Day 5 Point Pleasant, NJ — BEACH DAY! #2
“Duly noted,” Max cackles, and we dig into our breakfast, bantering back and forth as if the whole thing was just a big joke — even if it really wasn’t for me.
MAX
Look, it’s not a big deal, okay?
So my dick moved when Sam touched my arm. It’s not like it means anything. I’m the one who asked him to show me what it looks like when he picks up dudes. And I already know he’s good at it because I know he gets a lot of action —
Okay, that sounds fucked up. I don’t judge him for any of it, okay?
I’m just — I dunno, fascinated. You know, that mating rituals between guys and girls are so complicated, but if Sam finishes playing a show and he wants to find somebody to fuck, he just does.
It’s cool. We’re best friends, and this is just what best friends do.
We talk about sex and how we do it, we talk about eating pussy versus sucking cock, we’re catty bitches about our friends’ sex lives because it’s fun.
Maybe I haven’t told him everything, like how Krista managed to break my dick, but I’m sure there’s stuff he hasn’t entirely been honest with me about either.
And he was playing around this morning, too.
I know I’m not his type, because every time we go out he’s always picking up dudes who are older, dudes who are much taller than I am with muscles and beards and shit, and I’m just a scrawny little —
I need to get a fucking grip. I’ve gotten hard watching commercials before.
Food commercials. I’ve gotten hard when my jeans were too tight.
I’ve gotten hard thinking about the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
My dick does what it wants, and lately that hasn’t always been the same as what I want.
I’m a fucking adult. Well, sorta, but that’s not the point.
The point is that I’ve been getting boners multiple times a day since my balls dropped and if I started getting a complex about what was happening every single time I ever got a boner, I’d have about six thousand fetishes by now.
Anyway, we’re not here for me to freak out about, uh — whatever the fuck that was. Today is about relaxing and unwinding and enjoying this gorgeous fucking day. And that’s what we’re going to do.
When we get back to the house after breakfast, Roxie and Blake are clothed and in the kitchen and totally trying to pretend that Roxie was sitting up on the counter for her health and not because they were making out. Which is rich considering how we all woke up this morning.
“We, uh — beach?” Blake gasps, totally oblivious to the huge hickey on his neck.
“Yeah, Aunt Barb said — chairs and umbrellas and shit in the shed — we can grab whatever —” Roxie jabs her thumb at the door with a scowl.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, whatever — weirdos.”
We change into our bathing suits, and when it comes time for sunscreen, I do Sam’s back and he does mine, because we’re fucking friends and nothing is weird between us.
And as we’re trudging through the soft sand, I yell that the last one in the water has to suck on Donald Rumsfeld’s saggy nuts, and we take off, dropping our shit in a pile just above the tide line and racing for the surf.
I’m not sure who actually makes it first — we’re always so in tune — but as the water hits our bare skin, Sam squeals.
“Fuck, it’s freezing —” He gasps. “This is crazy, it’s always so fucking cold this time of year —”
“Don’t be such a whiny bitch —” I splash him, and then we’re off, diving into the waves.
Being out in the ocean always makes me feel like I’m ten years old again.
Sam and I grew up in Pennsylvania, so we didn’t spend every weekend at the beach like the Jersey kids we know who come out our way for cheaper college options.
But Sam’s family made it a point to scrimp and save enough money every year to rent a beach house in Wildwood for a week.
And they always invited me along — what was one more kid when they already had four?
Mom was happy to get rid of me for a week, anyway.
So we built sand castles and buried each other up to our necks and surfed on our boogie boards and kept Sam’s little brothers and sister from toddling directly into the waves.
And when we got a little older, we went to the boardwalk by ourselves at night and rode the Tilt-a-Whirl and the Ferris wheel and promised that we would be friends forever, that no matter what, we would always be us.
It’s the same now, but it’s different. Those two skinny little dark-haired boys are still inside us, digging in the sand of our memories.
But I look at Sam now and I can see that he’s growing up, that we both are.
He knows who he is now, and you can see it in the way he moves his body, in the way he looks back at me.
After about twenty minutes, we head back up on the sand to grab a Frisbee, and we stand in the surf, tossing it back and forth.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask —” I call to Sam as I toss the Frisbee his way. “What do you think about the pink hair now? Do you like it better?”
Sam jumps to catch the disc, coming back down with a splash. “Yeah, I think it’s calmed down a lot and it’s not so much of a shock. What do you think?”