Beach Not-So-Bummed

Given the way we clicked when we met, I wouldn’t be surprised if something like this had transpired between us. This is a story that blends the then and now.

Josh and I met over a conversation I fell into at the picnic. With both of us being writers, I was surprised that we hadn’t met before given that the hosts of the picnic were mutual friends. Josh wrote about finance for a number of business publications. I wrote about healthcare for a professional trade magazine.

Josh had a way of holding court. He was a hilarious and entertaining storyteller He kept everyone captivated and laughing. He didn’t do it in a way in which he desperately craved the spotlight; there was something about him that I found charming, engaging, smart and funny in a subversive sort of way. He was classy and polished good looks to boot. He was my kind of weakness when it came to men,

I had no intention of putting the make on him, but somehow the conversation became a one-on-one just between us. His interest in what I had to say was as strong and genuine in the way I was entertained by him. The conversation got quite animated after we knocked down a couple of drinks. I wasn’t drunk, but I felt comfortable enough to say things or say things in a way that I normally wouldn’t to anyone I knew.

OK. I was flirting. Big time. And he was taking the bait as enthusiastically as he was throwing it out.

I leaned in close to him and lowered my voice as if I were attempting to pull a deep, dark secret out of him.

“So, aside from writing about credit, economics, the Federal Reserve and stuff like that, do you write about anything else?” I asked.

He let out a chuckle and said, “I have parts of next Great American Novel in drafts in my last three laptops,” he said. “What about you?”

I looked downward, blushed, giggled, but couldn’t say a word.

Now he was the one trying to pull out deep, dark secrets.

“Let me guess,” He said. “You write romance novels.”

I started laughing as if his words were tickling me.

“Ah! I’m making you blush, too!” He said, all too proud of himself for breaking me down. “I bet you write under a nom de plume so you can keep your dignity and professional integrity intact.”

I started laughing even harder. I hadn’t had enough to drink to tell him what I really wrote on the side. I gulped down the vodka and lemonade in my half-full plastic beer pong cup.

“Close, but not close,” I said, still not having enough liquid courage to tell him.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m getting hungry and I smell dogs and burgers on the grill. Want me to grab you a plate while I’m up?”

When he came back with plates for himself and me, I lost it again. Aside from the sampling of typical picnic side dish fare, he brought me a hot dog. A hot dog! I couldn’t possibly make my big confession while putting my teeth into a penis-shaped piece of food.

He slid closer to me on the picnic table bench we shared, and in a voice just louder than a whisper, said, “I’m sure I’d be just as amused as you if you let me in on your private joke.”

I laughed even louder and almost couldn’t get out the words, “I can’t! I can’t!”

“Well, if you can’t tell me, at least get some food in you,” he said just before taking a bit out of his wiener.

My laughter turned into a cackling “I can’t!” that turned heads of people sitting at least a good 50 feet away from us.

“I can’t eat that!” I said, pointing at the hot dog. “Not in front of you.”

Now I knew that I owed Josh an explanation.

“I … umm … don’t write romance novels,” I stuttered, trying to muffle my words in mouthfuls of baked beans. “I write erotica.”

Josh swallowed his food and took a sudden disinterest in eating. He turned to look at me and gave me a sense of confidence by saying, “Really? Tell me about what you write.”

I spilled everything – how I started writing erotica, the stories I had written, and even the URL to the website where I kept my stories.

He plugged the URL into his smart phone. He spent a few minutes reading before turning off his phone and slipping it into his shorts pocket.

Then I got really self-conscious. Why would he stop reading? Did my story suck?

“Not your kind of erotica?” I asked.

He shifted a bit on the bench and said, “Actually, it’s pretty damn good. More than good. It’s just not something I should be reading in public if you know what I mean.”

I smiled and tried to envision what was going on underneath the fabric of his cargo shorts.

“Actually,” he said, sliding close enough to whisper in my ear. “I was starting to get hard even before we started talking about your favorite pastime.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked, pointing at my paper plate that was empty except for the grilled dog.

“Well, I hope that you understand why I couldn’t chew on that in front of you talking about my writing and being totally turned on …”

He didn’t give me a chance to say, “by you.” His lips captured mine and pulled me into a warm abyss of warmth and desire that was warmer than the mid-day sun. Then he pulled away, brought the hot dog and bun to my lips, and said, “Show me what you can do with this without using your teeth.”

PDA was one thing, but simulating a blow job on a link of processed meat was another. But being told what to do – in a way that was more of a dare than a command – and knowing what he was capable of doing with the tip of his tongue put me up for the challenge.

I twirled my tongue around the tip of the hot dog, trying my best to look like he was pulling off a romantic gesture of feeding me. The low, rumbling “Mmmm …” didn’t come from my throat, but from his when I puckered my lips tight and pulled away from the sausage.

His eyes rolled up a bit as he sighed, “Oh, myyy …”

In private, I would have never stopped there after that expression of appreciation, but at that point, I wasn’t aware of the others on the picnic grounds. They looked too busy talking, laughing, eating, drinking, tossing horseshoes and bouncing volleyballs around in order to notice us off at the far end at a table by ourselves.

I slid my tongue farther down the tube of meat and licked every last bit of the drizzle of ketchup and mustard on it. To make sure it was fully clean, I slipped my lips halfway down the hot dog and took my time pulling them back up.

He didn’t say a word or make a sound until I placed a napkin on his lap. I let my hand linger on his lap long enough to know that he was quite solid underneath the paper cloth. He was as physically stunned as he was verbally stunned.

As I pulled my fingers away from his lap, I gave him a devilish “Be careful for what you ask” grin. I thought for sure that I had trumped him, his dare, and anything he could think of to push my limits.

He grabbed me by the hand, swung me around and pulled me off the bench. He took me by the hand and ran across the grass, barely giving me a chance to catch up with the stride his much longer legs could take him.

He led me into a thicket of beach grass. The incoming waves were loud enough to drown out the voices and noises of the party we left behind.

He kissed me hard, deep and furiously. He pulled me in tight against him so that there was no question that his cock was hard as a steel rod.

I slipped my hand on his crotch and rubbed it. I pulled my lips away from him just far enough to whisper, “I bet you’d rather have my hand on your cock.”

His hand slipped up the back of my shorts and clasped a meaty part of my ass in his large, strong hand.
“I bet you don’t have it in you,” he said.

“Really?” I challenged him coquettishly.


As fast as I could pull down the zipper of his shorts and stick my hand through the opening of his boxers, I had a vise grip on his cock. He pulled away from our kiss to let out a moment of breathlessness before he sighed.

As soon as he started breathing again, I stroked him slow and firmly. He sighed deeply with my every movement.

“And you know what I can do with that tongue,” I whispered in a low, gravely tease.

I encapsulated my lips over his. I swirled my tongue around his and sucked on it hard before I pulled away.

“Oh, my god. Yes, I do,” he sighed.

It sounded as if he was losing his ability to talk and breathe. His breathy pants were getting heavier and more rapid as my strokes picked up in speed.

I tore off the buckle of his belt and the button that secured his shorts around his waist. I stopped and held his cock tight right in the middle of an upstroke.

His upright body stiffened. Again, he lost his breath as I dropped to my knees. I held my stationary grip on his cock until I could put my mouth over the tip of it. As soon as I had lips fully around it, he started to mumble as if he were speaking in tongues.

“Ohmygod … sweetJesusLordyes …”

The words couldn’t come out of his mouth fast enough.

I slipped my lips further down and swirled my tongue around his shaft, giving the base of it some good, firm pulls.

His sacrilegious chants got louder.

“OhmyfuckingLord … “

As I sucked furiously and harder, I could feel his legs shaking and a buildup of energy inside of him that could only combust in a most explosive way.

His words turned into grunts and moans that sounded unlike any other living being I’ve heard. When I felt like he was ready to burst, I sucked on him as hard as I could until a long blast of hot, creamy saltiness shot onto and coated the back of my throat.

As soon as his cock and his body lost their rigidity, he fell to the ground and held onto me, holding me close and tenderly, kissing my forehead and running his fingers through my hair. Once again I could hear the waves coming up upon the sand, and then the sounds of the people at the picnic off in the distance.

As soon as he could speak again, he asked, “You’re going to write about this, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh,” I said with a sly smile.

“And the people who will read this will probably think it’s fiction, right?” he asked.

“Did you believe this was real?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t if this actually didn’t happen to me,” he said.

We both laughed. Hard.

A couple of days later, I posted the story on my blog. I texted him the link.

There were several comments from readers. A few men wrote feedback to the effect of, “I wish I was that guy.”

Then there was a comment from a new reader with the handle, Beach Not-So-Bummed.

“I was that guy. I’d like to work on Chapter 2. Dinner Friday night? Pick you up at 7?”