Contributor: Amanda Firefox
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What can I say? I was 19, he was 22, blond hair, eyes the color of country denim. Gorgeous.
Running around the beach with no shirt all day, I could tell he wasn’t a six-pack kind of guy, but he was damn close. Several times I watched him massage knots of sunscreen into the curves of his tanned biceps, down the hard lengths of his arms and into the toned musculature of his swimmer’s legs, imagining myself there beside him, lathering him in creamy lotion, feeling those muscles harden and flex under my thumbs, the eager, caressing fingers of my hands.
I spent almost three days watching him from the window of the timeshare bungalow a friend of mine had suggested I stay at when my first vacation from work came around. I spent a week there, afraid to really touch anything, staying in a lot and mostly...
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Author:
Amanda Firefox
