AUGUST 20, Monaco:

We stay at Le Meridien. The room’s balcony overlooks the Mediterranean, its horizon line of blue.

Everything is neat, clean, overly manicured.

We go down to the hotel beach, lie on deck chairs, in the hazy surroundings of wealth.

You are topless. I notice but ignore the glances of other men.

We leaf through magazines.

Me, impressed: Salome is making news. Cover after cover after cover.

You, smiling: And the thieves are nowhere to be found.

Me, a figure catching my attention: She’s worth twelve million Euros.

You: Only?

Me, overheated, oversaturated with images of our act: Go for a swim?
You, dropping your magazine to the side table: Absolutely!

Hand-in-hand, we run to the water, sand burning the soles of our feet.

We splash in, submerge, come up and float on our backs.

You, turning onto your stomach: Race you to the breakwater!

Me: Wait.

But you’ve already started. Your stroke, controlled, powerful, determined. I will never catch you.

At the harbor’s mouth, we tread water. The Mediterranean is vertiginously clear, its bottom seemingly just below our feet.

A helicopter drifts overhead and out to a yacht. Rotor blades thwap like a luffing sail.

We come up on the beach, flop wet down on the deck chairs. I order us two Lillet.

Me: After this drink, I think I’d like to have a closer look at your tan line.

You: Oh, really?

Me: Really. I’d like to do a bit of the eunuch inspection.

You: Jesus, we already have our old jokes.

Me, smiling: We do. We do.

The drinks are cool, cloyingly sweet. I feel the alcohol sitting in the bottom of my belly, churning up my desire.

Back in the room, you drop your bathrobe to the floor as I close the door.

We lock hands and I walk you backwards until you fall onto the bed.

Me, hooking fingers into your bikini and pulling it down to your ankles: Now, about that tan line.

Me, admiring the contrast of dark and light on your flesh, brushing a hand against your pubis: Nice work!

You: Do you have anything to give beyond complements.

Me, bringing the bridge of my nose to your clit and drawing it upward: Perhaps.

I bring my tongue gently to the tip of your clit then apply pressure. Hold it there, breathe on you.  I taste sea salt and you.

I start to roll my tongue in big lazy circles. You move your hips with me. My knees, chafing against the carpet. My cock swells.

You: More. Like that.

I bring a thumb into your cunt, pull downward with my fingers cupping your ass. My tongue slides in behind.

A surge arrives. You are pulling at my hair, digging at my back with your feet, moaning.

I won’t let this end. I keep my tongue where it is, make you come twice more so that you’re dazed, catatonic, lost.

I lick you lightly, blow on your lips. Draw my hands up and across your breasts. Our breathing matched.

You, staring out to sea: I love you. I love you.

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