face and dived back in. That time, I got him.
I thrust my hands into Ken’s sand colored, soon-to-be sand-filled hair, and kissed him with everything I had. Trying to massage out that worry with only my lips, tongue, fingertips, and hips, I steadily gyrated into the growing thickness between us. It didn’t take long for Ken to respond, grabbing my exposed ass and sliding me up and down his member until we were too stupid from lust to remember where the fuck we were.
When I finally sank down onto him I felt as though I’d been transported to another planet. My senses were being flooded with information that did not compute with what we were doing—the roar of the ocean just feet away, the smell of salt and seaweed, the steady onslaught of exotic wind coming in from somewhere foreign and fabled across the Atlantic. The only familiar sensation I could cling to was the feeling of my body locking into place with that of my other half. I tried to burn that moment into my brain, to hold on to it forever and ever, until a different, much more physical kind of burn grabbed my attention.
The towel Ken had selected to lay on was just a tad too narrow for both his torso and my splayed knees to fit on at once, so while I’d been grinding into him, my knees had been grinding into the sand.
As a kid, I always wondered how it was possible to take sand and make it into glass. Now, I know. It’s possible because sand is glass. It’s just tiny fucking shards of glass that will eat the skin right off your bones if you let it.
At first, I thought I could power through. I’m tough. I’ve been on the receiving end of more than my fair share of BDSM scenarios. I could take a little pain. It would just enhance the experience.
Fuck that.
I had to stop. If I didn’t, I was going to have to explain to Ken’s parents why my skeleton was showing when we returned from our little stroll. Pulling the rolled up towel out from under Ken’s head, I hopped off him and spread the terry cloth strip out sideways under his knees. As I padded our little love nest and made apologies for ruining the mood, Ken’s head flopped back with a defeated thud, as did his wilted penis.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no!
I couldn’t start over from scratch! It was too late! We’d been gone too long.
No!
Ken might crumble under pressure, but not this bitch! I thrive under pressure. And I was going to make this happen.
At first, I thought I could just go down on him for a minute to ramp things back up, but while repositioning the towels, I had managed to get sand on not one, but both of my hands. If I went anywhere near Ken’s penis with those things, there would be a domino effect of sand contamination that wouldn’t end until I had it in my mouth, vag, and probably both eyes.
Maybe it was all the prana coming off the ocean, or maybe it was divine intervention, but whatever the source, the solution suddenly made itself known to me. I ripped off Ken’s hoodie, followed by my dress, and tossed my bra onto the pile, as if it were the cherry on top. I was completely fucking naked and sober (Those two glasses of pinot G at dinner were just a distant memory.), while outside, in a public place, with my children sleeping mere yards away.
The transcendent feeling I enjoyed earlier? Poof! Gone! Replaced by fear and mortification and the sensation of tiny grains of glass pelting my body in the wind like buckshot.
Happily, my unexpected striptease al fresco sparked an equal and very opposite reaction in Ken. Within two minutes, he was grunting and thrusting his release into me, and although I’d made some muffled noises for his benefit that could have been interpreted as a climax, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between us that I didn’t get mine.
But that was okay, because Ken had given me something far better than any orgasm. He’d given me another shattered fantasy to add to my growing collection.
You see, Journal, every time I find out that something I once salivated over is actually a logistical nightmare and not fun for anybody, I appreciate my comfortable vanilla lifestyle a little more.
From now on, when we go on vacation, I won’t be pouting