at all, wondering for the hundredth time if I would see her again. I was presumably handsome, but in fact she might not have a type at all anymore -- some lucky man had doubtlessly earned her devotion and taken her off the market. Still, I hopefully ran my hands through my hair, donned my beach ensemble of swimsuit and collared T-shirt, and closed the door behind me. I devoured the outdoors lunch buffet by the pool without a single sighting of her. Afterwards, I kept my sunglasses on and between catnaps on a lounge calculated the number of miles I would need to swim to burn off the calories I had just consumed. I laughed to myself, thinking that a Family Circle approved wait time of roughly 40 minutes had expired since I had eaten, and I pulled my shirt from my torso and headed for my swim, scanning the ocean for a spot that looked far enough out to be free of other swimmers, or more accurately, other people that merely treaded water and soaked up the warm ocean water and atmosphere. I found my would-be lane and took long laps back and forth. The ocean had that otherworldly blue color that when photographed often seems it must be a trick of the camera, but in fact the water is even more lush and inviting in-person. I took occasional views towards the land as I rested and floated at the end of a lap and saw the island differently: the palm trees hid most of the buildings, and the beach seemed like a yellow streak splotched with white umbrellas, lounge chairs, and tan and not-so-tan people. I wondered if my mystery girl was now among these beach goers. Sometimes as I swam a wavelet struck my face unexpectedly and the salt stung in my eyes, but I kept going till the simple repetitive act of my breaststroke pushed the idea of her and her book from my thoughts and there was nothing but the hypnotic motion of my arms and legs and the slowly gaining fatigue from the effort. Back ashore, I lay again on my lounge and let my thoughts swirl around -- this was how life was supposed to be - I let my breathing settle down and felt the exhaustion of my muscles dissipate into the soothing air until I finally felt my normal self return. Yet I was anxious, even here and now. I wanted to see her again - and I also wanted to return to what was becoming 'our' book in my mind. That was when I saw her, as if I had wished her back into my world. She was picking over the late afternoon remains of the buffet before it was to be cleared away by the staff - something I might have done, just for another sample of pineapple, were I not still lazy from my swim. From a distance all I recognized were vague forms of her appearance. A nervous thrill shot through me as I unmistakably grasped the push of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the fairness of her skin. I walked to the table attempting to seem nonchalant, scanning the scene for a tell-tale man nearby - or instead (with a bit of luck) a gracious and sociable female friend or two, whom she was on vacation with... "There's not much left." Her voice, complete with a Texas accent, surprised me. I repeated her words in my head and smiled, noting her voice and the instantly open way she engaged me. I had imagined her as an introvert, giving her my own bent for aloofness and shyness, but in an instant I saw how wrong I was. She was effortless and instantly appealing, yet the accent seemed incongruous with the woman I had painted. "That's okay," I managed. "Just felt like a couple of grapes or something; wash the saltwater from my mouth." I found her beautiful. Up close I was noticing details: the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, and the way her eyebrows framed an intelligent expression that seemed to test my tenacity. Could I hold a conversation without devolving into the obvious? She was a beauty: stylish and with a natural appeal that doubtlessly drew men to her by the dozens. We traded a few absentminded thoughts about the food, the weather and the day. They were the usual neutral topics that people share to pass the time and get to know a small bit about the other, and yet as we talked I was only half in the moment, placing her amongst the 'good girls', trying to imagine which one of the characters in the book most spoke to her, or perhaps even lived a fantasy she wanted for herself. How would she feel about Pandora's idea for an occasional freebie? And then I made a conversational leap and asked a question that I already knew the answer to... It was a small question with a big ulterior motive. "What book was that I saw you reading earlier?" I saw her smile self-consciously, as if yes, there was a surreptitious side to her; a secret that wasn't easily shared. "I'm not usually one to read that kind of book," she said by way of introduction. "It's called The Good Girls Club..." I felt I had that part right: The book was indeed a passage to other places in her mind. She nearly laughed from embarrassment, perhaps - or maybe because the title suddenly seemed ridiculous. "How is it?" I pried. "I can't put it down, actually..." She seemed surprised to say this. "I'm not much with books generally -- not enough time - but I knew I'd need to bring something with me. I just picked it off the shelf. Guess I got lucky with my choice." I noticed a tone that said she wanted to be more of a reader, yet for the lack of time for herself, she had to do without the many novels and stories that I kept in my life over the years. I knew this was the moment to confess and tell her the truth... I had seen her reading that book and found it for myself. I should have told her: The trashy cover was enticing and alluring -- because you were reading it. I decided to find it and read it for myself. I should have told her: I wanted to know why it absorbed you so much. But I continued to play dumb and I wondered over my silly manipulation and lie. Why did I not share these simple facts with her? Our conversation drifted, and I learned more about her and she learned more about me, including my chance appearance here. I was coming back from Hong Kong after a short stay for work, and decided to take a self-indulgent stopover before it was back to the old grind. I landed here only yesterday, and was unfortunately soon to be gone. I looked around surveying the scene, breathing in the air. "How often does someone get the chance to visit the South Pacific?" I asked this rhetorically, and she ardently nodded in assent; I liked her more and more by the minute. It was a chance trip for her too: She was helping put together marketing material for the resort's corporate owner. A few twists of good luck brought her here as well... I wanted to remark at the happy confluence of events that allowed us to scavenge around the remains of the buffet together, but held my tongue, for once wondering if I assumed too much about her and how she approached this simple conversation. I wanted to rush forward. I wanted to tell her: I know about the guys and girls in that book you're reading, because I'm reading it to... They fall in lust. They devote afternoons to sex -- sometimes amusingly illicit sex. The girls lay back on their couch, turn on the TV, spread their legs and let the men lick and nuzzle them to their heart's content -- all the while they drift in out of ecstasy and glimpses of old reruns of Murder She Wrote playing in the background. It's ridiculously lusty, hedonistic and nearly brilliant. What does that say about us, wanting to read about sex like that? I kept my distance from her, however. I did my best to play it cool and kept my secret -- our secret -- to myself. I thought: it's our book, though you don't know it yet. We have a connection, even if it's just words on a page. For all the world to see we were just a man and a woman sharing an innocent conversation by a buffet table. The rest, whatever it might be, I hoped would come eventually. **************************** We said our "See you later" good-byes after a while. I didn't want to belabor our meeting or try and insinuate my way into her vacation -- I felt like a hopeless romantic thinking that just the quick touch of her hand on my shoulder was enough to last me for days. I was more curious than ever to catch-up to her place in 'The Good Girls Club'; she was hundreds of pages further along than I, so when I hit my room again, it was straight back to the book. My favorite male character -- complete with ridiculous fedora hat -- was in the midst of hatching his dastardly plan: he was trying to show the good girls they needed him for protection by setting up a fake police sting, expecting that they would cave into his wishes if his ploy worked and they felt their escort business was vulnerable. He had arranged for an underling to pose as an undercover detective and accost one of the girls in a hotel room; he had outfitted his accomplice with a fake badge, but a real gun... I was amazed at myself for getting pulled into the drama. It bothered me that the good girls were being duped. I wanted to jump in and save them. I hated to admit it, but I was upset: After delivering his own phony 'rescue' and keeping her out of the hands of the police, the fedora hat wearing anti-hero took his reward with Pandora -- my favorite fun-loving girl. It was a little too real; a little too honest. The innocent fiction of the book was broken when he put his hands on her: I wanted to keep on pretending that the good girls were living in a world where escorting didn't have a dark side. He was using his power over her in a way that was surprisingly ugly. For whatever reason, I wanted him to eventually redeem himself as a 'good guy', but as he maneuvered her into bed with him, it didn't look like that was ever going to happen. Their scene together in the hotel room was not easy for me to read; it was manipulative sex. My lust-worthy Pandora was indeed giving a freebie 'sixty-nine' style just as she wanted, but not because of any particular attraction to her partner. He brought her hips over his face, and she read the message and moved her mouth to his cock. I read it as a dark turn in an otherwise carefree book. I stopped myself: I was falling for a girl that was nothing but words on a page; I saw I had misjudged the emotional weight of everything. The good girls' brand of 'work' did indeed mean something beyond mere physical release, and it had a gravity all of its own. As I read further I looked for evidence that Pandora had been changed for the worse by the encounter - and yet I found none. She continued on, smiling and with a secret lust she wanted to let out of its cage, but with scant opportunity to do so. I let my thoughts go to her: I wondered over her sex scene with Mr Fedora, and went back and re-read it to look for signs that I had tinged it darker than it was in truth... Beach Reading I read it again: the way he took his time and patted the bed for her to come and sit by him, and I imagined the scene unfolding in reality. I saw her as timid and shy, knowing what was going to happen, and the way she tried to avoid advancing to the next step; she stopped the forward motion for a moment by taking a moment to put on her bright red lipstick. I read the way he ran his hands along her shoulders and caressed her arms; the way he kissed her neck and she slowly leaned into it and offered her mouth to his. I wondered if she was just a good actor, or responded out of a hidden desire for him that I didn't see at first. I read the way he unbuttoned her blouse slowly and with deliberation, looking at her with growing excitement as each button was undone and there was more of her to feast his eyes on. I wondered over little details: the way she moved her hand to her chest to either encourage him or protect herself out of modesty; the way she let her eyes watch him as he undid her bra and viewed her breasts. She sat there in a way that made it seem she took an abnormal pleasure in his enjoyment. I wondered over my blonde mystery girl, who with every turned page of the book was now less and less of a mystery to me. I wanted to know what she thought -- how did she respond to the scene? I let my thoughts about her make a leap: I knew she loved the ambiguity of it all... She could put her own self into Pandora's character and just enjoy the story, innocent or troubled, as well as the sex. By the third time I had re-read the scene, it unfolded in a new way to me; it was simply carnal: He took her, and she let him without a whimper of protest. The red lipstick she put on was not to buy herself a few more seconds of escape, but to urge him towards her mouth. I filled in the blanks and looked between the lines for more meaning, but it was the last little XXX-rated detail that got me. A small dot of his cum had fallen near her mouth; he dabbed it with his finger and ran it along her lips. That too, I decided, meant something beyond sheer physicality. I needed to know if she turned away -- or if she happily accepted it. I wanted to be there, and see everything. And yet, to my complete frustration, the words on the page simply did not answer my question. Hours later, and the book was finished. I sat in my room thinking, wanting my blonde girl more than I could imagine; I wanted to knock on every door to every room and find her, and then... I wanted to sit on the bed, pat my hand on the sheets as an invitation and have her join me. I wanted to deliberately but slowly undo each of the buttons on her blouse, remove her bra with a painfully slow motion and just lap-up the sight of her. I wanted to position her hips over my face and sink my mouth into her delicious folds and creases. I wanted to taste her and make her mine. In the background the air-conditioning whirred away. I heard the sound of the surf breaking gently on the beach. It was close to evening -- I could go out for one more swim -- I could let the exercise and exhaustion take the sting out of needing her, if only for a short while. My book was done. I had nothing but reality to hold me. I again donned my swim trunks, ran my hands through my hair, checked myself in the mirror and was soon walking down to the beach. The book and the Good Girls echoed in my mind. I thought about their stories, wanting to jump into their life, with or without a fedora on my head. The air was soft and humid and nearly to twilight. All but a few beach-goers had taken leave and were no doubt flopped on their beds and thinking about dinner. Later, I would wonder if my thoughts pulled her to me. Was there something in my mind that reached out for her and brought us together? I was given some sort of answer, suddenly... I heard that accented voice. She called my name. It was half with a laugh and a smile, as if she didn't want to break the silence that descended on this island at the end of the day. I turned around and saw her standing alone, not far away, and after a few dozen leaps and steps I was there. I grabbed her hand and wordlessly led her back to my room. It was something I would never have done otherwise. I felt I knew her, if only because I imagined that she too had just finished our book. I knew it affected her too... It was the reason I was so bold. It was the reason she wore her lipstick that way, and the reason she had high heels on - or so I thought. **************************** I sat on the bed. I patted the corner of it with my hand, urging her to sit next to me. I wondered: did she remember that little gesture from the book? I lapped her up with my eyes; I was mere inches away from her and the details I had only imagined were now becoming clear. I could smell her leftover sunscreen -- it had the scent of a tropical fruit. I could see the color of her eyes in their entirety -- they seemed to have a green base surrounded by a blue ring. I brought all of my senses to her, and they painted a picture of a woman I only half knew. The other half I drew with guesses and ideas grabbed by proxy from the Good Girls; I hoped she did her own version of the same for me... She sat there, letting me take her in, and taking me in as well; I wondered over our unrehearsed closeness. I wanted to kiss her; I wanted to show her just how I felt about her. But instead wordlessly, I began to undo the buttons on her blouse. It was slow and deliberate. It was an overt gesture that might only be shared on occasion by perfectly paired couples, and yet she let me, and even moved closer on the bed so that our legs touched and my hands could clasp on her breasts. I wondered if she could hear that echo from the book reverberating in the room? Our kiss was delayed, and all the better for it. It was our lusty touches and our eyes speaking first, thrilling with the contact of another who asked for more -- and who gave more than was asked. And yet our kisses broke into a different rhythm. I suddenly wondered if we might recline back in bed and spend the night with our lips locked and our breath feeding into each other over and over. It was gentle; it was about caring for another person and wanting to let them feel the warmth of your affection. But then her hands traveled over my stomach, and my need rose to new heights and gathered itself. **************************** Hours later and we had missed dinner. The bedroom told its own story now. The sheets were flung about and the pillows were at the opposite end of the bed. I pictured the way she playfully kicked her legs in the air, and the way she untangled herself from my arms and legs and found the thermostat on the wall and turned up the air-conditioning before returning to the same spot and pulling my body around her again. She let me take all of her in with my eyes, hands, and mouth. And when I greedily asked for more and more, she was right there offering up everything I could ask. Time after time there was the obvious and unashamed sound of our bodies moving together -- if there was an outsider, perhaps listening through the door, there was no mistaking it -- we were having sex. My phone sat nearby and I grabbed it and pushed the buttons, setting it on the nightstand and recording our partnering for who knows what reason. And then suddenly there was a pause. I stopped and straddled her. I needed to simply show her the size of my cock -- it felt titanic because of what she did to me -- and so I drew myself from her and arranged our bodies so she had no choice but to look and see. There she was. And there I was. I was hovering over her, naked and lusting; she was gorgeous and used, and more beautiful because of it. I was just like the book... her hair, eyes, and expressions were unmistakable. Her hand reached out for me and caressed my cock as I studied her gaze. She wanted to see as well, and the mere thought of that -- she wants to see what she does to me - was the nudge I needed to jump over the edge. With a burning wave there was my orgasm, rolling over and out of me as if I had no control over my own body; just the barest touch from her and my cum erupted and fell on her naked body - between her breasts, on her neck and dotted around her mouth and lips. I was stunned and provoked. I didn't expect it to look so brazen or so right. I locked the image of her in that pose into my brain -- I saw her as an accomplice in some larger design I didn't fully understand, and between sighs and nearly collapsing in ecstasy I did something I had never done before: I dabbed a bit on my finger and brushed it along her lips for her to taste - and hopefully adore. Later I would learn: It was immediately after the recording stopped. There was no record on my phone of the sound when she stirred differently: No sound of her head turning that slight bit, nor of the change in the shape her lips -- and certainly no sound of me nuzzling into her side, nor the thoughts in my brain wondering if I had asked too much. The next day, as I sat around my hotel room and replayed those three minutes and listened to the recording for perhaps the twentieth time, I knew why I did it, and why I needed that mysterious thing with her. And although my interpretation of her response kept changing, I knew what that book did to my desires, and how they were changing me into something I wasn't before. I wondered too, if she was sitting on the bed in her own hotel room, so nearby on the next floor and a few dozen steps away, pushing the buttons on her phone, holding it close to her ear and listening to it the same way I was. I wondered if she re-lived that moment as well, and if its hidden significance would occur to her. I suddenly had all the answer I would ever need when I heard a knock on my door -- she stood there with heels on her feet, lipstick on her smiling lips, and a copy of 'The Good Girls Club' in her hand.