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Monthly Archives: February 2012

If you’ve ever read my pages “Players on my Stage” or “What the Categories Mean”, you’ll have noticed that I talk a lot about Kelly as being a major contributor to who and what I am today.  The following memory is an example of why I think so.

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My cell phone vibrates beside me, the sound of plastic rattling against my wood desk drawing my attention from my writing.  I pick it up and look at the screen.  My heart skips a beat.  Slowly, almost cautiously, I flip the screen up and hold the thing to my ear.  I try to sound natural.  “Hello?”

“Hey!”  Kelly sounds happy, an uncommon occurrence since our break-up months ago.  “What are you doing?”

“Oh, writing a paper on insulin-like proteins as growth factors in fruit flies,” I respond.  It’s hard to sound nonchalant when you talk about neurobiology, but I think I pull it off nicely.  “What are you up to tonight?”

“Cleaning my house,” she answers.  “I’m trying to move my furniture around too, but my piano is too heavy.  Can you maybe come over and help me out a bit?”

She needs my help.  Figures.  “Oh, well… I’m kind of busy right now.  I have to get this paper finished before Friday so I can work on my capstone reading over the weekend, so I don’t think–”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”  Kelly’s voice takes on that tone.  Husky, almost raspy, but full of promise.  It sets my stomach turning in eager anticipation, and my breath catches.  She knows that got my attention, and I detect a hint of victorious smugness when she says, “The sooner you get here, the better.”

I swallow and find my voice again.  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kelly still lives in our old apartment.  I moved out when she broke up with me, but she decided to stay and “make new memories”.  I pause at the door and consider the nature of those memories.  After we parted ways, Kelly gave herself over completely to her baser instincts, not because she wanted to explore them, but, I suspected, because she wanted to hurt me.  And she did.  Often.  Calling me while she was being fucked by a stranger, just so I could hear her moaning.  Sending me pictures of her sucking another guy’s dick.  Bragging about her raunchy encounters with multiple partners when I show up at the bar, then laughing when she sees the pain on my face.  Even her best friends apologize to me for her behavior, assuring me she’s only doing it to make me suffer, and she doesn’t talk about it when I’m not around.  I know Kelly is only concerned about making me as miserable as she’s become over the past year, and I know that doing what I know will inevitably happen tonight will only drive me deeper into the ground.  Yet there I stand at the door, knocking lightly, waiting for her to appear at the door.

And when it finally opens… holy shit.

Kelly swings the door wide.  Her dark hair is pulled back into a working bun, and she has her librarian-styled reading glasses on.  And that’s it.  From head to toe, she is completely nude, and she leans against the door in such a way that every muscle in her dancer’s figure flexes tantalizingly.  She must have just shaved every inch of her body in preparation for my arrival, because her skin looks even more smooth than usual.  I can plainly see how moist and swollen she is, even from here.

“Hey there handsome,” she greets me cheerfully.  “Come on in.”

I just stand there and gawk.

Kelly quirks an eyebrow and smirks at me.  She steps out of the apartment and stands no more than an inch away from me, in clear view of anyone that might happen to walk by.  “You gonna make me stand out here naked?  Because you know I’ll do it.”

Wordlessly, I let her lead me inside.  She walks away from me, swaying her hips more than her stride would dictate.  Her ass is truly heart-shaped, toned from years of dance training, and she continues to smirk as she watches me stare at it.  “When you’re done ogling my ass, I’d appreciate it if you would move the piano so I can vacuum under it.”

I move the piano as instructed.  And the dining room table.  And the entertainment center.  And the couch.  It’s hard work by yourself, but every time I move another piece of furniture, Kelly rewards me by cleaning in the most erotic manner possible.  She pushes the vacuum farther than necessary, stretching her legs and torso, bending at the waist to give me a clear view of her pussy.  She stands almost on point to remove the cobwebs at the corners of the ceiling, her calves flexing, ass tightening, chest jutting forward.  She purposely spills water on her breasts and stomach as she washes the windows, again exposing herself to the outside world.  All the while, I watch, and work.  I feel almost drunk, my mind is so foggy, not thinking, just absorbing her every movement, her every command.

Several hours pass, and the apartment is spotless.  Kelly sighs and stretches languidly as she admires the room.  “Much better.”  Then she looks catlike toward me.  “I guess you want your reward.”

I’m so lightheaded I can’t find any words.  Kelly walks to the piano, pulls the small bench out, and straddles it.  As she spreads her legs open, her lips part, and she’s so aroused that, when she sits on the bench, she leaves behind a faint line of moisture.  She notices the line and smiles wickedly, then leans back against the piano and says, simply, “Clean that up.”

I move toward her and obediently fall to my knees before the bench.  I reach toward the moisture with my hand, but she grabs it and pushes it away.  “I didn’t say you could use your hands.”

I consider this as deeply as my befuddled brain will permit, which is to say, I don’t.  Instead, I lean my face toward the bench, no more than a breath away from her center.  I can smell her wetness, and feel the heat radiating off her.  I run my tongue across the bench, tasting first the sharp, acrid tang of polished wood, then the salty sweetness of her, the residue she left behind when she sat.  I do so slowly, not because I want to be sexy, but because my body will simply not work any faster.

I hear her say, breathlessly, “Very good.  Now clean me up.”

My face lifts, and I run my tongue across her.  I keep my hands on my knees as instructed, using only my mouth to pleasure her.  I trace the shape of her with the tip of my tongue, then lick heavily from anus to clit.  I lap up every drop of moisture she has.  And I keep going.  Heavy strokes of my tongue from bottom to top, slowly, methodically.  No variety, no deviations, I just do precisely as I’m told.  She makes no sound, no movement, nothing to suggest that she enjoys any of it.  So I am caught off guard when I feel her spasm beneath my tongue.  I look up toward her and see her eyes half-lidded, her mouth open in a wordless moan, as she cums harder than I’ve ever seen her before.  So hard she bends at the waist, curling in on herself.  So hard she even squirts a little, filling my mouth and covering my chin and shirt.  And I keep going, swallowing what she gives me as she cums again, licking her deliberately, until she finally gives in and pushes my head away from her.

Kelly breathes heavily, still leaning against the piano.  “Fuck you’re so good at that.”  I smile a little and start to remove my shirt, but she grabs my hand.

“Sorry honey, but no sex for you.  I’ve got Tony coming over in a while.  But thanks for getting me ready.”

Wait… what?

“I’ve got to take a shower.  Run along now, little doggy.”  Kelly climbs off of the bench and walks to the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the floor, covered in her juices.  I hear the shower activate and realize she’s serious.

I was right.  She just wanted to hurt me.  And she knew exactly how to do it.

I should be angry.  Fuck, I am angry.  But instead of confronting her, I simply stand up, put on my jacket, and leave the apartment.  It’s an all too familiar sensation, walking out of that place, knowing what she will be doing in a few hours, and being completely powerless to prevent myself from feeling betrayed, and used, and hurt.

“Serves you right,” I say to myself.  There is no bitterness in the words.  Only objectivity, as if I truly deserve to feel this way.  And on some level, I think I do.

Because so many of the stories I’ve posted recently have been slightly romanticized, I decided to share a memory of which I am particularly ashamed.

Also, before anyone accuses me of horrible things, this is a story from several years ago, when I was still a young’un myself, before I had come to terms with my relationship and sexual issues.  Abigail and I were only a few years apart in age.  (Remember, I’m still in my 20s.)

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It’s just past 2:00 a.m. when I put my car into neutral and kill the engine.  I’m parked across the street from a small house in the suburbs.  I’ve never seen it before, but the address matches the number scrawled across my left palm.  The lights are off and no activity is obvious from my vantage point, suggesting the occupants have gone to bed.  Satisfied, I climb out of my car and gently close the door.  I shove my hands into my jacket and walk hastily toward the short gated fence surrounding the property.  Sure enough, the lock is open.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I mutter as I let myself in.

I walk around to the back of the house, keeping close to the wall and ducking beneath each window, just in case someone has decided to get up for any reason.  I narrowly avoid knocking over a child’s sit-in toy truck as I make my way toward the air conditioning unit positioned a few yards from the patio.  A dim light shines through the window beside it.

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” I repeat to myself.  I tap the window pane lightly with my knuckles and wait.  A few seconds pass, and I consider knocking again before a face appears at the window.  It slides open quietly.

“Thought you got lost,” Abigail whispers wryly.

“Almost did.”  I grip the sill and hoist myself up, through the open window and into the darkened room.  It takes my eyes a brief moment to adjust, and I find myself in what I can best describe as a kid’s bedroom.  The walls are painted light blue and decorated with various posters and art boards.  The floor is cluttered with clothes and other sundries, and the chest of drawers displays several photographs of happy young people, laughing and gallivanting as only young people can.  The only clear space is the twin bed pressed against the far corner of the room.  The decor has a very innocent feel to it, which only reinforces the wrongness of the situation to me.

“Not quite what I had expected,” I say as I take in my surroundings.

“Yeah, my parents never changed my room after I moved out,” Abigail responds.  I feel her hand on my bicep, and I turn to face her.

I’ve never seen Abigail outside of the uniform we both wear for our part-time job.  It’s an unflattering uniform that masks your body shape in loose folds and dark colors.  Now, standing in front of me in a light pink baby tee and white pajama pants, I can see she still has the unusual slenderness of youth, her frame lacking any curvature apart from the small mounds of her breasts.  Seeing her like this now, I can’t believe she’s 19.  She looks younger.  Much younger.  Closer to 16.  Her youthful appearance is reinforced by naturally blonde curls framing a face best described as cherubic–slightly chubby cheeks; light, flawless skin painted with freckles; and wide, doe-like brown eyes.

You shouldn’t be doing this, I think to myself.  You still have time to back out.  But my body doesn’t listen, and I place my hands lightly on her non-existent hips.

Abigail kisses me abruptly.  It’s a sloppy thing, not overly wet, but poorly executed, with too much pressure and none of the jaw movement one associates with a good kiss.  It’s amateurish, and I can’t get into it, but I try, for both our sakes.  Fortunately, I only have to pretend for twenty seconds or so, when she suddenly breaks the kiss and steps away from me.  She unceremoniously removes her pajamas, making no show of it whatsoever.

“You like?”  She puts her hands on her hips and stands proudly before me, totally nude and completely hairless.  Christ she looks young.  So young it makes my stomach turn into an uncomfortable knot.  I want to tell her to put her clothes back on, to just sit and talk with me for a while, or to go on a walk, or something, anything innocent.

Instead, I close the space between us, grab her about the waist, and toss her onto the bed.  She bounces and gasps, and her angelic features suddenly take on a more primal visage as she bites her lip, lying back and waiting for me.  I strip off my shirt as I approach the bed, and she wrestles with my belt unsuccessfully.  I help her along, and with my assistance she finally slips my jeans down.  I move toward the foot of the bed, prepared to go down on her first, but Abigail grabs my shoulders and pulls me on top of her.

“No, just do me,” she says.

I press myself against her and find her surprisingly wet.  Abigail is incredibly tight–definitely not virginal, but close, and despite her physical preparedness, several long moments pass before I am finally able to slip inside of her.  She gasps again, and her face tightens into a brief grimace.  We take our time, working her into it gently, and soon she is rocking her body smoothly and steadily in time with my own.  Because of her tightness, rather than pound into her, I keep my length as fully inside her as I can, a difficult proposition given that I can’t enter her completely without impacting her cervix, and even then I’m still an inch or more longer than she is deep.  But we make the most of it, rotating our hips in opposite circular motions as best we can.

I want it to feel good.  And physically speaking, it does.  Abigail’s body is supple and whip-like, with the resilience and flexibility of a sapling pine, and whatever lack of skill she displayed in the kiss is more than made up for in her sexual technique.  She touches my back lightly, tracing my spine and sending shivers throughout my body.  She kisses and licks my chest, massages the side of my neck, rubs her foot along the side of my ass and thigh.  She engages her whole body in fucking me, and I am enveloped in a complete sensory experience–the sound of her breath and whispers, the salty taste of her flesh, the smell of sweat and body, the feel of our skin and her tightness, and the sight of her beneath me, her back arched, chest out, eyes closed tightly in pleasure.

But as good as it feels, I know what I’m doing is wrong.  She is a nice girl, but she doesn’t mean anything more than that to me.  She knew that coming into this, but I can’t help feeling that I am using her, and her younger-than-she-looks appearance makes me feel even more depraved.  My stomach continues twisting into knots, but that doesn’t stop us from fucking each other for hours.

Abigail is exhausted and sprawls in her bed, physically spent, and I dress in silence while she sleeps.  I let myself out through the window, return to my car, and drive home.  It’s just after 6:00 a.m. when I arrive.  Ashley is sleeping soundly, and rather than wake her, I crack open a beer and sit on the porch.  The first hint of light has begun to creep over the horizon, and I stare at it, considering the evening’s events with equal amounts of distaste, guilt, and excitement.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I mutter into my beer as I watch the sun rise.

I like to think I’m good at spinning a yarn.  I’m a storyteller at heart, completely at home when I’m in front of an audience.  Once I get into the zone, Henry Rollins ain’t got nothin’ on me.  It’s probably why I enjoy, and am rather good at, teaching.  Undergrads frequently compliment me on my flamboyant teaching style, how I flail my arms and bounce around and crack jokes and chuck chalkboard erasers across the room.  I’ll do anything to capture and hold another person’s attention.  Their adoration sustains me.

But mine is a face-to-face talent, forged in poor self-esteem, tempered by a desperate need to be accepted, and honed by the overwhelming desire to mate with every conscious female I meet.  It requires eye contact.  Feeling the energy in the room.  Recognizing what the listener wants and finding a way to deliver exactly that.  Some people can’t do it, but I pride myself in knowing that I can, for better or worse.

This skill, however, does not necessarily equate to prose.

I want to be a good writer.  I have no desire to write professionally, with the exception of the scientific publications required by my career, and even those I can do without.  I want it for my own satisfaction.  I believe, deep down, that I am at least above average in terms of written proficiency, and I want that belief to be validated by the glowing positive comments I sometimes receive here.  Unfortunately, I find it difficult at times to produce something I find worthy of submitting to public scrutiny.  They say you should write about what you know, but most people don’t want to hear about science and field work, and it takes a special set of circumstances to produce a riveting field story (reference “Back Road to Crazy” for some rare examples).  Besides, such stories fall outside the purvue of this blog.

The only other thing I know is sex.  And fuck is that hard to write.

I have so much respect for those of you who can write about sex.  The best examples that immediately come to mind are Gillian of Black Door Press, and Hyacinth of A Dissolute Life.  I admire their writing more than I can describe.  I am constantly amazed by the openness and honesty in their writing, and I am envious of their creativity and command of sexual vocabulary.  They can describe things in ways that I just can’t.  They don’t reuse the same words and imagery.  Nothing is recycled.  Everything is fresh.  And I pour over their writing, not because it turns me on (it does, but that’s not the point!), but because I want to absorb their style.  I want to be able to write about myself the way they do, with that same intensity and flair and disregard for societal niceties.

That’s my biggest issue, I think.  Sure, I have a hard time coming up with new ways to describe things, or different words for the same thing (I am not a sexual thesaurus, despite whatever persona I attempt to put forward).  But I get nervous talking about things.  It’s hard for me to be honest.  Much of it is out of concern for being somehow discovered by Ashley, reinforced by the decades-long drive to hide who I am.  But some of what I write here still strikes me as taboo.  I’m afraid to describe a vagina as being a “pussy” or “cunt” because I am afraid it will come across as crass, or even misogynistic.  We aren’t supposed to say things like that in public.  In the bedroom, sure, all bets are off, but in public?  No way champ.  Not without making the people who read this think, “Whoa, this guy is a complete and total prick!”  Then the mighty Index Finger of Rightousness descends upon the DELETE key with a finality usually reserved for an executioner’s switch, and I have earned another not-gonna-follow-this-shit-anymore.

I really need to get over that.  This whole thing began as an experiment with honesty, and censoring or otherwise altering my vocabulary seems to fly in the face of this blog’s intended purpose.  I shouldn’t care about earning followers.  I should care about putting what I think and feel on paper.  (Or on keyboard.  Or monitor.  Shut up.)  But, now that I have earned many regular readers, I am afraid of offending you all and sending you running for the hills.  It’s the same fear that leads me to lie and hide my feelings.  And I don’t want that to happen here.

Doesn’t mean I can’t work harder to improve my writing style, though.  Gillian and Hyacinth, buy a plane ticket to <REDACTED>.  We’ll meet up in a pub or cafe and talk style.  Make it a convention or something we can put on our resumes.  “Eroticon: Writing Your Way Into Your Partner’s Pants”.

Not really.  I’m not a creeper.  (Least I don’t think I am.)

I know, I’m a bit pathetic.

I’ll have another post up soon.  Question is, what the hell am I going to write about…

Wow, what a hectic week this has been.  Sorry I’ve been away for a few days, but I had to play catch-up with the backlog of work and research while keeping up with Ashley’s newfound sexual appetite.  (I swear, it’s like being married to a whole new person.)  But I’ve finally caught up, so regular posts should resume this coming week!

By request, the following is a retelling of my one failed experience with anything resembling BDSM.  Not my best ending, but this is just the way it happened.

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I walk through the door to my apartment and hang my backpack on the coatrack.  The apartment is dark and quiet, but as I begin removing my outer layers, I notice the pungent aroma of sandalwood and catch the distinct flickering of candlelight from the slightly cracked door to my and Kelly’s bedroom.  It’s a clear indicator that she has something special planned for us this evening.  I grin and lock the door behind me.

“Kelly?”  I move across the living room to the hall.

“In here…”  Her tone is deep, sultry, and possessed of a certain quality that I can neither describe nor replicate.  It’s an inviting sound mingled with her own arousal and anticipation, something she’s perfected over the years we’ve been together, and she knows its effect on me.  My breath immediately quickens as my body responds exactly how she’s conditioned it to.  I push the door open and step into the bedroom, eager to see what she has planned for us.

I am immediately struck by the sight of Kelly sitting up on the bed, completely nude, her back against the headboard, her legs spread wide open, her knees up and feet planted on the bed.  The candlelight makes her already pale flesh seem almost porceline.  Her left hand slides up her bare thigh, across her stomach, to her small breasts, which are barely half of a handful, but lovely and soft to the touch.  The fingers of her right glide lovingly across her clit, and I can clearly tell how aroused she is by the glistening moisture around her open lips.  She has clearly been doing this for a while, waiting for me to come home and find her like this.  She gives me the slightest of smiles and nods to the rest of the room.  “You like what I’ve done with the place?”

I have been so caught up in Kelly’s inviting posture that all I have noticed about the room is the candlelight and thin wisps of incense hovering in the air.  Now I take in my surroundings fully.  And I am more than mildly surprised.  The candles and incense rest on several tables that have been set up around the room.  They seem out of place surrounded by more sexual accessories than I’ve ever seen outside of an adult toy store.  One table holds a selection of restraining devices–handcuffs, iron shackles with soft felt padding, a cloth gag, various clamps, and two braids of rope of different thickness and consistency.  Another holds a set of dildos ranging from large to monstrous, anal beads, and a plug.  Still another displays a collection of riding crops, paddles, and even a cat o’ nine tails.

Holy hell.  I’ve always known Kelly had a kinky streak, but I am overwhelmed by the vast array of bondage-and-discipline equipment littering the room.  I laugh nervously.  “Wow, this is quite the setup you have here.”

“I borrowed it from Megan,” Kelly says softly.

“I didn’t know Megan was into this kind of thing.”  I examine the padded shackles absently, but Kelly steals my focus as she slides off the bed and walks toward me, her steps slow and measured and possessed of a dancer’s grace.  She stops in front of me and lifts the shackles with her left hand, smiling down at them briefly before looking back up at me.  Her eyes shine, whether from the candlelight or sheer desire, I can’t tell.  When she speaks again, her voice is little more than a whisper.

“I want you to abuse me.”

I know I look absolutely shocked.  “Uh… what?”

“I want you to abuse me,” she repeats.  “I am giving you the authority to do whatever you want to my body.  Put whatever you want inside me, wherever you want.  Tie me up.  Hit me.  I don’t care.”  Kelly steps back and picks up a riding crop.  She puts it in my hand, and I’m surprised by how light it is.  She guides my hand, making the short stick draw circles around her nipple.  “I want to be your victim.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

She turns and walks back to the bed.  She lies face down, her lower torso hanging off the bed, and reaches behind her to spread herself open.  “This is yours to do whatever you want.”

I stare stupidly at her for a moment before my brain finally catches up with the situation.  She has given me permission to do anything I want.  To use her body in whatever manner is most pleasing to me.  But I know this isn’t just about me.  She wants to derive pleasure from her total submission to me.  She wants me to control her, to dominate her.  To hurt her.  The thought makes me feel queasy, and dizzy.  But I don’t want to disappoint her.

I walk toward her numbly, holding the riding crop in my hand.  Kelly moves her hands above her head, gripping the bars of the headboard in anticipation.  Tenderly I rub the tip of the riding crop across her bare bottom.  Her hips wiggle a little in response, so I let the tip trail down lower, across the backs of her thighs, then her moist center.  I hear her breath catch, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Maybe I can do this after all.

I give the crop a quick flick against her bottom.  But I underestimated the flexibility of the thing, and that one flick bends the crop deeply and sends it snapping back against her ass with a loud pop.  Kelly cries out in pain.

Holy fuck no I can’t.

I practically throw the thing across the room, distancing myself from it as much as possible, and fall down beside her.  “Are you okay??  Oh fuck, did I hurt you??”

Kelly looks at at me with wide eyes, her confusion obvious.  “What the fuck?  Why did you stop?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I had really hurt you!”

“No!  Well, yes, but that’s okay, it’s what I want!”

I sit on the floor beside the bed in total bewilderment.  I look around at the tables, then back at her.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this!”

She sighs in exasperation and stands up.  “Christ, don’t be such a pussy!”  She storms out of the bedroom, and I hear the bathroom door slam shut.  She continues to rant, though I can’t understand a bit of her tirade.  I’m too focused on the riding crop, which is propped up against the corner of the room, almost proudly.  I am again overwhelmed by the sheer number of bizarre and intimidating devices around me.

“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself.  I return to the living room and collect my coat and backpack.  I can still vaguely hear Kelly griping to no one in particular through the closed bathroom door as I exit the apartment.

If you haven’t picked up on it by now, let me clue you in on a little secret: I’m pretty fucking insatiable in the sack.  Once in an evening is disappointing.  Twice is kids play.  Thrice is a good time.  Four times and I’ll be a bit tender and perhaps dehydrated, but otherwise completely functional.  Five is rare, but doable.  Six is my previous record for a single evening.

Until today.  I’m fairly certain that one more orgasm will pull my testicles clean out of my body.

I guess my conversation with Ashley must have set something off in her, because my return home has been pretty damn close to the 26-hour marathon I mentioned previously.  Oh sure, there have been breaks for a nice dinner, grocery and clothes shopping, and other mundane married activities.  But our time alone has been like fucking a totally different person.  Like the girl Ashley used to be has resurfaced, garbed in exotic lingerie and equipped with an assortment of sexual acoutrements that would make the most avid of sexual adventurers stand up and salute.

I have little more to say than that for the time being.  Ashley is on her way home from a meeting, and she says she has a surprise for me.  I don’t know what that means, but the tone of her voice has my previously exhausted boys raring for round eight.  It can’t be healthy, but fuck if I’m going to argue with it.

Additionally, following my retelling of the failed encounter with Molly, I have had a number of requests for another story of failure.  My next post will thus be a recounting of one of my more grandiose sexual faceplants.

Until then, dear readers, I’m going to go bathe in KY and wait for Ashley to come home.

Today was the last day of my incredibly long research trip.  Tomorrow, I board a plane and return home, back to my university office, and to Ashley.

Honestly, I’m a little anxious about it.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve done my best to pour my heart and soul into everything I’ve written here, and I think it’s done me a tremendous amount of good.  I’ve become terribly fond of the people I’ve met on here, though our communication has been limited at best.  I have been able to devote a lot of time to writing and talking to people because I haven’t had my usual relationship responsibilities, or the demands of students and administration and university red tape.  But, when I get back, it will be the usual grind.  Office hours.  Students popping in to ask me questions.  Research deadlines.  Manuscripts to revise and submit.  Other manuscripts to review.  Meetings.  More research deadlines.  Code.  Analysis.  More meetings.  More deadlines.  Papers to grade.  More students.  More deadlines.  Then when the day is over, I will need to spend time with Ashley.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I love my job.  Hell, it’s not even a job to me.  It’s play.  I LOVE being a professional scientist, and an educator.  And I love Ashley as completely as I am capable of.  But now I have this third thing.  This anonymous, secret blog that has become tremendously important to me over the past few weeks.  I’ve come to view it almost as a hidden affair.  Writing here is something I crave.  I want to tell my stories.  I want to hear from those of you who like them enough to comment.  I want to read your stories.  I want to know you all, and share with you these things that I can’t share with anyone else.  It’s cathartic.  I feel better after putting things here and receiving such positive feedback and support.

But how will things change once I go back home?  When the usual stressors are placed back in my life?  When the burden of a career and marriage weigh on me again?  Ashley still seems willing to work things out in our physical relationship, which gives me a bit of hope, but I’ve had a lot of freedom these past weeks, and that freedom has given me back the creative spark I once valued so highly.  I’m afraid that spark will diminish as the real world reinforces itself around me, that I will fall back into the pseudo-depressive gloom that defined my personal life and that I worked so hard to keep hidden from everyone.  It’s a disconcerting thought.

I will certainly continue to post here, as often as is possible.  Perhaps not on a daily basis as I have done thus far, but I do have several evenings to myself every week while Ashley is working, and there is sufficient downtime that I should be able to write in privacy.  Not writing doesn’t worry me.  It’s what I will write about, and what it will sound like, that troubles me.  I don’t want to be unhappy again.

Is it weird to say that writing this blog has made me a happier person?  If so, maybe I’m weird, because it has helped me so much.  I said it before, but it’s worth repeating.  I am happier when I write here.  I am thrilled by the comments, and the e-mails, and the random messages from people who love the things I say.  I feel like I’m not such a louse.

I’m don’t know where I’m going with this.  I’m just writing.  My fingers haven’t stopped moving since I sat down and began this post.  This is just stream of consciousness, shoving everything that’s bouncing around in my skull onto the internet.  It just happens to all pertain to my apprehension at returning to my usual life.  Which, incidentally, conflicts with an almost nerve-twitchingly overwhelming urge to get back home, lock Ashley in the bedroom, and have a 26 hour marathon fuck.

No summarizing conclusions for this post.  I’m too nervous to think, and too fucking aroused to sit still.  I love you all, dear readers.  Good night.

Well, I figured it was going to be awkward.  But I didn’t expect it to border on lunacy.

I arrived at work this morning and paused outside the main doors to the office building that houses my workspace for the remainder of my research trip.  Just beyond the entrance is the dispatch desk, where the emergency protocol people sit and listen for someone to hit the Big Red Oh-Shit button and initiate rescue procedures.  Where I suspected Molly to be lying in wait, prepared to pounce on me the moment I walked inside.  My behavior seems totally justified to me, and my rational apparent, but given her mental faculties, she probably needs to ask me why I left.  (Yes, I know I’m making her out to be an idiot.  But come on, did you read my last post?  She may very well be!)

I steeled myself, cranked up my music (in case she called out to me, I would have a reasonable excuse to ignore her) and barged inside.

No one was there.  (Good thing no one fell through the ice at that moment.  They’d have been shit out of luck.)

I won the karmic lottery.  I did my own version of the Happy Dance all the way down the hall, which is somehow more enjoyable when performed to Volbeat’s “Sixteen Dollars”.  I celebrated my good fortune with a long morning of orange pekoe, trail mix, and computer code.

But I guess it’s not a good idea to celebrate when karma throws you a bone.

Shortly after lunch, I stepped out of my office to visit the washroom.  She must have seen me go in, because when I swung the door open to leave, there she was, arms folded angrily, foot tapping, a scowl plastered across her adorable face.  (Dammit, why’d she have to be ignorant?  Or, why couldn’t I just ignore it?)  I started to speak, but she cut me off.  Whoa boy, did she cut me off.

“What the fuck happened last night?!”

A word on the architecture of buildings dedicated to the advancement of science.  Gone are the days of cramped taupe hallways and lifeless tile.  The new trend is to make them very open in order to populate them with things relating to the associated field of study, usually accompanied by a similar color palate.  Given its purpose as a center for landscape ecology, this building has living trees growing out of holes in the tile.  I’m not sure how they got them through the foundation, but there they are.  To encourage their growth and vitality, the ceilings are vaulted glass, simulating a greenhouse.  They also provide fantastic acoustics.

Molly’s expletive echoed up and down the hall for a good two seconds.

Everyone in the hall immediately looked our way.  Doors started opening, and curious heads and torsos began to materialize in the door frames.  Such language hadn’t been heard in those halls since the Great Firing of Pete Haubash in 2004, so this was already one heck of a show for the onlookers.  A show that Molly apparently decided needed to go on.

Before I could recover my wits, Molly had her finger in my chest and was standing on her toes, pressed almost right against me.  (DAMMIT why did she have to be ignorant.)  “I’ll tell you what happened–you pussied out on me!!”

So yeah, she didn’t get it.  Figured.

Again, I tried to speak.  I’m pretty sure I was able to utter two syllables: “No I–”

“Well GUESS WHAT mister.”  Molly punctuated those two words by jabbing me in the chest, over a slightly tender bruise, making me wince.  Her voice reached a feverish pitch as she stated,

“YOU–” *jab* “–aren’t MAN ENOUGH–” *jab jab* “–to take ME–” *jab* “–home!!!!!”

Molly promptly turned on her heel and stormed away, calling over her shoulder, “Bastard!!”

You’ve got to admire the sound architecture in that place.  Seriously, that one seemed to hang in the air for at least three seconds.

The onlookers watched her storm off.  Then they turned to me, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, waiting for my response.

I had a moment to consider my response.  I could have been professional about it.  Shrugged it off and walked away.  Chalked it up to experience.  Or I could have been a smart ass.

Guess which one I chose.

……………………………professionality, of course.  Christ, you think so little of me.  I do have my career to consider, after all.

I smiled and gave an over-the-top shrug toward the onlookers.  “Can’t please ’em all, I guess.”

Good choice.  They laughed and went about their business.

I saw Molly behind the dispatch desk as I was leaving.  Because I’m a guest at the office for the week, I have to sign out when I leave, and she was beside the book.  Figures.  I stepped up and casually scrawled my name and time out on the form.  She glared at me the entire time.   No words were exchanged, and I exited without incident.

So, not all of my encounters with women end as positively as the stories I have posted thus far.  My libido usually steers me in the right direction, though the destination is usually riddled with guilt.  But this time it took me on a fascinating detour, leaving me with an in-office legacy and a new-found appreciation for the power of acoustics.

There is a moral to be had there, but for the life of me I can’t see it.

“I want a woman who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh.  I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on.  And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow.  I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth.  I will do your windows.  I will care about your feelings.  Just have something in there.” –Henry Rollins, from his Shock & Awe spoken word tour

Truer words hath not been spoken.

It’s easier said than done, though.  It’s hard to talk about it without sounding like I’m bragging (maybe because I am, on some level), but I’m a fairly well educated and intelligent fellow.  My music-teacher-turned-librarian mother, aside from teaching me classical music, got me started reading extremely young.  By 5th grade, I was working on Stephen King, and by my senior year of high school there wasn’t a piece of classic literature with which I wasn’t familiar.  No one understood why I loved it so much, why I didn’t take part in more school-sponsored extracurricular activities, why I didn’t attend parties and get stupidly intoxicated, and choose instead to immerse myself in pressed wood pulp and ink.

I read because I want to know what I don’t know.  I want to see humanity and society from different perspectives.  I want to understand you better than you understand yourself, whoever you may be and from wherever you may originate, so that I know exactly how to behave with you.  So I read, and I travel, and I experience everything I can.  I fight tooth and nail to get the world to divulge every secret it wants to keep buried.  I want to wall hump the fuck out of life until it screams for mercy and begs to be set free, because this is what I’ve got, and I’ve got to make the most of it.  And I find it appalling that more people don’t do this, too.  So many people today are comfortable with the status quo.  Everyone is content with mediocrity.  It drives me fucking crazy.

Why am I ranting about this.  Well, I’m glad you asked.  Thanks for taking an active interest in my frustration, by the way.  You’re a good person.

Today, post work, I decided to relax by–you guessed it–going out for a beer!  However, given the fiasco that was my last bar outing (reference the previous post if you’re lost), I thought it would be best if I went with a local to a watering hole of their selection, so I struck up an off-and-on-all-day conversation with a girl working in emergency rescue dispatch.  I think I’ll call her Molly.

Molly is cute.  That’s the best word for it.  A good eight inches shorter than me.  Short brown hair worn in a bob.  Big brown doe eyes.  Just a hint of baby fat around the edges.  Small chest, but a wonderfully round backside.  All wrapped up in trendy American Eagle-inspired attire.  She likes my new Northern Canada beard (it likely isn’t permanent), and she dotes on my recently kicked ass by bringing me ice packs that I didn’t ask for and don’t require, and ibuprofen  that I can’t take because I’m already hopped up on my oh-so-delicious pain pills.  That should have told me something about her.  But I didn’t listen, and my drug-addled mind told me that she would be a great drinking companion.  I invited her for drinks, though I would have a mixture of sweet tea and prescription medication for my cocktail.  She accepted.

Fast forward an hour, and I was someplace I’d never heard of but she swore was “bitchin”.  (That should have told me something else about her.  Damn you delicious drugs.)  Despite my discomfort with it, we talked about my fight at the bar.  Molly focused mainly on the physical nature of the fight–who kicked me, how many of them were there, did I get any good shots in, did it hurt, etc.  Empty, soulless questions.  I tried to shift the conversation to something else, but Molly kept coming back to it, so I answered her questions as politely as I could, though I didn’t particularly enjoy them.   I have no idea who kicked me.  About five or six.  No, I was too busy protecting my vitals and curling my body into the fetal position. Yes, of course it hurt.

I tried shifting the conversation toward other things.  Current events.  Politics.  Science.  Anything intellectually stimulating.  Nothing.  She kept coming back to the fight.  Finally, Molly asked me what happened to the young old lady.  I told her I didn’t know, but that she probably stayed with the guy and took him to the hospital.  Her response:  “Stupid bitch deserves whatever she gets, then.”

Wait……….. what?

I get it coming from a guy who has never experienced abuse.  Not from a girl.  Surely I misunderstood.  I suggested that she was being too harsh, that people in abusive relationships often stay in them, not out of love, but out of fear of reprisal, or self-destructive co-dependence.  The response:  “Whatever.  She’d leave if she wanted to.  She’s just a pussy.”

It was at that point I realize that Molly wasn’t right for me.  I immediately thanked her for a lovely conversation, dropped a $20 on the table, and told her I would catch a cab home.  She looked confused as I left without another word.

I’m not looking forward to the awkward conversation tomorrow, or alternatively, the even more awkward silence.  I should have said something about why I was leaving, but really, why bother?  Would she have understood if I had told her that I found her repulsive?  That as attractive as she may be, there is no breast size large enough, no leg long enough, no pussy tight enough, to make up for being woefully ignorant?  That I would rather my sexual partners be intelligent and average than shallow but pretty?  No, likely she would have accused me of resembling an excretory orifice and called into question the validity of my parents’ marriage, which would have set me to laughing in a heartbeat, given my drug-addled state.  So I simply left, got back to my hotel room, opened my laptop, and decided to share this experience with you.

I want to keep going.  There’s a lot more ranting I can and would like to do.  But after 1000+ words, my bruised knuckles, back, ribs, and head are aching to be placed in a horizontal position, preferably on something soft and squishy.  Thus I am afraid I must retire to the arms of Morpheus.  The blissful vacuum of oblivion awaits.  Pleasant dreams to you all.

Yesterday, I missed my daily update.  I’m sure you were all worried about me.  (I knew there was a reason I love you guys!)  For that, I thank you, and I present the explanation as to why I was absent.

Note:  I am not proud of this story, but it is what it is.  If you are bothered by violence, or human suffering in general, I warn you, don’t read this.

I have returned to civilization from the frozen expanse that is northern Canada.  I spent yesterday traveling (hence my first failure to make a daily post), hours by car and by plane, trapped in close confines with people I would rather not be near, and assaulted by conflicting aromas of dried meat, sweat, and old lady perfume, three scents that, their powers combined, become a force of nature.  Having tolerated it with all the grace I could muster after weeks of isolation in pristine boreal forest, I felt like having a beer, so I walked around the little town I’m working in for this last week and hit the first bar I found.

The place was a dive.  Swayze himself couldn’t have broken up a fight there.  Dim lights, dirty walls, and a human stink so palpable I could, quite literally, taste it in the back of my mouth.  Salty, and slightly acrid.  It was truly foul.  But I wanted that beer.  So I sat at a table and waited for the waitress, who was about as rude as imaginable.  She wouldn’t accept a debit card, so I had to get money from the ATM.  (Earning the bar another $3.00 in the process.  Bastards.)  I tipped her extra for the trouble I had caused.  She just smirked and walked away.

I quickly realized that the bar wasn’t outsider friendly.  People kept looking at me and talking.  I kept hearing the word “fag” bandied about, which led me to consider my attire.  I was in my standard Don’t-Die-In-The-Frozen-North attire.  Black merino wool shirt.  Black fleece pants.  Black wool beanie.  Black North Face boots and coat.  Lots of black, granted, but it keeps you warmer if it happens to be sunny, and the athletic cut of it all shows off my physique nicely.  (It’s not vanity, it’s poor self esteem and an overwhelming need to be found attractive.  Shut up, you’re missing the story.)  Couple it all to a four-week-old Canadian beard, and I thought I looked pretty damned good, like I should have been on one of those posters you see at outdoor equipment stores, scaling a sheer rock face or wrestling a moose by the antlers or something.

The regulars, however, thought I looked like “a fuckin’ liberal”.  I am, but that is, apparently, to be frowned upon.  (I also fail to see how they ascertained my political inclinations based on my rugged yet rather dashing appearance.  But I digress.)  But I wanted that beer.  No, at this point, I fucking deserved that beer.  So I smiled cheerfully at them, raised my bottle in a friendly toast, and watched the Super Bowl.  They were rooting for the Patriots.  So was I.  But I cheered the Giants, because the regulars cheered the Patriots.  Because I am petty, and fuck them.

Woosah.

However, despite my best anti-Patriots sentiments and my liberal-hippie-fag appearance, one of the women found me attractive, and proceeded to tell me so.  I have frequently said that I love women regardless of their appearance, and it’s true.  But couple a generally sleazy, trashy exterior to a vapid interior, and wrap it all in a Jim Beam label, and I am pointedly repulsed.  Yet I am a rather polite lad, so I did my best to hold a conversation with the young old lady.

Her boyfriend didn’t like her talking to me, and expressed his distaste by yanked her away from the table so hard she yelped in pain.  He then leaned down into my face and accused me of… fuck if I know, actually.  There was something about “his” woman and my intentions, but I was too distracted by “his” woman.  She had tears in her eyes and was rubbing her arms where he had grabbed her.  I could see red handprints.

I got to my feet and ignored the guy.  I walked around him and approached her.  I asked her if she was okay.  She looked confused by my concern, and frightened.

I want to preface the following by saying that I despise violence.  Fighting is dangerous, and anyone who enjoys it, or goes looking for it, is seriously fucked up.  But I got my ass kicked enough in high school that I know what it feels like to be hurt, and to be afraid, and I would never wish those feelings on anyone.  So I spent a very long time learning how to defend myself and others.  When I felt confident, I taught free practical self defense courses at a local women’s shelter near my hometown.  Some of those women had stories that still give me nightmares.  And that experience made me very, very volatile when it comes to abuse.

People say time seems to slow down when you fight, but that’s not accurate.  The flood of adrenaline makes you hyperaware.  It makes me remember every detail of every fight I’ve ever been in.  So I remember exactly how the guy’s face looked when I wheeled on him and struck him square in the throat with my left elbow.  When he staggered backward, he looked surprised.  Then the pain hit, he looked ill.  When he fell back against the table and fell on the ground, clutching his throat, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, he looked terrified.  When he could breathe again after a few seconds, he gagged, and looked sick again.  When his abused girl ran to him, screaming, he looked humiliated.  When he pushed her away, making her fall over a chair, he looked angry again.

I don’t know what I looked like as I jumped on him, sat on his chest, and beat him.

It makes me sick thinking about it.  It really does.  I’m not proud, at all.  I’m ashamed of myself for not having more control.  But fuck, she was just checking on him.  She wanted to make sure he was okay.  Stockholme Syndrome maybe, or true love that knows no boundaries.  I don’t know.  But I just fucking lost it.  And I beat him until the skin over my knuckles and elbow tore.  Until I heard what I suspect was his jaw cracking.  Until a heavy boot kicked me in the ribs and sent me flying across the bar.

No amount of training can stop you from getting your ass beat and thrown out into the street by five-plus guys.

I spent last night at an emergency room, getting stitched and x-rayed to the point of developing superpowers.  Fortunately, nothing is broken, except my sense of self-worth.  I am, however, incredibly sore, bruised, and stiff, and there was a bit of blood in my urine.

But the pain pills are delicious.

A brief justification for my writing style.

I feel that, in my attempt to pour as much honesty as is humanly possible into my blog, I have to share as much background as possible to bring whoever may be reading up to speed.  I could have started this memory at the beach, cutting out the first two entries entirely.  But that would have left out what I feel are two key components of this story–my first exposure to rosemary rum, and my and Marisha’s first encounter at the sea turtle event.  They may not be the sexy bits, but I believe that my behavior is about more than the sexy bets.  It’s about meeting people.  It’s about the connections I harped on a few entries ago.  And to omit those connections, erotic or otherwise, would be a disservice to the memories and my attempts at sincerity.  I’m sure the multi-part entries are a bit frustrating to read, but I really can’t find a better way to tell them.

Plus, I’m a bit of a showman anyway, and I love storytelling.

Anyhow!  Without further ado, I give you Part Three, the thrilling climax to Black Sand and Rosemary.  (Well, maybe not thrilling, but there’s definitely a climax.)

————————————————————————————————————–

Marisha’s definition of “a little way down the road” is a bit different from mine.  We walk for the better part of an hour along cramped, winding streets, always hugging the coast.  Most of the islanders are in for the night, but occasionally we pass the few night owls still loitering on porches and under overhangs.  More than a few people call out to me in passing, “Heeeey, white boy!”  We laugh and I give them a friendly wave, but we keep walking, sharing stories from our childhoods, comparing and contrasting our lives in the States and the Caribbean, and passing the rosemary liquor back and forth between us.

By the time we reach the beach, we’re both quite lit, but I’m sober enough to appreciate the beauty of the place.  Everyone talks about beach sunsets as though they’re some magical thing, but I’ve never understood it.  A sunset is always lovely and colorful, but it’s the same image anywhere you go.  Under a full moon, however, the scene transforms.  The moonlight doesn’t reflect off the water as it does on a still lake.  Each wave catches the light and throws it at you for the briefest of moments before winking out.  The ocean twinkles, creating a second night sky seemingly more alive than the one above you, always moving, mutable, and I am separated from it by frothy white sea foam that writhes on a black sand beach.  As I step onto the sand, I feel as though I am stepping into nothing, a sensation made more palpable by the intoxicating spirits in my hand.

I make it a few yards down the beach before I become too disoriented and fall into the sand, laughing drunkenly, playing it up a bit for effect.  Marisha joins me, lying beside me, the two of us staring up into an impossibly deep night sky.

“You know,” I remark quietly, “I’ve been here for weeks, and I am still amazed by how beautiful this place is.”

Marisha laughs again, rolling onto her side to snatch the bottle away from me, then taking a long pull from it.  “Yeah, it’s beautiful.  But most of us don’t see it anymore.  Dis is just de way we live here.”

“I think it would be hard for me to become accustomed to it.”  I take the bottle back and sip gingerly at it, continuing to admire my surroundings.  We sit in silence for a few moments before Marisha tries to take the rum again, but falls onto her face on my shoulder.

“I think you’ve had enough,” I say lightheartedly.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, white boy!”  Marisha swipes at the bottle, but I’m a professional keep-awayer, and I hold the bottle out of reach in my left hand, keeping her at bay with my right.

“If you want it, you’ll have to take it,” I state plainly.

Marisha grunts and pushes my hand out of the way.  She tries to crawl across my body, but the sand and her intoxication make this a nontrivial task, and she falls on top of me again with a laugh.  I drop the bottle in the sand, wrap my arms around her, and roll easily to my right, pinning her under me.  We both laugh now, thoroughly inebriated, covered in fine black sand.  She looks up at me, eyes bright in the moonlight, her smile brilliant.  And I kiss her.

Marisha immediately returns the kiss with more force than I had applied, her hands seeking my bare skin, fingertips digging into my back, holding me tightly against her.  I didn’t expect such a vigorous response, but I respond in kind.  Our tongues dance lightly against each other, and the smell of rosemary overpowers the salty ocean air.  It’s not the most intense kiss I have ever experienced, but it’s close.

I’m so caught up in it that I’m unprepared when she suddenly rolls over, now pinning me and sitting on my pelvis.  I can only make out her silhouette against the night sky, but I can see enough to watch her stand.  She removes her denim shorts and resumes her position on top of me, gently rocking her hips, grinding against me.  The cloth of my shorts rubs uncomfortably, but I am too focused on her to care much.  She undoes the buttons of her shirt, leaving her shoulders covered, and places my hands on her bare chest.  Her breasts are not very full, but exceptionally supple, and she gasps as I trace the shape of her nipples with my thumbs.  She leans down and kisses me again, the action somehow more demanding, insistent.  Her hands work on my zipper, but I offer no assistance, instead pinching and tugging on her nipples, forcing another gasp from her.  She bites my lip in response, the tip of her tongue tracing its shape, and I feel her hand slide into my shorts and grasp my length, exposing me to the night air.

It’s my turn to gasp as she presses down against me, not taking me inside of her, but just rocking back and forth, sliding along the length of my member.  I can tell she doesn’t groom herself, but the intense warmth and wetness of her overwhelms the coarse feeling of the hair.  I’ve never had a woman do this before, and I silently curse the darkness around us for preventing me from watching her move in detail, because I imagine it looks as pleasant as it feels.  Marisha sits up and braces herself against me, palms down in my chest, and just grinds her hips down against me, rocking back and forth, slowly at first, then increasing in speed and intensity and she begins to pant softly.  It only takes me a moment to realize where she’s going, and I release her nipples to fully cup her breasts, kneading them gently, rotating my hands to apply the faintest hint of friction, hopefully intensifying the sensation of my hands against her.  She groans gratifyingly in response, the rocking motions shorten, and her breath becomes ragged.  She quivers, and her arms give out under her, causing her to collapse on top of me, gasping for breath and pulling her pelvis up slightly.

I tense my lower body, grab her hips, and gently slide my now well lubricated cock into her in one easy motion.  It’s too dark for me to see anything, so I simply close my eyes and relax.  She does all the work.  Marisha hides her face in the crook of my neck and begins to rock her hips again, much slower than before, gasping and panting and whispering something I can’t understand into my ear.  Her technique is slow, methodical, every upward slide taking me almost completely out of her, her breasts gliding across my stomach and up to my chest.  Then back down, her torso lifting off of me as she takes all of me back inside of her.  She waits for a second, then begins again.  Forward, slide, lift, back, wait.  Forward, slide, lift, back, wait.  It’s almost a dance, and she follows her own rhythm, maddeningly slow, my body aching for a release that builds gradually over God knows how many minutes.  It could be hours, or seconds, and I wouldn’t be able to tell.  But finally, with one last push back, I feel myself giving in, and I haul her off of my lap.  Marisha moves without question, but turns back to face me, taking my cock in her hand and stroking me slowly with a vice-like grip.  I feel the warmth of her mouth around me, and I fall over the edge, my voice caught in my throat, her hand still moving along my shaft, her head still as every nerve in my body ignites.

Several moments pass before she sits up beside me.  I hear her sigh, contentedly I think, as she puts her shorts back on, then she fixes mine for me.  Without a word, she crawls across my body, grabs the overturned bottle of rum, and takes a long swig.  She then lays down beside me, her head on my shoulder.  “Dat was unexpected.”

I laugh and put one arm around her, holding the bottle in my free hand.  I smell the rum on her skin, and I kiss her forehead, tasting the sweat and ocean spray mingled.  “Yes, it was.”

We lay there, thoroughly inebriated, covered in fine black sand, surrounded by the smell of rosemary and ocean salt.