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HEADLANDS
By RICK! WILSON
A few light cracks in the August sky, dawn just around the corner. And school, just around the corner too, out of sight but bearing down heavily.
The beach was not deserted: it seemed it never was. A few couples or singles, lolling along the water's lip, dimmly sensual shadows in taut swimtrunks or light, clingy tops donned to challenge the breeze that was already stirring the headlanes. The breeze rolled in every morning. By mid-day it was a blessed reprieve in the sunbaked heat. When there was still shade we huddled behind the dunes. People always seemed friendlier behind those dunes, and more than one friendship was struck there. By 1 or 2 o'clock there was no shade, and we would be seals diving and scampering through the winedark waters off the headlands.
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A slow summer, and I was pissed at myself, really. One of the few vacations left before I would graduate and go to work in earnest. I'd read it all before: an old lover, and old love affair, and a summer at the beach to shake it off. Only, I really hadn't met anybody. Or maybe allowed myself to. At any rate, it was all too corny; and I allowed myself the luxury of getting royally pissed, thinking about how the summer was almost over for me, and how wasted it was.
Not that there hadn't been sex: there was. Always that. But somehow it was beginning to pale again. First names, no names, soft parts and hard parts all pressed together and no before, no after. Only now. Good enough; but I want more.
I not only didn't get more, I got less. As the lazy days floated by I got less social: I looked less, returned fewer looks, got hostile at a few open stares, and in general made myself an allaround prick.
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That was to change today. I guess I'm supposed to say that didn't know it at the time, but I I did. I'd made up my mind to meet somebody, somehow, somewhere, before this one-ofthe last few vacations was over for good. Something told me this was the day. Maybe it was the guy who jogged down the beach, racing those cracks in the dawning sky, and plopped his big, beautiful runner's body down next to me, Well, maybe not, but sunrises can wait.
This one didnt have to. Silence. I mean it. Silencio. We didn't go for our trustly lines at six paces. We just laid there together in that beautiful morning and watched it break. Raw and paper-thin, the tissue paper veils of pink and gold moved westward.
Silence.
His breathing was sensual. Just listening to that warm air as it husked in and out, carrying oxygen to the blood, and the blood racing out to his tan skin which was even now beginning to goose-flesh as the fine sheen of sweat began to chill. His runner's body began to lose its flush, and gradually he cooled down. I finally lay back, cradling my head in my hands. The sand was cool, but not unpleasant. The shadows on the beach were more numerous now, and hardly ghosts anymore. I ignored my new companion, who, for all his good taste in men, had still spoken not a word. He could take care of himself. I opened my eyes to find him gone. I sat up quickly. He was out of sight to the left, stripping off shorts and shirt for a swim. This wasn't supposed to be a nude beach, not officially, but what the hell. Life is short.
I stripped off my trunks and followed him in. The two of us bounded off toward the waves, yelping like banshees as the cold water rushed up our legs, and then washed unmercifully up over our crotches.
The water was delicious. The day was already a treat, bright and clear and hard like they get toward the end of summer. Watching the sun come up always made me ache as i looked out, to sea, wanting and waiting for that first dive into the waves. We swam together toward the headlands, turning back well before the current became ugly. The color of the ocean changed from blue-green to a kind of pale green-brown where the undertow sucked hungrily at the sandy bottom. It didn't look appetizing; most of the inteligent swimmers stayed away, although once each summer
some fool invariably tried it. No one had, this summer, and I hoped no one would.
We couldn't spout columns to spray like whales, but we should have. Great spumes of water, rising like warm geysers over our heads and frothing and foaming where they hit the waves. We were whales, swimming in long, slow, measured strokes or flinging ourselves headlong at the cresting waves. Kicking furiously, foaming, scuddling accross the surface only to dive, headfirst, for the bottom, sounding the waters of the narrow headlands. Ahab in hot pursuit.
My amigo nodded his head toward the shore, and we struck out in that direction. Soon there were waves breaking over us, no longer whales but half-drowned pelicans; or two lazy, tired old seagulls catching the morning sun. The waves washed over us, eternal and unmindful. A few handfuls of the salty water washed the last sand from our bodies and we headed for the dunes. I watched the muscles work in his back as we hunted for a spot with some grass. There was little of it, but it was long and reedy and good to lie
on.
A little while later I felt his tongue lazily prod my ear, then trace a thin, shivering line down my shoulder. Generations old impulses took over, and breaths became sighs, then gentle pants. I placed his hand gently on my sex, and took his mouth in mine. We drank and played. His skin was smooth and soft, almost like a girl's, and I wondered at the feel of muscles beneath its surface. He turned slightly, and made small, whimpering sounds as my head rose and fell. My lips stopped occasionally to take in some small
delicacy that offered itsel Warm hands found warme places, and our muscles bulged against each other. We were two trying to become one. We took turns with hands and tongues, and many things rose with the sun that morning.
We made what the Chinese call "The beast-with-two-backs," and he was kissing my 'shoulders, my neck, and calling me baby. His thighs were warm and hairy, his arms tight and demanding, and I struggled a little until he eased off and then we moved as one. Soon thereafter I felt him stiffen, and we shared something together. With one of his arms hugging me to him, and the other reaching between my legs, we were soon sharing again.
The creamy sensation lingered, and spread, and the sun dried us out as we lay and then dozed off in the swaying grasses. The sun glided a little higher.
I awoke to find him marching up with both our clothes. I had forgotten them entirely; wouldn't have cared about them at all if I didn't have to go back through town to get to my room.
We avoided each other's eyes, dressing.
Numbers.
The sun chased a solitary cloud across the sky. The sands shifted slightly as they ran out to sea in the lifting, sighing headtinds.
He whispered something to me. I nodded, feeling strangely elated. We moved off together for a late lunch.
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(L-R) Monte Markham Deborah Kerr Donal Donnelly.
Deborah Kerr has returned to the American stage in Frederick I Lonsdale's romantic comedy of intrigue, THE LAST OF MRS. CHEYNEY, which comes to Cleveland's Hanna Theatre for
WITH YOUR CLOTHES ON! one week only beginning Oc-
41 S. CASE AKRON OHIO
tober 9. A six-time Oscar nominee and four-time recipient of the New York Film Critics annual Best Actress Award, Miss
way during the 1974-75 season in Edward Albee's Pulitzer Prize winning "eascape" Amng her best known motion pictures are "From Here to Eternity," "The King and I," "The Chalk Garden," "The Sundowners," and "Beloved Infidel." The Cleveland engagement is the third stop on a national tour which opened at the Kennedy
cacascosaib. Kerr was last seen on Broad-Center on August 26.