Up at noon.  Stretched, ran, worked out, walked Lucy and we were in the ocean.  Christine in her bikini was drawing cameras from voyeurs, cell phone pics on the sly, and looks from men at the risk of their women’s repulsion.  We passed the water jug and watched the surf.  I needed a haircut, or I didn’t.  Christine liked the messy mop and sideburns.  Her hair was officially long now, and it hung about her cheek bones and perfect lips.  Her feet were smooth, tan and arched, cherry red toenails that sweetened the throat with thoughts of sunlight, white t-shirts and cherry slushes, all things good came back to me staring at her.  Banana seats and sissy bars, long, thin skateboards and fat rubber wheels, iron-on patches and the toned, half-bare asses of my sister’s friends as they laid in the backyard of our house in Phoenix, sundripped and shiny with oil and sweat on the deck of the pool.  All the wonderland of skin across the sex-stunned bones of my adolescence rested pulsing beneath the red string bikini of my wife.  The ocean turned over in beats and bass, and the sand moved in the roll of a tongue beneath her stomach and hips, as I and the rest of the beach gazed at her there while her headphones blasted Modern English and other post punk 80s bubblegum resurrections.  The smell of Coppertone and Pacific had married above her body and pinned my vision on the horizon behind the top of her perfect ass.  I ran my middle finger down her knuckle and she smiled beneath a shroud of wild hair with sweat at the roots.
Back at the house we made it halfway up the stairs before my tongue was up her ass and she was grabbing my hair and thrusting herself into my mouth.  Her palms leaned forward and pressed into the carpet while I held her legs off the ground with the grip of my hands on her hips, and I watched her body bounce off our sex while she bucked and came with her hair in her face and her perfect tits hard at the nipples.  I arched my back and shot into her and we were frozen there like statues bleeding sweat, my love for her a poem I could never write.

—Flotsam for Jetsam