I snuck onto the beach after hours.
They didn’t like tourists on the beach after hours, specifically because the prostitutes were out and they couldn’t decipher who to lock up for the night or escort back to their suites.
But I needed to be out there.
I needed to feel the lukewarm wind on my skin before the breath of other humans made it feel hot and musky. the quiet of the night was soothing. the waves dimly crashing against the shore, the moon’s reflection of the white sands make it look like snow, the feeling of it between my toes felt like powder – this soft, scrubby powder. I found solace under a palm tree, laid my blanket up against its ridges, plugged the mini speaker into my phone, put late night in kawaii on repeat, and chilled.
I could easily fall asleep out here.
Let myself get lost in my head, pondering whether the north shore would be home or a pit stop on this remake of “eat, pray, love” I decided to embark on with no warning, no notice, just up and left everything I knew in search of… an ellipsis makes uncertainty seem trendy.
The sweet waters of the pacific reminded me of my parched throat so I pulled out a jar of fresh cut passionfruit and indulged. at the verse where Jaden finds a bit of happiness in a black power ranger t-shirt, I saw this figure trotting slowly along the water and the sand, the foam grabbing at his skin. his slender shadow sent a jolt of anxiety through my stomach and wondered if he were patrolling the beach, my solitude compromised.
Wasn’t even sure if he saw me.
And within seconds he thrust himself into the currents, the lull of the waves hugging his body, a bough floating as if he’d drifted into an abyss. limbs stretched, limp like he, the ocean and the moon talk clandestinely every evening. the colours of the night masked his hues and I couldn’t tell if he was native or tourist. I continued munching on passionfruit, donald talkin’ in my ear about gettin’ genius in a prius, when this being emerged from the sea body glistenin’ , lookin’ like ambrosia, god body, lingam long, hair slick, no muscle definition, just there in some sort of glory, dripping, drenched in wet. had a mind to pick up my shit and get out of dodge when he saw me.
Stayed there in the moment.
Had to be at least 100 feet away but I felt his eyes brand themselves into my skin, looking to imprint whatever thoughts and feelings he had all over me like runes. tattooed them on my neck, lips, tits, thighs, toes, fingertips; shook the sweet waters from his hair, climbing his way from the sea, feet sinking in the sand. made a quick pivot, slow strides, floating on the powder clouds of sand, he stopped short in front of me, his earth enticing me and asked, “do you want a sip?”
- L.T. Robinson
L.T. Robinson is a spiritual faery penning dark + erotic tales. Her goal is to tell the untold stories of the modern woman of color, unbound by stereotypes of sexual inhibition. You can find L.T. on Twitter and Instagram @theauthorlt. To read the rest of 12 Hours of Passionfruit, Part 1, subscribe to L.T. Robinson's "Lovers of Kink" mailing list by clicking here
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