Erotica Shorts: Tidal Wave

"Chloe." It's almost a drawl, the syllables thick and heavy. "Don't leave yet." He's as high as I am, maybe even more so. I squint, willing myself to focus on his face for a second or two. He approaches me languidly, his hands on my shoulders suddenly. They're as heavy as his voice. 

"I'm tired." I shrug off his hands, letting them fall against his sides with an unexpected thud. The entrance to the house is small and dark, but light from his bedroom spills in just enough for me to see him. If only I could focus. 

His palm finds my stomach and starts to rub gently, the cotton of my T-shirt rippling on the outside of his hand. He leans forward—maybe because he's too far gone to stand, and maybe it's intentional. I don't know. "Hmmmm," he murmurs, more of a groan than a noise in its own right. "Maybe you should sleep here then."

A soft kiss against the nape of my neck, his hand moving higher to cup me over my bra. With the right person, the caresses can be intoxicating. I know he thinks he's turning me on, and maybe I should be wet by now. But I can feel bile rising to my throat, my claustrophobia to get out—right now, five minutes ago, three hours ago, even—closing in on me.

I reach up, ripping the hand that's found its way under my bra to fondle me out from my shirt entirely. 

"No, Michael. I'm gonna go," I dart to the right, trying to get around his solid body, but it's more difficult that I'd thought it would be. My movements are too slow, like I'm trekking through mud, and his arms circle around my waist, pulling my ass into his crotch. His head buries in my hair and he starts kissing my scalp, desperately clawing my hair off the back of my neck. The bile rises higher, doubling me over his left arm and allowing me enough clarity to lunge forward. 

"Michael. I don't want to." I half expect him to look crestfallen, but he just looks pissed, his fists clenching and unclenching inside the pocket of his hoodie. He steps back, the thick rubber of his Vans thunking against the cracked linoleum.

"You were happy to fuck me last time." He exhales sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Chloe." And then under his breath. "Bitch."

I can't blame him, really. A cacophony of weed and hormones and loneliness drove me to it last time, desperate for God knows what. The relief of penetration? Human connection? I don't know. I didn't find what I was looking for regardless. I rarely do, even when I'm this far gone and so horny I'm aching, about to bust open at the meridian. Somehow, trysts like this leave me feeling even emptier than I did before. 

I finally slow down after I've made is safely off the front porch and down the street, engulfed by darkness. The beach is only 25 yards from here. A luxury, considering the shithole I'd just left. Parties haven't seemed to change since college. Cheap whiskey, alarmingly good weed, ambiguous sticky stains on the floors and counters and sheets and railings. The loneliness. The liquor. 

Finally, I make it to the beach. Toeing the shoreline, I stare out into the Atlantic like I'm trying to see the shore. Of Africa, I guess. I can never understand how far south I am in the context of such a big map. The black water rolls in slowly, languidly, reminding me it has all the time it needs. Part of me wants to walk into the water and keep walking, keep swimming, until I'm somewhere else. I'm not sure what emotion I'm even feeling: Is it sadness, or just monotony? When I reflect on my life, I realize I've never really been troubled, even when I should have been. Just bored. 

Slipping off my sandals and peeling off my dress, I start to walk into the water. It's relatively warm, for South Carolina. The end of August means it's been thawing for months now under the sun. 

My skin, however, has not. I meticulously peel off my underwear and fold it, looking at the pale blue glow of my skin. It's only one shade lighter than the rest of my body. Maybe two. My tattoo—a small cross on my right hip, ironic now—seems to pulsate under the moonlight as my torso meets the surface of the ocean. I crouch down, sinking into the wet sand until the warm water fills my eardrums, my nose bobbing below the surface like an alligator seeking prey. Kicking my feet out, I float on my back, looking up at the moon. It's just a small sliver, but it's enough. 

The aching, the bursting, is still there, unquenched and unresolved by the cool water or the empty stretch of beach or the expanse above me. I rub my hands over my stomach and my breasts, my fingers slightly buoyant and slippery in the salt water. I'm not really sure what happened back at the party. I should have done it—he's cute, and he's willing. If last time is any indication, he probably would have taken good care of me.

People aren't interchangeable, I guess. Not for me at least. 

I continue staring at the sky, finally reaching that glorious moment of clarity right before coming down from an intense high. Truth be told, I prefer to be alone in moments like this. I reach down and start languidly rubbing myself in between my legs, my fingers moving in slow circles as I stare up at the sky. I'm still so far gone the sensation feels euphoric, and I moan from somewhere deep in my diaphragm, the sound almost guttural, my fingers starting to move in faster, harder circles. It's the only relief I've felt all night—maybe all year—and all my tension and anger and frustration start to dissipate with each revolution of my index finger. Soon, both hands are working, my feet kicking sporadically to keep my floating, my breathing deepening as my groans get louder. It feels somehow more taboo than usual even though there's less chance of anyone hearing me way out here. 

When I finally come, the waves are ebbing and flowing with my pulse, the water holding me up as I writhe. Images are flashing through my head, finally let loose like the bursting of a dam: the two of us fucking on the back porch of his house, the first time he told me he loved me; the last time he went down on me, my back pressed up against the wall in the dilapidated bathroom stall of our favorite bar, his hand covering my mouth so no one in line would hear us; my head draped over the edge of my bed while I lay on my back, his cock thrusting into my throat, small tears of pain and ecstasy streaming down my forehead; us, sitting on this beach the very first time we kissed. 

Slowly, I open my eyes and stare at the moon, just floating. No one will find me here. I can stay, just for a little while longer.