Chapter 2
At the beach. And it is a good day for it. The sky is blue and almost cloudless. The sun is bright, but there is a breeze. And it is early.
So that the traffic is light, the beach as yet uncrowded.
Rut it soon will be.
Because this is a summer Saturday.
And the important thing is that they have gone out.
Out, out, out.
Not cooped up in penthouse or mansion.
Not closeted with each other.
Not using each other for what is, for all its delights, for all the intensity of its pleasure, mutual masturbation.
Which is a form of despair, of giving up, of admitting that there is nothing out there in the world for them.
Sad but true.
Probably.
So that now, as they spread their blanker and begin to coat their nude bodies with protection (sunscreen number eight), they have no reason to believe that this outing will do anything other than afford them a few laughs and get them through another few hours of their existence.
And yet-and yet.
There is a magic here.
It is a magic that they cannot envision, cannot define.
Which is a sense that something is about to happen.
An aggregation of naked people, private parts clearly exposed.
There is a potential here.
But it is one which is nebulous, uncertain, and not yet realized.
And perhaps it never will be.
Not on a grand scale, not even on a personal one.
This exposure, which would be incredible to some, outrageous to others, seems to carry with it a significance.
Which is perhaps precisely that ascribed to it by those who are outraged and those who are overwhelmed by it.
Whereas those who attend studiously ignore the magic, doggedly maintaining their casualness.
A beach like any other, only without bathing suits.
That, and nothing else.
So that they will probably leave, frustrated, disappointed that whatever was "supposed" to happen did not.
Again.
Because this same feeling permeates the atmosphere of the nude beach, apparently on a permanent basis.
Something should happen.
Something could happen.
But nothing will.
And now, people begin to arrive.
They were not the first there, by any means.
But now, the crowd begins in earnest.
Singly, in twos and threes, some bearing only a towel with their beachbags (these will not stay long, will be driven away by thirst), some burdened down with coolers of impressive weight and dimension, some with umbrellas, some with tents, they come. And come and come.
Until only the tide line remains clear of bodies.
And the path between blankets and towels is tortuous, intermittent.
And new arrivals are forced further and further down the beach, stopping near the lapping waves to rest before picking up their burdens to resume the trek.
And the parade begins.
At first only one or two, then whole groups of naked people, men and women, strolling along the wet sand, just above the thin surf.
"What do you suppose is behind this urge that ugly people seem to have for removing their clothes in public?" Cynthia asks.
And Helen laughs.
Because it is only too true.
Fat men are here in abundance, the button of their penis a dim pink nub in the shadow of the jiggling abdomens.
And thin men, skeletons whose skin hangs in bilious folds from their doddering frames.
And women, also of both types, mountains of celulite alternating with skinny, sexless androgynes.
But there are others as well.
Musclemen, not as muscular as they would like, walking the shoreline stiffly semi-flexed.
Sexy men, not as sexy as they would like, sporadically jerking their cocks to semi-hardness, so that they can call them "big".
Men and women who have discovered the sexiness of partial nudity, wearing pastel g-strings, "shit-splitters", as the afficianados of full nudity derisively term them.
Here and there, a truly sexy man or woman. Or a guy with real muscle. Or one whose cock would rival those of Bruce's geeks. And black men.
"Here we go," Cynthia says, reclining on her elbows, studying the parade from behind wraparound sunglasses, their mirrored surfaces a twin reflection of the scene.
"What?" Helen asks, puzzled.
"The black guys."
"What about them?"
"Think they're here for the tanning rays, kiddo?"
"Hmmm."
Cynthia is right, now that she thinks about it.
Of course, they could be here just to swim.
Except that nobody is.
It is too early in the season.
The sun is quite warm, but the water is numbing in its coldness.
It is not yet the temperature which shocks upon entry, but which rhen becomes livable.
No, it is uncompromisingly cold.
As they have discovered, dipping toes as they came onto the beach.
Some of them, like most of the uglies, no doubt, have come to gawk, to see what they can see, this being their only opportunity to see the human body literally in the flesh.
But there are others among them, men whose color has prefigured the action of the sun, rendering it superfluous, but who nonetheless walk, nonchalant and proud, along the wet sand.
As well they should be.
Because they are superbly muscled, magnificently hung.
So that surely they are not here to gawk.
They can have something better than ninety-nine percent of what's present here, even if it were available, and not have to advertize themselves like this.
Are they exhibitionists?
Cynthia and Helen don't think so.
Because there is no eye contact.
They do not glance, even surreptitiously, at the crowd to see who is watching them.
It is as though the crowd does not exist.
So that they are strolling naked along an empty beach.
And Cynthia and Helen find themselves looking for examples or the type-black, built, and big where it counts.
And remembering.
"Remember?" Helen asks.
"You know I do," Cynthia replies.
And she does, as though it were only yesterday that she and Helen were in college.
And pursuing their favorite sport back then.
Nigger fucking.
That's what they called it.
So that they could reassure themselves that it was merely a means of satisfying their raw lust.
So that they could be certain in their own minds that there was not, could not be, anything more to it than that.
So that, if there were any doubt at all in their minds that things were otherwise, that they were getting "serious" with one or another of their many black studs, they could dispel it at once by saying the words aloud.
"Hey, Cindy, wanna go out nigger fucking?"
"Can't tonight, Helen. Got a big Sociology exam tomorrow. Gotta study.
"Save it for the weekend, babe. Then we can go nigger fucking all you want."
Nigger fucking.
Four syllables, spoken derisively. Just the right words, just the right sounds. Cynical, self-mocking self-knowing, self-indulgent.
A primitive appeal to the primitive withir. .hem.
Deal with your heat to a jungle beat. And never, never admit, even to yourself, that there is more to it than that, no matter how great the guy is. And it's okay.
We use them and they use us.
And if any one of them makes more than that out of it, then he's an ass hole.
Funny, Cynthia thinks, how they have not thought of that, have not mentioned it to each other until right now.
Although Bruce has often been asked to provide black studs for Chipper's homecomings.
So that, again, big, black men have packed Cynthia's pussy and bung with their big cocks and their big loads.
But that was catered, and so not the same thing.
And in fact Bruce himself is black-a heavy-set, light-skinned black with a pencil-thin moustache.
And yes, he has gotten into Cynthia's pants.
But that is not the same thing, either.
That is the gathering of two mature, responsible adults who do business together.
And Bruce's being black is incidental.
It has nothing to do with "nigger fucking".
Not taking her eyes from the passing scene before them, Cynthia asks, "Did you ever, uh ... think about ... "
"No."
And she knows that Helen is telling the truth.
Because, in the reply, there is the tone of self-astonishment.
As bored as she has been, as many times as she has found herself at wits end with her boredom and frustration, never once has she thought back to their nigger fucking days.
And Cynthia knows why.
It is because there were moments.
Which they dismissed as the heat of the moment, the moment within the moment.
But nevertheless, the moments were there, however brief, however temporary.
When it was not just nigger fucking.
When it was not just two people wearing social labels that required them, under such circumstances, to limit themselves to the use of each others' bodies, in order that the one deprive herself of nothing the world has to offer, including raw jungle sex, and the other avail himself of that ultimate macho black stud status symbol, a piece of beautiful, white blonde ass.
While she reserves her "serious" self for one of her race and class and he his "serious" self for a black beauty of good family.
But that was then and this is now.
They were young back then.
They believed in levels of feeling.
They believed in the seriousness of their own emotions.
It has taken them all these years to realize the correctness of the attitudes imposed on them by society.
Society is right, but for reasons having nothing to do with morality, with the sense of propriety, meaning what is right and proper and acceptable.
No, society is right for an entirely different reason, as sad experience, disillusioning experience has shown.
People use each other.
That is the sum and substance of a relationship any relationship. And seriousness?
That is nothing more and nothing less than the depth, the degree, the frequency and manner of that usage.
Yes, society is right, but for all the wrong reasons.
Because beneath the prejudice lies the truth which eliminates the prejudice.
Use it, but don't fall in love with it, because you know And now Cynthia does know.
She knows that there is no such thing as love between people.
Any people.
If there were, she would have loved Chipper.
As it is, she merely likes him.
And she is sure that Helen does not feel even that strongly toward the singularly inappropriately named Randy.
And color has nothing to do with it.
Use each other well, because that's all there is.
And if that's all there is "See anything you like?"
MUh-huh."
And Helen feels like a college girl again.
Except that she, too, has been stripped of her romantic notions.
So that, in her mind also, there is nothing left but the urge to use and be used, stripped of all its guilt, its romantic overtones.
So that, not having to carry that burden into the sack with her, it should be even better than in the old days.
Now there is only the matter of selection and acquisition.
And, as Cynthia pointed out, these guys are not here for a tan.
Fuck all you flabby white motherfucker losers! James thinks, not deigning to so much as look at them.
He strolls along the narrow strip between blankets and ocean with a firm, steady gait, cock and balls swinging heavily as he moves.
And he knows.
He knows chat they are looking at him, all of them.
And seeing the smooth, firm, protrusions of his muscular, shapely ass as he passes.
And making the connection.
They cannot help it, it is there, it is implied, it is in the nature of the beast.
This goes into that.
My big, black, swinging dick goes into the slit in the middle of that hairy crotch.
Read you some fucking anatomy book if you think I'm kidding.
And other eyes watch him as well.
And yes, that's true too.
My big, black, swinging dick will also fit quite nicely between those lips, most of the way and, if you be into deep throat, even all the way.
And this angers him, this last thought.
Because he has had this dream, ever since he discovered this beach.
Which is that some beautiful, white piece of ass will see him, will be drawn to him irresistably, will very sweetly, very directly proposition him.
And he will have the statuesque, white blonde to which his endowment, his development, and his looks entitle him.
But it will not happen.
It has not happened yet, anyway.
No, they will look at him and dream and not dare tell their flabby white friends they are here with.
And some fucking piece of whale blubber will no doubt bed them down tonight.
And their eyes will close and they will dream of him while some white piece of shit packs them with his pretty pink pud.
No, he will not make out here today.
Or, worse, he will.
Because he will get hot, bothered, frustrated. And his cock and mind will both turn thick and turgid.
Until the urge is strong upon him.
And they eyes, the hungry eyes above hungry, drooling mouths will be in heads that are attached to bodies on top of legs that have feet that will follow him down, down, down the beach.
And he will not have to turn to know that this pathetic monster is behind him.
As he turns into the dunes.
And stands there, staring out to sea, legs spread, hands on hips, hidden from those on the beach by the tall grasses through which he peers.
And he will not look at the drooling monster.
Not even as it kneels before him.
Not even when his cock goes into its mouth and it begins to suck him hungrily.
Not even when he discharges his load into its mouth and it swallows, again and again.
And he will turn his head sharply away as it rises.
So that he will not see, will not know what it was that blew him.
And now scuffles away, making noises like the cockroaches in the kitchen back home.
And leaves him standing there, not wanting to look down, lest he see his cock, still tumescent, shiny with the ereature's saliva.
As the depression hits him.
And the realization that he has lost again.
And that looks and body and whang have once more been wasted, and wasted in a way that leave him despising the world and all in it and above all himself for being such a weak brained, fucking loser.
Queer bait, he thinks. That's all I've been here so far.
Every fucking time.
No friendly, beautiful women.
Only me and my sick mind and He cannot find a term for them.
Not generally, not for the ones who have won the prize from him in the past, not from the one who will-no!
No, dammit, not this time!
Yeah, he sighs to himself, that's what I say all the time.
And then the urge and the image grow strong and he stands in the dunes and his mind lies to him and his cock is in the beautiful blonde and he comes and it is once more loser bullshit.
But this time, he is firmly resolved.
He will go up and down the beach exactly ten times.
Twenty passes.
Enough chances for the white nooky to make up its mind.
More than enough chances for her to do something about it.
At the end of that time, he will go to his towel, gulp down the iced tea from his thermos, put on his shorts, and split.
Because he has enough frustration, enough disappointment in his life already, without making a fool of himself.
Yes, he may leave here a loser, but he is not going to allow some sicko to get his jollies off at his expense.
Not any more.
Because he has begun to suspect that his observers are not, are no longer random, but hunters who recognize their prey instantly and hover, vulture-like, to devour his meat, circling him until, like cattle in the desert, he gives in to the situation.
He feels himself enough of a victim already.
He does not need that.
He could not attend college because there was no money.
Yes, his mind is a terrible thing to waste. But waste it he is, working in a warehouse. And living at home with his momma. He could go to college at night, now he has an income.
But he prefers the gym, the pool hall, his car.
His car; which he has bought new, but which he dare not wash, dare not make look like anything, lest it be stolen in the neighborhood in which he lives, since, having neither garage nor driveway, he must park it in the street.
All night.
Every night.
So that it looks like a poorly maintained shitbox.
And, by next year, it will be.
Nooky?
He does not do without, he admits. But there is a hierarchy to the neighborhood nooky.
And here too, he comes up short.
Because there are too many places he cannot take a girl, too many things he cannot do with the girl, due to his having to help out with the finances at home, maintain his gym membership and make his car payments.
So that his poon is standard neighborhood fare, one cut above a public utility.
And if eyes turn to look in his direction at the movies, the drive-in, wherever, it is surely to observe the incongruity of his date and himself.
Surely he can do better than that!
And again, he closes his eyes and imagines a tall, voluptuous blonde at his side.
Then the heads would turn!
Then they would all look!
And he would say to them, by thought projection, Fuck all you bad motherfuckers!
You satisfied now?
You be shown, or what?
But it is not happening.
It will not happen.
It is his fate, his destiny, his sentence that it not happen.
James Robert Jefferson, we, the court of this world, hereby sentence you to a lifetime of doing without any nooky, poon, booty, snatch, twat worth having.
Now, get your black ass outta here, go home, and beat your meat.
And that is just what he will do.
Because he will come home hot as a Saturday night special with three rounds fired.
And stand there before the full-length mirror in his bedroom.
And pick up his throbbing rod.
And stare at his white eyes in the mirror.
And wonder briefly at what kind of a world this is when somebody with all he has to offer is reduced to this.
And resignedly devote himself to the task at hand.
And flex his legs, straining on tiptoe, head thrown back, eyes closed as he pumps the mighty pole up and down.
And look down, watching the thick, white cream ooze over knuckles and wrist, the remainder still rising from the great eye of his purple plum of a knob.
He does not look forward to that, but he views it as the lesser of two evils, those being his only options.
Except "Mind if we walk along with you?"
He cannot believe it.
Not one, but two, count them, two.
And perhaps they are nor as young as he would have wished.
But they are certainly as white, as blonde, as beautiful as anything he has seen there.
There, or in his mind.
Briefly, he glances up at the sky.
And thinks, You playin' wif me, right?
But the heavens remain their same bright, bland blue.
And he returns his gaze downward, glancing to either side, to see if there is not, in either of them, some horrible blemish, some deformity that could explain his suddenly becoming the star of a trio.
But the images hold.
Front and rear, side to side, they are exactly what he would have ordered, had he been capable of thinking in such exquisite detail.