Steven Hunley
01-03-2010, 01:03 PM
Kristina
by
Steven Hunley
She was blond, a surfer girl, and married at nineteen. Besides those three things, I could completely describe her with only five more words. They are as Nickleback sings, “Are we having fun yet?” So as the Beatles sang, “I shoulda known better with a girl like you.” But I didn’t. ‘Cause I was a chump, the thick and blunt end of anything.
I met her through a mutual friend Marc, when he said,
“You wanna go over to Terry’s house and smoke a joint? He’s got a wife and kid now.”
“Wow,” I thought, “We’re only a year out of high school.”
So, like the right-guy-smoker I am, I answered “Yes,” and my fate was sealed.
When we got to the door, I tripped on the rug walking in. But instead of having that kind of feeling, I felt like I had stepped on a rollercoaster that was already moving. Is that weird or what?
So here was the dude I hadn’t seen in over a year, his attractive blond wife, their baby upstairs asleep, all real domestic like. It’s just the kind of situation you don’t mess with outta respect.
We smoke a few, laugh a bit, say goodnight. The next week we’re over there playing board games far into the night. Terry has to work; he’s a mailman, goes to sleep early. Uh-oh, now I’m in trouble. I shoulda seen it coming. Someone shoulda said,
“Red flag,” but we didn’t have the phrase back then.
She has a girlfriend, that’s good; it makes someone for my friend Marc to hook up with. But after her old man crashes, that leaves me for her. I want to keep my distance. So we make it a foursome.
One night we crawl up into a storm drain to smoke a joint. The next night it’s the beach. By this time we’ve been partying for weeks, and are pretty close.
We drove to the jetty at Ocean Beach, O.B. Jetty. It’s deserted, but we look for a more remote spot to smoke. Police were tough in those days. Finally Marc and friend wander off leaving us sitting on the sand alone. She sits real close, ‘cause there’s an on-shore breeze, cuddling up for warmth. The fog and darkness were handing us an invitation to exchange secrets. Our confessions were freely exchanged using doublespeak and innuendoes, but the meanings finally slipped out when nobody was looking.
“I can’t understand,” she said, “why you don’t get close.”
“It’s just that…” but words failed me.
I had a stick in my hand, and drew a small circle in the sand. “It’s just that you’re…”
She grabbed the stick from me, and scratched a jagged line through the ring, breaking it in two. Then she grasped me by the collar with both hands, drawing me closer.
“That’s just it,” she said with serious longing in her eyes, “It’s not working out.”
I’d had good news in my life and recognized it when I saw it.
At this point her lips had crossed into my danger zone, so close I couldn’t resist. I believe what happened next was the best kiss on the beach I’d ever had. After that …let’s just say sex and the beach at night… there’s nothing like it. Black velvet darkness quietly envelopes her breasts. The pounding surf effortlessly invades her freely abandoned southern shores, leaving pearls lying scattered carelessly on the sand. This provides white noise, allowing a woman to concentrate on what matters; herself. Let’s face it. There’s nothing artificial there. For a woman who wants to get down to the nitty-gritty, it’s a real sand-in-the-panties experience. That is, if she’s the kind that wears them. There is nothing as precious as our secrets, or anything so terrible.
Two weeks later she had moved to an apartment, filed for divorce, and was on her own. That put a whole different spin on the situation. But that was O.K. with me. My gyroscope was ready.
by
Steven Hunley
She was blond, a surfer girl, and married at nineteen. Besides those three things, I could completely describe her with only five more words. They are as Nickleback sings, “Are we having fun yet?” So as the Beatles sang, “I shoulda known better with a girl like you.” But I didn’t. ‘Cause I was a chump, the thick and blunt end of anything.
I met her through a mutual friend Marc, when he said,
“You wanna go over to Terry’s house and smoke a joint? He’s got a wife and kid now.”
“Wow,” I thought, “We’re only a year out of high school.”
So, like the right-guy-smoker I am, I answered “Yes,” and my fate was sealed.
When we got to the door, I tripped on the rug walking in. But instead of having that kind of feeling, I felt like I had stepped on a rollercoaster that was already moving. Is that weird or what?
So here was the dude I hadn’t seen in over a year, his attractive blond wife, their baby upstairs asleep, all real domestic like. It’s just the kind of situation you don’t mess with outta respect.
We smoke a few, laugh a bit, say goodnight. The next week we’re over there playing board games far into the night. Terry has to work; he’s a mailman, goes to sleep early. Uh-oh, now I’m in trouble. I shoulda seen it coming. Someone shoulda said,
“Red flag,” but we didn’t have the phrase back then.
She has a girlfriend, that’s good; it makes someone for my friend Marc to hook up with. But after her old man crashes, that leaves me for her. I want to keep my distance. So we make it a foursome.
One night we crawl up into a storm drain to smoke a joint. The next night it’s the beach. By this time we’ve been partying for weeks, and are pretty close.
We drove to the jetty at Ocean Beach, O.B. Jetty. It’s deserted, but we look for a more remote spot to smoke. Police were tough in those days. Finally Marc and friend wander off leaving us sitting on the sand alone. She sits real close, ‘cause there’s an on-shore breeze, cuddling up for warmth. The fog and darkness were handing us an invitation to exchange secrets. Our confessions were freely exchanged using doublespeak and innuendoes, but the meanings finally slipped out when nobody was looking.
“I can’t understand,” she said, “why you don’t get close.”
“It’s just that…” but words failed me.
I had a stick in my hand, and drew a small circle in the sand. “It’s just that you’re…”
She grabbed the stick from me, and scratched a jagged line through the ring, breaking it in two. Then she grasped me by the collar with both hands, drawing me closer.
“That’s just it,” she said with serious longing in her eyes, “It’s not working out.”
I’d had good news in my life and recognized it when I saw it.
At this point her lips had crossed into my danger zone, so close I couldn’t resist. I believe what happened next was the best kiss on the beach I’d ever had. After that …let’s just say sex and the beach at night… there’s nothing like it. Black velvet darkness quietly envelopes her breasts. The pounding surf effortlessly invades her freely abandoned southern shores, leaving pearls lying scattered carelessly on the sand. This provides white noise, allowing a woman to concentrate on what matters; herself. Let’s face it. There’s nothing artificial there. For a woman who wants to get down to the nitty-gritty, it’s a real sand-in-the-panties experience. That is, if she’s the kind that wears them. There is nothing as precious as our secrets, or anything so terrible.
Two weeks later she had moved to an apartment, filed for divorce, and was on her own. That put a whole different spin on the situation. But that was O.K. with me. My gyroscope was ready.