My husband, Gerald, chose where to set our beach chairs. “Best seats in the house, Gracie, best in the house!” Another pair of bikini-clad women sauntered along the surf in front of us on their way to the lifeguarded area. Gerald was wearing his magical sunglasses, which rendered him and his girl-watching activities invisible. 

“Gerald, dear, don’t gawk.” 

“Aw, they can’t tell, Grace. I’m playing it cool.” 

Sure. 

Gerald indulged my love of being in the sun as he sat under the umbrella in his trunks, t-shirt, hat, and (of course) his sunglasses. I was reclining in my chair in my tastefully tight one-piece, the one with the deep scoop up front and the high-cut bottom. I was people-watching as well, although not nearly as obvious about it as some others that I won’t mention. 

“Why bother with that little triangle thing above the ass?” my beach fashionista husband asked. At least he wasn’t just looking at boobs that day. 

“It’s not polite to point,” I pointed out and shifted my chair a little farther away from the umbrella. 

A gentleman stood up a little straighter and sucked in his gut a bit as he walked past me—he wasn't the first. I’m always flattered but rarely affected when that happens. I smiled at his effort and looked out over the ocean at the younger men who were on those little surfboards. 

We were on the New Jersey shore, and I understood that the waves were small when compared to other beaches. However, I wasn’t thinking about what it might be like to fuck a wave. 

A surfer was riding in, and I admired his, well, grace as he made it to shore. “I’m going for a swim,” I told my husband as I walked behind and to one side of him while he was looking the other way. He might not have heard me; the crashing waves can get pretty loud. 

The man was already heading back out, so I waded ankle-deep in the chilly ocean (someone said it was only sixty-five degrees) and waited. Speaking of triangles, I mentally drew one across his wide shoulders, pointing down to his taut butt, and imagined him to be Isosceles, the Greek god of the surf. I watched him until he was close enough to the beach to notice me, at which point I spun on my heels and marched back to our spot. 

“Right, Grace, right?” I don’t think Gerald realized that I had left. 

I pulled a bikini out of my beach bag. “You’re always right, dear.” I hoped that I hadn’t agreed to something that I shouldn’t have. 

Once I was sure that Isosceles was looking my way, I shook my hair down in front of my boobs, peeled away the top half of my one-piece, and replaced it with my bikini top (speaking of triangles…). I sensed that I had his interest when he dropped his board, so I dropped the rest of my swimsuit to the sand. I pulled my bikini bottoms up (with my backside tastefully cupped) and told Gerald that I was going for another swim. 

I have a walk. I’m sure I’m not the only one. It’s the kind of walk that tells a man that if he moves even an inch, I’m turning around and not looking back. It involves swiveling hips, swinging arms, and an unswerving attitude. (Could I have a show of hands from those of you who are familiar with the walk? Uh-huh. Okay, you can put your hands back on your laps.) 

Isosceles’ front was even prettier than his back. As I got closer, I thought that if I had a gut to suck in, I’d have done it for him. With my chest out and hands behind my back, I said, “Hi. I’m Grace.” I shushed him with a finger to his lips when he started to introduce himself. “Shh! I know who you are.”  

“Do you like surfing, Grace?” 

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you go back out and we’ll see?” 

He had a look. He took me in, up and down and up, and there was a little twist of the head as if he could see around at my backside. I liked the look. He nodded, smiled, and bounded into the surf. Once he was waist-high, Isosceles climbed onto his board, and I followed him into the cold water until it was up to my chest. 

He caught a wave and was surprised when he finally found me in the water instead of on the shore. He purposely fell nearby and swam over. “Did you want to ride?” 

“No,” I said. “I want a ride. Two people can fit on your board, right?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him and grabbed him between his legs with my free hand. His balls were nowhere to be found but his cock obviously wasn’t afraid of a little cold water. 

“I’ve never been fucked in the ocean,” I lied. “And it’s so cold. I’m afraid that my clam is as tight as, well…” Isosceles took the hint. I love it when a man can take a hint. Explaining things can take the romance out of indiscriminate intimacy. He dove under to give my muff mouth-to-mouth, and the little bubbles tickled almost as much as his tongue did as it harvested my pearl. 

I learned something about surfer dudes that day: Once they go down, they can stay down for a long time. Isosceles had the lungs of a dolphin and he licked me with great porpoise (sorry). I double-shivered with the cold water and hot everything else. 

After he surfaced, he made stirrups with his hands and lifted me onto the bobbing board. I raised the tiny triangles up from my titties and leaned back on my elbows. “I’m trusting you not to capsize,” I said as I shoved my bottoms aside and fingered my sodden cunt. 

Isosceles jumped from the end of the board and landed, softly enough, on top of me. Chilly water splashed over the board, but we remained afloat. The bulge in his trunks was firmly pressed between my legs. I smiled. He smiled. I said, “Hurry.” 

I lifted my knees and used my feet to help him pull his shorts down and gasped when he entered me. I mean, I gasped a prolonged, loud inhale of a gasp, and not because he was too big or went too fast. God. Damn. His. Cock. Was. Fucking. Cold. 

I liked it. 

He thrust furiously right away, and I thought that he wanted to use friction to get himself warm. There was no friction to be had, but I did nothing to discourage him from trying. I clung onto the board with my fingers and toes as he fucked me out to sea. We rode over some waves while others crested over us, but Isosceles never faltered. It wasn’t long before I crested over the waves. Fair is fair. 

“Where do you want it?” 

“On my belly. I like to watch.” 

Greek tragedies always involve a fatal flaw. Isosceles’ was that he closed his eyes when he wanked over me. Poseidon, obviously pissed about the nickname I gave my surfer godling, sent a wall of water that knocked him into the ocean with his shorts around his knees. I was worried because I didn’t know how to steer this thing back to shore and I also didn’t want him to drown. 

Imagine having to explain that to his mother. 

Thankfully, he broke the surface right away and we laughed as I helped him up. Another wave was coming our way and he stood up, hiking his trunks back up as he did. “Hang on,” he said. I did, sitting there practically naked and clinging to his muscular leg. I wish I had a picture because I bet we looked sexier than hell.

When we made it safely to shore, I gave him a peck on the cheek and thanked him for the rides. I was so happy to be on the warm sand again, and made my way back to Gerald, careful to avoid his periphery. 

“Hello, Love,” I said from behind. I quickly shed my bikini bottoms and shimmied my one-piece halfway on. 

“How was your swim?” he asked without looking back at me. 

“Cold, inside and out,” I told him as I finished re-dressing. “But very invigorating.” 

“How come your suit is dry?” Gerald asked after I sat next to him. 

“If you would climb out from under that umbrella, you’d know how hot and breezy it is.” I felt bad for being snippy and gave him an apologetic kiss. “I know you like your air conditioning. I have an idea for something cold to do that you might like.”