The Beach and the Voyeur

Poetry

A grizzled, bearded old gentleman dressed in baggy tan trousers, a plaid shirt, and a weather-worn brown leather vest, was sitting on a low stone wall, next to the terrace of the bar, with a bottle of beer next to him. He was staring out to sea and cleaning a big fishing net that was stretched out on the sand, picking out seaweed and rubbish.

We went into the bar and ordered two double-shot lattes – the perky tanned young girl serving us – her skin shone like burnished copper – blinked, wide-eyed, at Martine, “I’ve seen you someplace, Signorina. Have you been here before?”

“Oh, a long time ago,” said Martine, who was now so famous she was recognized almost everywhere she went. And she was so beautiful that heads turned and gazes lingered, even if nobody knew who she was.

“Well, welcome back, then!” The girl flashed a big, beautiful smile.

“Thank you!”

We took our lattes out onto the terrace – five or six white metal tables with their metal chairs and a string of lightbulbs overhead – and sat on the wall next to the old gentleman.

His hands were dark, thick, sun-burned, gnarled, and rough-looking. They moved quickly. He seemed to work automatically without glancing at his hands or at the net; he felt his way along the grid of ropes.
For an instant, I thought he was blind.

“That looks like hard work,” Martine said, in Italian.

“Ah, it’s not so bad, Signorina. I do it without thinking. My mind can wander.” He nodded towards the crisp blue horizon and the pale, dreamy shadows of the volcanic islands. “My hands do the thinking. I can let my mind drift. I write poetry, you see, Signorina, and this is where my poetry comes to me.” He nodded with his chin. “The words come from the sea.”

He read some of the poems, staring off towards the horizon, reciting from memory.

The poems were in a Sicilian dialect, and Martine understood everything, though I only got part of it.

The poems sounded complex, and really good – the few images I managed to catch.

He pulled a small volume out of his pocket and gave it to Martine.

“Will you autograph it for us?”

He grinned with pleasure. He winked at me. “Your friend is a charmer. She must be in politics.”

I grinned back. “Yes, she should!”

“Beauty and brains and a poetic sensibility,” he said. He took out a blue Bic pen from his vest pocket and signed the volume and handed it to Martine.

“You have made a lonely old man very happy,” he said.

“You have made us very happy,” said Martine.

We waved as we left him. He waved and went back to mending the net, gazing out at those shadowy silhouettes – sleeping volcanoes, and ruined and dead volcanoes, rising up from the seabed far below.

Sun-Soaked, Naked

Out, beyond the houses, the beach of pale golden sand stretched away along the coast, and bent away too, as the coast curved south – not a person in sight.

“Just for us!” Martine danced around, grinning, waving her arms, pirouetting in front of me.

Once we went beyond the bend in the cliffs, we were out of sight of the village.

The beach was deserted. Not a soul. Just the two of us – and the world.

We stripped – looked at our skimpy string bikinis and decided to leave them in the rucksack. Freedom! Might as well wear nothing! We put on goggles and, after looking up and down the beach, we waded in and swam out to explore some rocks that lay about 100 yards or meters offshore.

Several of the rocks, rising just above the water, were flat on top, so you could lie on them, and they were in deep enough water so we could dive in, and straight down, five or six meters.

It was deep enough, as we discovered, so that small octopuses were hunting, lying in ambush, and playing around; little amber-colored crabs were in the rocky crevices, and feeding themselves with moss and seaweed. Using their claws to stuff their little maws – working non-stop and hard at it.

We must have played like this for an hour or two, just diving down, swirling around, exploring, occasionally stopping to kiss, slippery naked body against slippery naked body.

I found a stick and poked it around in front of one of the small octopuses, the octopus took hold of the stick and we had a little game of tug of war and Martine watched and then finally I let go and the octopus rocketed away with its prize. Octopuses are truly intelligent, and yet so unlike us. I am convinced the octopus knew we were playing a game. There is even a film where a man learns about life from an octopus.

Martine climbed up onto one of the rocks and stretched. She looked like a goddess, all golden as the water and light rippled off her. She took off her goggles. I climbed up and joined her. We glanced along the beach. Nobody. The rucksack was still safe. I pressed my wet slippery body against hers. We kissed, and she stroked my backside, molding me and my nerve-endings as if I were a dripping piece of clay, to be modeled and carved and created in her hands, and in her mind.

“Ah,” I sighed, stretching, and kissing her again, hard this time, and pinning her arms behind her back.

“Oh, Gwendoline!” Martine fluttered her eyes and grinned.

“Oh, Martine, ” I whispered, and with a delicate, nibbling, salty kiss, I let her go.

“Just imagine,” Martine wiggled her shoulders, and put her hand on my breast, squeezing the nipple. She squinted towards the shore and licked her lips, “Somebody comes along, steals the rucksack, and we are left, bereft, naked and penniless, Gwendoline, just the two of us, and we have to find our way back to civilization. We creep along, hiding in the bushes. Dusk comes. We are like two wild beasts, just us. We’d have to creep and dodge from tree to tree, from wall to wall, our way, all fifteen kilometers, back to town, back to the hotel, sneaking through the lobby, skulking up the elevator or stairs, and begging Philip and James to take us in, clothe us, and invite us to dinner.”

“A beautiful fantasy,” I said.

“Yes.” She stretched. The sun rippled off her breasts. “I collect sexual fantasies.”

“Your poet would help us, we two damsels in distress,” I said, “Or the gallant gentleman in the Panama hat.”

“Yes, they would save us.” Her eyes twinkled. “Some people are truly civilized and kind.”

We plunged into the water, swam ashore, picked up the rucksack, and climbed up to the top of a sand dune. It was flat at the top with a little valley of sand between the crest of the dune and the soaring cliff.

The Black Towel

Carefully, we put the large black towel down on the flat top of the dune, laying it out – this was to be our bedroom, our towel of love.

We were overlooking the Mediterranean and the volcanic islands, vague silhouettes in the distance.

It was a perfect place to make love – on a stage, overlooking the sea, with the sun as our only audience, burning into our flesh, turning us into full-body sensual tattoos of salty sweat.

I had decided to take my revenge for Martine’s mastery of me – making me come, totally naked and exposed, a pony-girl packhorse, in the middle of that dusty road – and so I was determined to pleasure her within an inch of her life, and beyond. I stared at her. “Down, darling, on your back!”

“Oh, you are giving orders, are you?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s my turn now.”

“Okay, Mistress, I am yours!” She lay down, shielded her eyes against the blue brilliance, and stared up at me.

I crouched down, on my knees, then on all fours, a true worshipper. I kissed her slowly, working my way, crawling and wiggling, from her ankles, up her calves, up her silken smooth burning wet thighs.
It was slow, careful work, true craftsmanship.

So, there I was, on all fours, doggy-style, kissing the moist inner side of her upper thigh. She wiggled and squirmed and pulled on my hair.

“Oh, Gwendoline,” she sighed, “You are so tender – and so cruel.”

“Grrrh!” I growled, “Grrrh!”

I nuzzled and kissed and licked my way upward. My hands were working on her breasts, and her nipples, now engorged and erect, seemed eager, and –

Plop!

Plop!

I glanced to the side. A pebble had dropped down – plop! – from the red granite cliff that soared straight up, and very close.

Plop!

Naked and on all fours, I glanced up.

Martine who was lying sprawled, spread-eagled, on her back, naked, groaning and trembling, and pulling my hair, twisted around and looked up.

A young guy – he was muscular and tanned and wearing ragged short shorts and nothing else – was sitting perched on a ledge, far up, at the top of the cliff, outlined against the pure blue of the sky. He had a paperback in his hand.

“I thought I’d better warn you!” he shouted in Italian.

“Thanks!” Martine shouted.

“What are you reading?” I shouted.

“What is he reading? Oh, Gwendoline!” Martine rolled her eyes.

“The Death of Ivan Ilych, by Tolstoy,” the young man shouted.

“Gosh!” shouted Martine.

“Yes, Gosh!” he shouted.

“Tolstoy!” Martine muttered. “He should be reading Camus or Gide or something sunny and pagan like that,” she muttered.

We waved at the guy.

He waved back.

He went back to Tolstoy, though I did notice – when I was conscious enough to notice – that he did do us the honor, from time to time, of glancing at us and at what we were doing.

Victory

I got back to work, nuzzling between her legs, kissing my way along her thighs. I caressed her magnificent, full, breasts and I twisted the nipples – which were erect, engorged, excited – an excellent sign – and I kissed my way into the heart of her and I kissed and licked and twisted and bit, and twirled and wiggled and swirled with the tip of my tongue and then with my fingers I twisted harder and harder.

Her back arched up.

Her thighs tightened, imprisoning me.

Her fingers clenched in my hair, “Oh, Gwen, Oh, Gwen,” her voice choked up

She was moist, liquid, running over, her body was trembling, gleaming, gold, coated in magic beads of sweat, Oh, Gwen, Oh, my darling, my love, Oh, Oh, Oh… Oh, don’t, oh, don’t, oh, yes, do, do, do…!”

She came in a scream, and trembling. Her fingers were so tight in my hair she was almost going to tear some hair out. I was relentless.

The young man, I noticed, had glanced down Good! A witness to my triumph! Gwendoline strikes again. I was almost hoping he would give a thumbs-up. And, by Golly, he did! I, with my one hand – the breast fondling hand – free for an instant, returned it.

“You villain,” sighed Martine, “I saw that.”

“Yes, my tame little Martine, my wild little pet. Now, let’s continue!” I slid up her body, slithering and sliding my slick hot wet body against hers, my fingers still dialing her clitoris like I was trying to catch Radio Moscow from an isolated Vermont farmhouse on an old-fashioned shortwave radio before the Net or anything else existed.

She was soaked and so was I.

Her eyes were blurry.

Her hair and face soaked in sweat.

I twisted her right nipple, and I bit her lip, and then I kissed her, delicately at first – she was still breathless, still trembling in the aftershock of the orgasm – then I kissed her ferociously, deeply, exploring with every nerve ending working overtime. “Ghhhh,” she gurgled.

“Ghhhh,” I gurgled back. I kissed and I worked on her with every skilled move I had learned from her and from James and from my savvy Boston girlfriend Kate.

Martine was trembling. Her back arched up. Saliva spilled out of our mouths.

We were kissing desperately, and licking and groaning, and I was striving to maintain my mastery – Remember, Gwendoline, this is your show! You make her come! Then, and only then, you can come.

I glimpsed up through a veil of sweat and tangled hair. The young guy – he did look yummy handsome – tanned, thin, muscled – was still perched there, reading the book, but, perhaps sensing my gaze, he turned and gazed down, just for an instant, flashed a huge smile, waved, and went back to his book, but I was already buried, nuzzling kissing, kissing, kissing, kissing.

Martine shuddered. She yelped, she growled, she snarled, she trembled, she groaned.

Then she came, with a sudden scream, and “Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh! Oh – Gwendoline!”

Victory Overturned & 69

She grabbed me by the shoulders and flipped herself over, forcing me under her.

“Hey!”

She gazed trembling down at me, her voice coming in throaty gasps, “Oh, Gwendoline! Oh, my beautiful, wicked, beautiful love!”

There she was, crouched over me, on all fours, trembling, staring down at me, gloriously beautiful, gloriously insane, a spool of silver drooling from the side of her mouth

She leaned down and she kissed me and she whispered, “Now, mutual!”

And she swiveled around and, suddenly – I hardly realized what had happened – we were lying on our sides in the delicious 69 position, and we plunged into each other, tongues and lips and teeth.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh – don’t do this, don’t do this, oh do it, do it, do it!”

Our hands seemed to be everywhere and our tongues and our lips!

And finally, we came, mutual, perfect timing, the oboe, and the violin, in perfect synch.

“Oh, oh, Gwendoline!”

“Oh, oh, oh, Martine!”

We were lying on our backs, exhausted, depleted, emptied.

She raised her fist, “Equal in all things!”

My fist met hers. Our hands clasped.

“Equal in all things!” we chanted.

We lay there for I don’t know how long, covered in sweat, breathing desperately, staring at the blue, blue sky – not a single cloud to be seen.

“Goodbye ladies!” the young man shouted. “It’s been a pleasure!” He stood up.

“The pleasure was all ours,” we shouted back in unison and then covered our mouths like two schoolgirls and giggled.

We watched him disappear over the crest of the cliff

“Oh!”

“Oh!”

“He seemed very nice.” I sighed and closed my eyes – nice legs, tanned, lean, young man’s body.

“Yes, but Ivan Ilych – hmm!” Martine tightened her grip on my hand, her fingers entwined in mine.

We shook ourselves, picked up the towel and rucksack, and, still naked, and gleaming with sweat, Martine gold, Gwendoline ivory white, we walked back down to the sea – still no one in sight. We plunged in and swam. We visited the rocks and watched the crabs, still eating away. One of the octopuses was flitting around some rocks on the bottom, hunting no doubt.

When we came out of the water, naked and trembling and dripping, we saw two silhouettes – James and Philip! Their timing could not be better.

James was carrying a hamper – food!!!

Philip waved something. It looked like a bottle of wine. Chilled, no doubt.

And so, that wonderful day began all over again.