Now I am the child of people who made a religion of picking up agates on the beach. The child of the children of the children of people who gathered agates… I may even be reincarnated from a long line of souls that had a passion for things found… hunter gatherers of shiny and sparkly and interesting. I can see caves and huts filled with the flotsam and clutter of feathers, stones, sticks and bones… items that are charged with mystery and magic.
This is a particularly nice example. Please note the new manicure.
There is nothing I love more than walking on a beach, staring at my feet and filling my pockets with treasures. Nothing… including chocolate and sex. Perhaps this passion would wane if I got it fulfilled more than once a year, but once I am out there, I will not come in until the tide claims the gravel beds and Master is adamantly pulling on my arm.
Messy hair, absolute focus at the the rocks at my feet. And this hat, my absolute favorite. My mother knitted this for me when I was in high school wayyy over thirty years ago.
Lucky for me Master shares this addiction. He is just as excited as me when he finds an especially big or beautiful specimen. He will track me down and display his prize with a gleam of accomplishment and not a little competitiveness. He also harbors a deep suspicion that the best ones are most likely to be hidden under the soul of my rubber boot and loves nothing more to shove me to one side and make a grab for the one I had missed and then taunt me with it.
One minute all calm, next minute pretty pink boots full of cold sea water.
The best place to look is where the waves reach up and stir up the gravel, turning it and leaving the rocks gleaming and wet in the low sun. And it lends a certain thrill to the chase, sneaking down within the reach of the sea, knowing it can and will come back at you with a vengeance, roaring toward you, mocking the feeble defense of rubber boots. It is a risky game, a toreador dance with a raging bull, for the sea is not gentle. Without question it can suck you down, drag you out and consume you. They say do not turn your back on the waves, but the sparkles at your feet pull at the eye… so you tend to use your other senses. You listen for that deeper boom, a faster rush that makes the rattle of the tumbled gravel take on a tone that sends you scampering up the beach, shrieking with laughter or squeals as your boots fill with icy brine.
The best place to look.
(But Master is a bit less attuned to the voice of the surf and it was no small triumph that he had wet feet within minutes of getting there and I managed to avoid drenching until the following morning.)
Again it was the perfect convergence of weather and time of day and year. The gravel beds had been stirred and refreshed by a winter of long and stronger than usual storms. The tide was low, very low and the sky clear, the sinking sun sending low beams that lit up the agates until they glowed like coals among the black slate and dark sand. I was in heaven. We stayed out until the sun was far below the horizon and it was too dark to see the stones at our feet. My pockets were heavy with treasures when we trudged back to the hotel room.
Sunset against the breaking surf and time to go back to the hotel.
We ate seafood at the restaurant across the street from the hotel. I had clam chowder and fish tacos and a beer. (One must never forget to rehydrate after a long afternoon in the sun, on the beach.) Waiter!!! Please may I have another? Master ate shrimp and I snuck a couple of fries off his plate… just seeing if they were good?
And now, for all you folks eagerly waiting for sexy, kinky details… well these old folks went back to our hotel room and fell asleep. No sex. No kink. No spanks. Nothing but snores. The king sized bed was so big that there wasn’t even all that much opportunity for snuggles. Sorry.
Ideally in a perfect world, a world where my fantasies come true as we walked back from the restaurant, we would not have felt the weight of years and the sleepiness of a large meal and one too many drinks, we would have been filled with the tension of the knowledge that the night had only begun. And as I slid the key card through the door lock, the tone of the day would change, he would put his hands upon me… a fist in my hair twisting me, lifting me to my toes, a low voice in my ear describing things that he had planned to do to me, things he had been thinking of all day long, ideas that had percolated to life as he strolled on the beach, watching me play with the waves. Words about ropes and blindfolds, pain, arousal and denial, erections and orgasms and ultimately the warm tingly afterglows, bruises and bite marks in the morning. Perhaps I will write that story… the fiction of the path not taken.