Sand Prints

by Holly Rennick

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Here's a little puzzle.  What's the story behind these prints in the beach sand? http://images.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Print1.jpg

Need a hint?  http://images.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Sandy.jpg

Really dense?  http://images.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/HighTide.jpg

This story behind http://images.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Print2.jpg is dedicated to Ms. Bowman.

SAND PRINTS

We Oregonians know how waves sculpt the sand.  But here in Newport, anyway, sometimes we sculpt the sand ourselves.

If you beach-comb with your eyes open, you can sometimes gather a few good agates.  I sell them to Tom Hartman, an ex-hippie who makes jewelry for tourists.  I see the necklace at Sea Scapes for twenty dollars; the girl who found the rock got fifty-cents.  Go figure.  Maybe I should be an ex-hippie, but I think I'd rather go to college to be an English teacher.  They at least get paid for reading about other places.

You can beach-comb for stories, too.  Where did that piece of pallet's journey begin?  A trawler off Alaska?  A tuna cannery in Indonesia?  I know something about fishing and canning.  The story might be about a girl holding her own in a man's world.  My English teacher Ms. Bowman would like that.  To write it, though, I'd need to get the setting and I'd rather go to Alaska where they speak English.  Maybe the trawler capsized and the girl was rescued by the Coast Guard.  We have a station in Newport.  There's always a story.

I more-or-less know the locations for sand print stories, usually near the driftwood.  You need a high tide to have swept the sand the evening before.  Before the next tide covers the prints, you see where someone's lain and another's been on top.

Oregon beaches are maybe the starting place for lots of babies.  A souvenir, so to speak.

You guess the story, but if you're like me, you still don't know much.

If I find a condom, I pick it up with a stick, wrap it in a piece of kelp, toss it in my bucket and dump it in a trashcan.  If you don't, a gull may swallow it and die.

Twice I've found panties.  I leave them on the sand since they're just cotton.

Maybe the ocean makes tourists do things they wouldn't do in Portland.  The motels have beds, so it's not like they have to fuck on the sand.  Maybe they like doing it close to the waves.

If I had sex, I'd stay in the motel where it's warmer and there's a TV.  Plus I wouldn't end up all sandy.  I'd let him be on top, since I wouldn't know how to do everything.  My friend Janice who works at Sea Spray Inn says that some couples never even leave their room; they might as well have stayed in Salem.  I read sand prints; Janice reads sheet prints.  Same plot, different setting.

I say I wouldn't know, but I've read lots.

I don't think anybody but me even knows there's an Anais Nin book in the Newport Public Library.  The librarians probably don't know what's in it.  I've never checked it out, just read it behind an encyclopedia.  Ms. Bowman told me where to find it.  We think she's a lesbian --no big deal -- but I'm not interested.

Ms. Bowman says that when we write our own story, we own our own life.

I've got a book called Lovers Weekend, really explicit.  I keep it in under my old Brownie uniform.  Then there's The Joy of Sex in Mom's bottom drawer.  The copyright's before I was born and I wonder which of the ways they used to make me.

I could get lots more information, but I don't go looking.  It's better to give it some thought, exercise my imagination.

So, as I was saying, if I had sex, I'd know what was going on.

***

I'm second-chair clarinet, not bad for a Junior-to-be.  (That's not the same as playing second clarinet.  It's the second best first clarinet.)  Our football games are usually in the rain, so we wear plastic coats over our uniforms.  As I have sort of small breasts, my uniform's one that a boy wore last year, but I don't care.  The clarinet's a good instrument because it's easy to carry around.  Plus you can switch to sax.

If our team goes to State, the championship's always in Eugene.  That's where I'm going to go to college, so it's good to get familiar with the campus.  Band members won't have much time to explore, though, since they think we'll buy drugs.  Fat chance; there are probably more drugs in Newport because Eugene's into jogging.  I don't do drugs, but not because some old person decided for me.

After the championship game, we'll bus back to Newport.  If we're champs, we'll yell and jump around.  If we lose, Sonja (a second clarinet) can fuck Toby while the rest of us sleep.  My job will be to save them the rear seat.  If we don't go to State, she'll still fuck him, but not on the bus.

I could maybe write a story about sex in the back of the bus, but it wouldn't be my story.

***

I'm doing okay this morning -- a half-dozen pretty-good agates plus an unbroken sand dollar.

I'm dragging my big find, a plank that looks like teak.  When I get the right driftwood, I'm going to build a butcher block.  Dad has a table saw.  We don't actually butcher anything at our house, but it will look great.

"Need some help?"

I thought I was alone; you often are on the Oregon coast.  I turn and a boy's catching up with me, a boy maybe about my age with hair flipping in the wind.  Kids from around here wear hats.

He nods toward my find.

"Teak from Thailand," I inform him.  "I make butcher blocks."  The wood hardly needs two people to carry it, but it's not often that somebody offers.  Especially a boy.  "Thanks."

"I'm Jared," he volunteers.

I find out that Jared's from Boise and his family's been here for a week, leaving tomorrow.  He has a brother a year older and they're going on a charter boat this afternoon.

"Skip lunch," I suggest.  What they'll pay, they could take home more salmon from Safeway, but this way they'll have something to talk about in Boise.

It's not always easy to chat with boys, but it's not hard to talk with someone from Idaho who thinks the coast is neat.  It's not as neat as he thinks, of course, but I don't correct him.  Probably in Boise they have lots of concerts.  All we have in Newport are things like the Central Coast Chorus, which Mom's in.

"So what classes do you like?" Jared asks.

"English and band, mostly."

"Really?  I play sax.  Tenor."

"Clarinet.  You guys ever done An American in Paris?"

"No.  We did Rhapsody in Blue, though."

"Cool."

We smile at our almost-commonality.

"Got good uniforms?"

"Hardly.  Too bad you live in Idaho.  Otherwise we might see each other at games or something."

"That'd be neat."

I imagine the fun of him waving at me across the stadium.

We haul the plank up to the road where I'll get it with Dad's pickup.

Jared looks at my bucket.  "Want me to help you find some shells?"

"They're agates.  Sure."

His eyes aren't as good as mine, but it doesn't matter, as I'm not paying much attention to what's under our feet.  Wish I lived in Boise.

When we cross where a creek seeps across the sand, Jared has me hop on his back.  I've crossed this place a million times before without getting wet, but this way is fun.  I kind of like the idea that maybe he can feel my breasts against him.

"Ever find glass balls like the ones in the gift shops?" Jared asks a while later.

"They're fake," I inform him.  "They used to find real ones, but now the Japanese use Styrofoam."

Maybe I shouldn't have told him.  I want him to like it here.

I walk along a log and Jared steadies me with his hand.  I don't tell him no.  I've never held hands with a boy before.

We let go when I get to the end of then log, but then there's another log and I stick out my hand and we're still holding hands after I hop off.

I tell him about my job in the kite shop.  Our big days are when somebody flies early and everybody thinks it looks like fun.  It's only part-time.  Maybe I should start a store that buys back their kites afterwards.

Jared tells me about working in a car wash.  They have to wear caps that say, "Car Glow."

"Want some ice cream or something?" he asks.

I'm not sure how to answer.  "It's pretty early in the morning," the safe choice.

"Maybe it wasn't a great idea."

I decide to not be me.  "No, I don't mean that.  It's just pretty cold for ice cream."

He smiles at me.  "Cocoa maybe?"

"I know where."

We walk up to Surf Side where they probably wonder who's Jared and why I'm buying cocoa when I can make it at home.  They don't know the story.

***

Sea Breeze Kites isn't getting much business this afternoon.  Too windy.  I think of Jared out on the charter and hope they're catching something.  Fish are out there, but they can be hard to find.  At the end of the day, you sometimes discover that one took your bait and you didn't even know.

Anybody kite-shopping's going to park in front of the store and I'll see their approach.  I masturbate behind the counter, a Flight of Fancy Butterflies watching.  Girls like the design.  Boys like combat themes.  "Flies as smooth as silk," the wrapping says.  I fly as smooth as silk, too.

I hear the pounding of the surf as I orgasm.

***

I've yet to find any agates this morning, but I do find a sand print by the driftwood -- somebody's knees between somebody else's heels.  I visualize them making out, making sure they're alone, taking off their pants.  I see the girl's print all the way up to the back of her head.

Their rubber's lying where a gull's going to find it.  Bozos!  It's hard to imagine something that long fitting inside a girl.

Maybe they were tourists who met at the lighthouse.  He was inspecting the lens when she came up the stairs, out of breath.  They started chatting and found out they were both Oregon graduates, him, biology and her, psychology.  She noticed his ring before he slipped it off, but didn't say anything.  Yes, she'd love a cup of coffee, she replied, suspecting that he'd suggest wine when they got to the restaurant.  Oh, I really shouldn't, she said when he refilled her glass.  Why yes, it would be fun to go down to the beach, she played along.  You can show me some of those little things in the tide pools.  She knew he'd steer them to a cove off the beaten path.  She knew he'd screw her when they came to the driftwood.  When he asked if she wanted to sit and watch the waves, she smiled her psychologist smile.  She always carried rubbers in her fanny pack when she came to the coast.

I imagine her climax, there on the sand, not even caring that he was married.

Or to make the story better yet, I imagine the woman putting her own ring back on when she returned to her car.  Her husband's charter would be back at 4:00 and she'd promised to be at the dock to take his picture.

It's fun to imagine the story behind a sand print.

A rubber's about the shape of a lighthouse, I realize.  Maybe that's where I got the idea.  Ms. Bowman talks a lot about symbolism.  She may be a lesbian, but she'll still help me with a story about a guy.  Plus she won't tell anybody.'

Anyway, I've got work to do.  Maybe there will be agates down the beach.  You never know.  I head that direction, wind in my face.

Jared's waiting when I retrace my steps, my bucket holding two mediocre agates plus the folded piece of seaweed.

I'm excited to see him.

"Hiya," he greets me.

"Hiya yourself."

"Find any glass balls?"

"Threw them back 'cause the season's closed."

We both laugh.

"Whatcha been doing?" I ask, expecting a fishing report from yesterday.

"Tracking your shoe prints.  You put your bucket down where you stop."

"Really?"

"We did it in Scouts.  Ever see this one?"  He scratches a long line and pounds a round spot every so often along one side.

"Not a clue," I admit.

"Michael Jordan driving for a lay-up on a unicycle!"

I laugh and Jared thinks of another.  "Seen the one where a guy with a wheelbarrow gives a lift to a peg-legged midget?"

"They wouldn't let me be in Boy Scouts," I say with an exaggerated pout and he laughs this time.

Then he looks at me. "Those prints you found were my brother's"

I don't know if I'm more flabbergasted or embarrassed!  Whoever made the prints had had sex, the evidence now wrapped in a piece of seaweed destined for the trashcan.  Jared's telling me it was his brother?

"I was just tying my shoes," I lie.

"I could tell by the Nikes," Jared says in total seriousness.  "He came down here with this girl who works at Chowder Town."

There's only one girl who works in Chowder Town.  The rest are women.  "Sonja?"

"I guess.  Came-on when my folks weren't looking."

I picture Sonja brushing against the guy's shoulder.  Sure she's a tease, but so what?

"She's going steady," in defense of my friend.

"Maybe she's on vacation.  You can pretty much tell how they..." Jared doesn't need to finish.  Is there a Boy Scout one about a lady who lies back and a two-legged man who gets on her?

"Maybe," I allow.  Toby's out of commission till the salmon season closes.  Sonja got bored serving fish and chips.

"He's always safe," Jared assures, bringing me back.

I know Jared's not talking about Boy Scouts.  Probably every high school in every state has programs about safe sex.  Our folks maybe don't agree with the content, but they don't want us pregnant.

My story, the one about tourists meeting in a lighthouse, was better.  The real story's just about a second clarinet from Newport and some stud from potatoland who leaves his rubber.

"He doesn't know diddle about the environment, though," I tell the younger brother.  "The gulls won't get it, though," nodding at my bucket.  I'd never talk about condoms to a boy from Newport.

Jared nods.  Every high school has programs about what's biodegradable.

"Anyway, her boyfriend's out on his dad's boat.  Doesn't matter."

It does matter, though.  If you're going steady, you shouldn't fuck somebody else.  Somebody who leaves his rubber on the sand.

We walk along, pretending to look for agates.  The wind's cold.

"You got a boyfriend?" Jared asks.

"Sure.  Plays quarterback."

"That's good."

Why did I lie?

"I mean, not any more." I revise my story.  "We broke up."

Jared ponders my vagueness.  "Sorry."

Why did I lie again?

"Actually no," I admit.  "Too busy.  You know, practice and stuff."

We take each others' hand, just like yesterday, and walk some more.

"You got a girlfriend?"

He grins.  "Rally squad."

I grin, too.  "You're a worse liar than me."

We talk about our families and it turns out that both our moms play piano and both our dads hunt ducks.

"Wish I lived here," Jared changes the subject.

"Newport?  How come?"

"You guys have a Junior Prom or something?"

"I guess."

"You'd look like a model."

Maybe because I'm flat, I wonder, but realize that he's paying me a compliment.

"Really?" not able to resist.

"Honest.  I'd wear a tux."

We walk in silence as I picture him in formal attire, me in something from Paris.

"Want some cocoa?" Jared wonders.

"Naah.  Let's stay here."

"It's pretty weird," Jared decides after a rogue wave chases towards the bluff.

"What?"

"You following their tracks.  Me following yours."

"So who's following us?  The Boy Scouts?"

We both laugh.

We sit on a piece of driftwood.  The tide's turned and, except for our footprints, the sand around us is unmarred.

"If you had a boyfriend, would you let him kiss you?" Jared asks.

I look at him.  "I don't know."

We listen to the gulls.

Then I decide something.  "I'm on vacation, too"

Jared looks at me.  "Like what's-her-name?"

"Not like Sonja.  I don't have somebody to be on vacation from."

"So would you let him?"

I nod.  "Yeah, I think.  Just a little bit."

I've never kissed a boy before, not since about the third grade, anyway.  When Jared kisses me, it's sweet.

"Maybe we shouldn't be sitting on this log," I decide.

We move behind it and I sit on his lap.  I've never sat on a boy's lap before.  He runs his tongue into my mouth and I do it back to him.

When his arm snuggles against the side of my chest, I suck in my breath so he won't think I'm so little, but maybe I don't fool him.  He said I look like a model, didn't he?

I hesitate a little when he puts his hand on my front, but not enough to make him stop.  I've never been felt up before.  When Jared reaches inside my sweatshirt to push up my bra, I look around to make sure we're safe.  We are.

It's always cold on the beach, but that's not why my nipples are hard.  I let him push up my shirt to see them, but don't take it all the way off.  I've never let a boy see my breasts before.

"Jared?" when he touches my jeans.

He hesitates.  "Yeah?"

"You know, your brother and Sonja?"

"Yeah?"

"You'd be my boyfriend if you lived here, right?"

He moves his hand to the inside of my thigh.  When I move apart, he moves upward.  Maybe he doesn't even realize that he's masturbating me.  I've never read a story about a girl who orgasms from getting touched, but realize it's possible.

I'm not sure where this is going, but real stories are like that.  Or maybe I do know where and I'm just a character.

I lift off him enough to unfasten his belt, but not too far so he can keep rubbing.  I twist to help him.

He doesn't stop me from undoing his zipper.  His penis sticks up when I push down his shorts.  Do I even need to say that I've never seen a hard penis before, much less held one?  It's what Mom's book shows, but a little more scary.  I'm not scared, though.

It's easy to see how to masturbate him, but he's leaving for Idaho this afternoon.  If we'd met when he got here, we'd have had more time to get to know each other.

I wonder if Sonja made his brother wait until last night?  Probably not and probably there're a couple of gulls choked.  Maybe he didn't know about sea gulls, but a girl from Newport should!

My shirt's slipped down, but I lift it back up to feel the breeze.  I take off my jeans, then my panties.  I don't feel odd at all, him seeing me.

I sit on his lap again, but this time face him.  His penis touches between my legs, not where it can press into me, but close enough to imagine it there.

His erection makes what he wants pretty obvious.  Is what I want also so obvious?

The thought of unwrapping what's in my bucket crosses my mind, but not seriously.  I don't think you can use them twice, and anyway, it would have his brother's stuff on it.

If Jared were experienced, he'd be laying me on my back, telling me how much I'm going to like it.  This way is better, though, me writing my own story.

"Listen to the ocean," I tell us both and push him back until his shoulders are on the sand.  I'm the local expert.

From here, it's not difficult to figure out.  Girls that fuck lots probably don't even use their hands, but I use mine to hold him in the right direction.

It's not that comfortable when I shove down, but once we're together, I ignore the discomfort.  He reaches up to hold my breasts.  Basically I just concentrate on the fucking.

He comes quickly and so do I.  I know how to last a long time by myself, but I'm just learning the real way.  I hope it's true about never getting pregnant on your first time.

We don't talk afterwards, just keep listening to the waves.

When he slips out like floppy sea-life, I turn to see.  How could flesh so flabby have filled me so fully not that many minutes ago?  I like the idea that it was inside me.  I like how I still feel wet.  He knows I'm looking and doesn't move, even when I lift his testicles.

I could lie like this all morning.

I leave my panties on the sand.  They're blue like the ocean.

We both try to act like it was no big deal, like we do it all the time, but then we both start giggling.  Then we start kissing again.  It's a little confusing, even afterwards.

I'll never see Jared after this morning.  He'll be heading for Boise and I'll be explaining to some Californian the merits of a Levitation Delta.  You'll probably never fly it after today, I'll want to advise them, but won't.

It's better for Jared to be going, I tell myself.  It would be fun, though, to wave at this sax player in another band, a guy with whom I'd had sex.

Holding hands, we walk down the beach.

It's odd looking at a boy and knowing exactly about his pubic hair.  It's odd knowing that he's probably thinking that same thing about me.  It's really odd walking with a boy who not very minutes ago had his penis inside me.  I can still feel the sperm wiggling.  He knows that I came, too.  I'm not a virgin.

The gulls part to let us pass.  They don't fly away because we belong here, same as them.

When we get to where the stream crosses the sand, I hop on Jared's back like yesterday.  I wish I were naked.

I change my mind.  Maybe it's not better that Jared's leaving.  I'd get Janice to let us into a Sea Spray Inn room and we'd leave the rubber to prove we'd done it.

Even if we didn't have sex again, I wish Jared weren't going.  I could show him all about kites.  We'd go to the Prom.

I want to ask if he's coming back next summer, but I don't know how.

He's thinking, too.

"Boise State's got a great band," he tells me.

"Not as good as Oregon's," I retort, and then feel snotty for saying it.  Who cares unless you're a music major?

"You like to ski?" he tries.

And I know what to say!  "I might if I knew how."

He beams.  "I'm not that great, but I'd show you."

"I'll bet you're really good!"

"It just takes a little practice."

He's the tourist here; I'd be the tourist there.  The counselor's office has lots of college catalogs.  Maybe Boise State has English.  Ms. Bowman will write a super recommendation.  I'll switch instruments and Jared and I will practice saxophone together.  We'll practice skiing.  We'll practice each page from The Joy of Sex.  Probably the Boise library has it.

College is a long time away, but if you don't make plans, you end up full-time at Sea Breeze Kites.

"What's that?"  Jared points beyond the remnants of a wave that maybe started at China.  There's something floating, softball-sized, greenish.

We wait for the sea to deliver its cargo, but the wave stalls and Jared wades ankle-deep to retrieve it.

I'd been on the beach a million times and never found a glass float.  Maybe this one circled the Pacific ten times before landing in Oregon.  You never know how long a story's going to take.

"For your butcher block," Jared suggests.

"It's yours.  You saw it first and you waded out there."

"Mom's buying one that's pink.  It's for you."

On the way back, we pass the place where we made love.  We don't say anything because we don't need to.

"Let's go get that cocoa," Jared suggests.

"Let's do."

If somebody tracks us before the surf covers the story, she'll find a bucket-print beside where my right knee dug, she'll find my panties, but she won't find a discarded rubber for a gull to swallow.

THE END

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that which is salvageable on http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick.  If you take the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

You can contact me via the site's message form.

Holly
