I was eighteen, about to begin my first year at college. An inheritance from my grandmother had left me pretty well set up for the immediate future. There was money for school, and I’d taken a lovely apartment in Boston with a friend from high school. Her family subsidized her, so we'd have far better accommodations than most first-year students.
The only hitch was the apartment wouldn’t be ready until late August. As it happened, my aunt owned a beach house about thirty-five miles from the city. She seldom used the place, mostly renting it out. But the last tenants had fairly trashed the house. Various contractors would be in and out for most of the summer. Since my apartment would take some time, she asked me if I wanted to stay and watch over the repairs and renovations. Would I ever!
When I took up the place in late May, there were still cool days, but that made for few people and a lot of privacy. I wasn't concerned about being there alone; there were other occupied houses nearby, and there was an alarm system. Plus, I always had my iPhone.
I moved in on a Friday, so I had the weekend before the first of the builders showed up the following Monday. There would be a succession of them for weeks. The first came on Monday morning, which was right on schedule.
I had no reason to hang around after they began working, so I’d already decided to spend the morning at the beach. I put on linen beach pants and a loose cotton tee over my bikini and set off after answering the foreman’s questions.
Outside of one or two people walking dogs or jogging, I had it to myself. The primary public beach had lifeguards and was about a half mile away. I could make out a scattering of sunbathers there. I lay back on a beach towel to enjoy the sun, too. After a while, I walked down to the surf to test the water. It was still quite cold. I saw a tall, dark-haired man jogging toward me along the waterline. He slowed a little to get a good look at me. I developed early and filled out a bikini top quite nicely, so those looks were something I was used to. We exchanged smiles, and I went up to collect my things. The man continued down the beach.
The workers were off to lunch, so I quickly showered and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt. My aunt left me her aged Wagoneer, so I drove into the village to get lunch and look around. As expected, it was quaint, with several upscale shops—no fast-food places or tourist junk stores. I couldn't resist one women's clothing shop, though. So I went home with a new string bikini—not quite micro, but close.
The following day, I was on the beach trying out the new suit—still just a scattering of people in sight. When I was sure I was alone, I took off my top and liberally applied sunscreen. You can’t be too careful early in the season. It was a lovely day. As I expected, the workers were at lunch when I got back. I changed and walked to the small pavilion down the sand path from the house. It's open-air but has a wooden roof and serves excellent coffee, soft drinks, and light food.
I finished my lunch and took out my laptop to peruse likely courses for the fall. I noticed a young guy picking up. He was juggling a guitar case, a sandwich, and a drink. He was not bad-looking, with light-brown hair (relatively long and very wavy) and Scandinavian coloring. Maybe he was staying nearby, too.
Some friends came by on Friday night. We had a great weekend—surf time, seafood, and good wine. As these things go, it was small and quiet because I’d promised my aunt there would be no parties or other problems. Monday arrived, along with the same contractor, so I took myself to the beach. It was bright and sunny, though I noticed the water was quite a lot rougher.
I’d been there about an hour when I saw a man slowly walking along the waterline. As he approached, I realized it was the fellow with the guitar case from the pavilion. It was apparent he’d already spotted me. When he was just opposite where I was sitting, he smiled and strode to my towel.
“Hi, is it okay if I stop for a minute?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s fine.”
Of course, I’d had men try to pick me up before. But I was still mildly concerned about talking to a stranger on a deserted beach, with me wearing little clothing. But he was well-spoken and courteous. We chatted casually for a while.
I asked if he was a musician. “Yeah, I am. I'm a sideman for bands, usually doing demo work. Though I do some regular gigs, too.” He seemed a little younger than I'd originally thought, in his early twenties.
“Are you staying in one of the houses here?”
“Uh-huh, a converted barn down one of the sand roads runs well back from the beach. It’s been converted into a studio.” He laughed, “A soundproof studio.”
We spoke about nothing very profound or personal before going our separate ways. I was suitably vague about where I might be staying.
I didn’t think much about it until Tuesday when I glimpsed him walking along the sand. Once again, he stopped to talk. Then I said I needed to get out of the sun, so he suggested going to the pavilion for a drink. I wore the long, loose shirt I used as a coverup and walked with him. We both got iced coffee and sat at a table.
He told me what being a sideman is all about and his hopes for a musical future. I gave him a sketch of where I was in life. He was straightforward to talk to—nothing like I expected a rock music guy to be. Of course, there was an invitation to go to the studio and watch him and the band. I didn’t think that was a good idea—not yet, anyway.
As I expected he would, my guitarist appeared on the beach the very next day. I was on my towel in the same place when he came strolling down the coast. He stopped, and we chatted. He was charming. Before too long, we were, what my mom would have called, making out. He was good at that, too. I knew he was getting way excited, but I wasn't doing a beach shag just yet. He was wearing loose drawstring pants. I took a glance around and then reached inside with my hand. It took about four strokes for him to ejaculate.
“Oh wow, sorry!” He looked a bit sheepish.
“Don’t be concerned,” I told him. “I have to be going anyway.” I wiped my fingers on a corner of my towel. “I think we made a mess of your pants. Maybe you should go into the water.”
He scampered down there, and I picked up my things and returned home. We’d already exchanged numbers. My iPhone rang before I’d made 200 feet. I couldn’t help smiling. I'd never been exactly shy about giving guys what they want. I wasn't easy or promiscuous, but - you know - I found it was a reliable way to quiet boys down and, usually, get what I wanted from them as well. I would do it if I liked the guy and he treated me nicely.
The first set of contractors was finished, so I had the place for myself. Lunch was leftovers from a previous town meal. I wasn’t old enough to legally buy liquor, but my aunt had a closet that contained wine racks and a cooler. Of course, I knew where the key was. I took out a well-chilled white and helped myself. She never minded that sort of thing.
It was cloudy and chilly the next day. I dressed in jeans and a pullover to walk to the pavilion. My musician texted, and I told him where I was. He pulled up in a beat-up Toyota about fifteen minutes later. We talked over coffee. “We’re starting a session in an hour. Want to come along and hear it?” He seemed all right, but I knew nothing about the others, so I was still cautious. He saw me hesitate. “No, there’ll be the tech people there, too. Seven or eight, at least.”
In the end, I agreed to go. The studio was quite something. A large converted storage shed with all sorts of tech stuff. There seemed to be a lot of organized confusion. The actual music was…well, my guitarist and the keyboard were excellent, but the drum and singer were a little ragged. When they took a break, I was introduced to the band. They looked like rock musicians. I'm not sure that's a compliment.