AUGUST 21, Monaco to Calanque de Sormiou:
Before sunrise, we are back in the car. The air is cool and moist. The smell of the sea follows us inland and west.
You: I think I’ve had enough of rich people.
Me: I think I’ve had enough of people.
You: Can we do what I said? Can we go and make the puzzle together and not leave until its done?
Me: I’d like that. Although, there’s a party on the 26th that I’d like to go to.
You: Then we’ll need to be focused.
Me, pausing, asking the question I’ve been resisting: And the 29th…are you still planning on leaving?
You, looking away: I don’t know.
We drive through the early morning, past signs for Nice for Cannes for Frejus and Toulon.
You, brushing at the hair behind my neck: Do you think we’ll get caught?
Me, glancing through the rear view mirror at Salome rolled in her tube behind us: We’ve made it this far.
We drive several miles on a pot-holed, one lane road, through an arid landscape of maquis and bleached limestone.
Me, cresting a rise, pointing: Look.
The road winds down between two fingers of rock that jut into the Mediterranean.
Fog lays on the horizon. The sea and sky are joined, indistinguishable.
You, gesturing toward boats at anchor: It’s as if they’re floating in the sky.
Me, smiling: They’re levitating.
We wind down to the water and rent a small trailer, parked 50 meters from the beach. The car is half-hidden in a slot behind.
You, unpacking: Salome goes in the trunk. I want to share this place with just you.
Inside, we have to stoop. There is just enough room for a double bed, a table, a single chair.
You, clearing the table and emptying the puzzle onto the bed: Ok, time to get to work.
We are naked on the beach. My toes digging moats in the sand. Sharing a ratty beach towel.
Little waves of the Mediterranean lick the shore. A horizon of clouds.
Your leg straddles mine. Your index finger counts down my spine, pausing at the hollows between each vertebra then rests on my coccyx.
I shift my legs, hoping your hand will continue.
You, detecting my intention: Oh, no no no.
Your index finger executes a u-turn. You call out rising notes as you draw a line away from my groin.
Me, turning my head: What am I? Your Glockenspiel?
You, suddenly up on your knees, banging out imagined chords on my back, humming along: more like my piano.
Me: Just no Willie Nelson, ok?
It goes on like this. Steel drum, cello, acoustic guitar. I close my eyes and hum to your rhythms. Together, we are total dorks.
You, relenting, bringing your two hands to rest one on either butt cheek: How about if I play your other instrument?
Me, shifting my legs again: Rhetorical question?
Your hand pulls at my thigh bringing my legs wider apart, squeezes my testicles.
You: One sec.
The snap of a tube of sun screen. A line of cold from the top of my butt crack down across the underside of my rising cock.
A hand rubs me and I murmur my appreciation. Abruptly, your finger presses at my sphincter. My body tenses.
You, next to me: Shhh.
You, bringing your tongue into my mouth and guiding your finger into my ass: Don’t mind me. Just plugging in the amplifier.
Your finger burns, then my brain crackles with the pleasure of fullness.
I find myself involuntarily rising to my knees, pushing against the rough terrycloth of the towel, forcing you in further.