yeahstr82gay: Vacation over.  Back to school.  Trudge, trudge, trudge. The sand under my

yeahstr82gay:

Vacation over.  Back to school.  Trudge, trudge, trudge.

The sand under my feet seemed to push back as I trekked across the beach, leaving me with the ridiculous notion that the beach and I were locked in a struggle.  More to the point, my heart struggled against another summer done.  I’d seen 40 summers so far, and my oldest kid had already seen 12.  Like sands through an hour glass, the old soap opera sang in my head.  I pushed the ascendant thought down, squashing it under my toes.

“Hey.”

His voice startled me, and I jerked my head too quickly, like a frightened horse.  “Oh!  Hey!”  I blushed furiously.  It was Todd Davis from Huntingdon Farms, husband of Heidi, father of four.  I knew, because I’d been creeping on him as discretely as possible since arriving here and had finally figured out who he was on the guest list.  We’d said hello exactly once, at the dune buggy hut, as we both reserved buggies for ourselves and our kids.  

“Nice evening.”  He smiled pleasantly, his eyes steady, his hands shoved in his pockets.  An ocean breeze made his tank snap invitingly against his abdomen.  I tried not to look and suppressed that damn girlishness that always seemed to get the better of me around good-looking men.

“Yeah!  Haha! It sure is!”  Fuck.  Calm down, Erickson, I told myself.  “It’s a beautiful evening.”

He turned and glanced at the sun, nodding.  I let my eyes dribble over his profile, slender, masc, perfect.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Hate to leave it.”

“Yeah.  So are you heading home tomorrow, too?”

He nodded again.  “Yeah.”  He turned and held out his hand.  “I‘m Todd. Todd Davis.”

The touch of his palm–I tried not to hold his hand too long.  I’d shoved all these feelings deep down into my gut for 28 years, and I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself now.  Even if I would gladly be a fool for him.  “Brent Erickson.  From Maywood.”

I blushed again, realizing, or perhaps just fearing, that I had just outed my prior knowledge of his hometown by not specifying our state.  His eyebrows popped up in perfect semi-circles of surprise.

“Oh!  Maywood, Michigan?“

“Oh! Hahaha!  Yeah, yeah, I should have said the state–yes, Michigan.  And where are–” 

“We are, too!”  We, he said.  The prefect family man.  I little kernel of sorrow in my gut blossomed.  I should be like him.  I wanted to be like him.  I wanted him.  “Huntingdon Farms!”

“Wow!  Ha!  Not that far!”  Smooth, Erickson, my mind scolded.  Next you can observe that the beach is sandy or that the ocean is big.

“Well, that’s cool,” he said.  He turned to look at the sun again.  Half of it now swam in the waves.  I looked at his ass.  Round, tight, a perfect half-sun of studliness.  I looked up.  He was staring at me.

“Oh!  Sorry.  What?”  I stuttered.

“I said, ‘Are your wife and kids down at the bonfire, too?’“

“Oh! Haha!  Yeah!  Yeah, they are!”

“Our families seem a lot alike.”

Now I stared at him.  He’d noticed and observed my family.  Yet I never remembered observing him observing us.  But he had.  He had.

“Yeah–yeah, they do! I think our boys are about the same age.”

“My oldest is 13.”

“Yeah!  Mine is 12.”

“Cool.  Maybe they’ll face each other in football some day,” he grinned.

“Haha!  Maybe!”  I felt as though every word I spoke was inane.  “He wants to be a kicker.”

Todd nodded.  “Yeah, mine wants to be a quarterback, but I dunno.”  He chuckled quietly, reaching over a shoulder to scratch his back.  My eyes melted into his skin.  He must work out.  No working man could afford this trip.  Right?  He must work out.  I want to kiss your nipples, I thought. I looked up and saw him staring at me again.

“Oh! Hahahah!  Sorry, my, uh, my mind was on something else.  What did you say?”

He grinned a moment before continuing.  He coughed, his voice low.  “I said, ‘Do you play?’“

My skin seemed to stretch tight, and my stomach jumped.  Do I play?  Holy fuck.  Was this happening?  I blinked several times and wet my lips before answering.

“I–I never have, but–but I’d like to.”  I spoke quietly and stepped closer.  “You–you do?  Heh?”

He tipped his head back slightly, still smiling but holding me in a reserved, curious gaze.  “No, not any more.  Too old even for those dad leagues.”

I spluttered a laugh.  “I don’t think you’re too–”

“I mostly just coach now.”

I froze.  He coached?  Coached … .  Fuck! 

He was still talking about football. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck!  I tried to recover and spluttered something about busy schedules.

“Yeah.”  He twisted away from me, pivoting on his feet.  “Tell me about it.  I should probably head back so I’m there for bedtime with the little ones.”

“Right.  Yeah.  Me, too.”  My cheeks blazed.  I wanted to die.

“Nice talking.”  He started to trudge away.

I closed my eyes briefly before stepping forward.  “Yeah.  Yeah, nice to meet you.”

“See you back home, maybe.”

I snapped my head around, hope fluttering in my stomach.  He was walking backwards, smiling at me.  He waved.

“Todd Davis,” he called.  “I work at Myers & Van Denk Design.  Give me a call.”

I waved, smiling too broadly.  “I will.  Safe travels.”

He turned and walked away, his calf muscles beautiful in the sun.  Would I call him?  I didn’t know.  But suddenly, 40 summers didn’t seem so long.