Page 10 of Torn
“I would imagine there are other signposts that clue you in as well,” I said as we hurried toward the seashore.
Boutros picked up on my lascivious tone and said, “Don’t get your hopes up, dear boy. Or anything else for that matter. My experience with nude beaches is that they do not always attract the people who should be running around au naturel, if you know what I mean.”
When we got to the nude beach, after slogging through the sand of the “regular” public beach, I discovered what Boutros meant.
Since it was getting on toward dusk and the sky was a shimmering shade of slate blue, the nude beach was sparsely populated. A couple of older men lounged near the water’s edge. They’d laid out a striped blanket, tucking its corners into the sand to make it wind resistant, and reclined on it, their hands loosely linked. Their bodies were lobster-red from the day’s unrelenting sun, and their hairy bellies stood up like twin peaks. Sunglasses covered their eyes, even though the sun was close to setting, and I wondered if they were asleep.
Spread out along the sand were several more naked folks. A family with a male toddler and a little girl with dark hair who appeared to be eight or nine years old. The children frolicked in the surf, building a sand castle. A young hetero couple lay in each other’s arms across two beach blankets. He was hot and handsome—his olive complexion and hirsute musculature (even down to his snowy white ass) made me think, “Italian” and “paisano.” He lay on his stomach next to his much fairer girlfriend, who was all masses of red hair, freckles, and huge tits. I wondered if he was lying on his belly to conceal his excitement at being so near to his beloved.
An assortment of folks, perhaps a couple dozen in all, of varying ages, races, and orientations (I guessed) spread out across the wide expanse of pebbles. The white ones all had one thing in common—they looked like they’d been on the beach for a while and were all sunburned. I shuddered as I wondered what a sunburned willie would feel like.
Ouch.
Boutros led me down to the sand. “If you squint, you can just see France.” He gestured toward the sea.
I scrunched up my eyes obligingly, taking in the wide expanse of blue-gray waters, capped with white waves, and nodded. “Sure can. Amazing,” I said. I didn’t really see anything beyond miles and miles of water, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.
We’d both shed our clothes back by the sign that marked the beginning of the nude beach. I’d had the presence of mind to bring my backpack along to stow them in. It felt liberating being naked—and I wasn’t at all awkward around Boutros. We’d seen each other naked plenty of times in the past, so there were no shocking revelations. Boutros was Boutros—skinny, pasty, but with a huge dick that more than made up for anything one might consider a deficit. And the twinkle in his eye as he romped across the sand gave him a kind of magical charm.
The sky was at that ethereal hour when it was still light but darkness was just around the corner. The day’s bright sun was but a memory.
Grinning at me, Boutros carefully wrote my name with his toe in the sand.
I was touched by his sweetness. And maybe just a little in love with him, and I told him so, using a line cadged from one of my favorite movie,Steel Magnolias. “I love you like I love my luggage.”
He shook his head, about, I believe, to add a heart to the “Ricky” he’d written in the sand when he stubbed his toe, hard, on a partially submerged rock.
His face scrunched up in agony, and he stumbled.
And love or no love, all I could do was laugh as a big wave crashed around my ankles.
Chapter 6
WE’D DINEDon fried plaice (a kind of whitefish that’s absolutely delicious), chips, and mushy peas in a little restaurant opposite the nude beach. The restaurant was tiny, painted bright yellow, with a big picture window that looked out to the sea. When I asked for an iced tea, they looked at me as though I was crazy. They brought me a Coke with no ice instead. But the fish was delicious, moist and flaky, with an airy, crunchy batter. The chips were a revelation—outside the Weiner’s Circle in Chicago, I’d never had fries so delicious, thick-cut with a crispy exterior and velvety interior. I drowned them in malt vinegar, which made them even better. I even liked the mushy peas—which tasted like something my mom would have poured out of a can back when I was a kid in Ohio. Little did she know, all she needed to do to make them authentic Brit food was mash them up with a fork.
At the end of our meal, Boutros confessed he wasn’t up for going out to the bars. “Darling, the sun and sand has drained me.” I could tell by the way he averted his eyes he was lying. I suspected he was eager to get back to the B&B. Any draining back there, I supposed, would occur due to the ministrations of our Egyptian host. I couldn’t blame Boutros. I had hopes in a similar vein.
“I get it. It’s been a long day,” I told him, giving no clue that I might be a little suspicious of the “exhausted” routine. It was okay, really. I was looking forward to exploring the bars on my own and had no need for a wingman. In fact, I was thinking that I’d probably have a much greater chance of getting lucky if I was on my own.
And getting lucky was never far from my thoughts.
As I wandered the streets, night fell around me. I’d had it in mind to check out a dance club a German couple I’d run into in the B&B’s parlor had told me about. One of them seemed very keen to see me there. And I, of course, wasn’t averse to the idea. I was always up for making new friends! And for making a sandwich, if you catch my drift.
Once again, I found myself lost in mazelike streets. Brighton wasn’t quite as daunting as London, so I wasn’t too worried. I always had the Atlantic as a reference point, and so the wandering took on a more leisurely tone, rather than one of desperation like my first night in London.
And then I saw him. Again.
Across a cobbled, narrow street, he was making his way in the opposite direction. The dim streetlights revealed his longish red-brown hair and the tight fit of his plain white T-shirt, faded Levi’s, and Adidas trainers.
I paused to check him out, recalling seeing him stopped in traffic earlier in the day. His body, long and lanky, was even better than the one I’d imagined for him.
I grinned. I’d fully believed we’d never see each other again. That we were simply two ships that passed in the night—or, in this case, a car and pedestrian that passed in the morning. Whatever.
He’d gotten wise to my stare and had slowed down to regard me.
Right there in the salt air, the dusky darkness, and the ancient town, our eyes met across the street, and it was just like when he spied me from his car—the earth stood still, and all the normal sights and sounds stopped for just a moment. Have you ever seen the movieWest Side Story? If you have, you’ll probably remember the scene where Tony first sees Maria across the gym dance floor. The world didn’t swirl with colors like in the movie, but there was a similar, and equally magical, connection.
Like we were the only two men in Brighton.
