Beach Party!

boy, you’re like a dream-state beach party: rows of taught bodies soaked in tanning oil, eyes tracing cloud constellations and collar bones painted in sunbeam. ice chests full of candy, beer and glo-sticks. all toes licked with sea foam.

every beach party is different, sunbeams vary in color and temperature, clothing trends vary, tides change. one day it’s beer, popsicles, jelly slip-ones and culottes. the next it’s cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, white Frisbees and boy cut shorts. once we came in black war paint, listened to death metal and humped until we were sweaty. we wore shades so we didn’t have to looked at each other’s eyes, a tv set blocked the ocean and it played X-Men III. lined up in a row along the water like an army of white slugs, our wrists pierced by iv tubes, chains, together they made a fan shape of lines that connecting us back to the cold metal box in the beach parking lot marked “pleasure.”

the moment i saw you i was putting on my flip-flops and bounding down to the beach like an Olympic athlete. he blind folded me and fed me with sunlight so strong i couldn’t see straight. in the morning i woke up half dead on the rocks, water logged and blue in the face, my mouth stuffed with seaweed and candy. i spent days nursing myself back to health, lying in bed with a linen towel and a bowl of lavender water, my whole body covered in cold cream to sooth what had been burned. it’s been a long time, but you keep coming back to taunt me. every once in a while, when i least expect it, you’ll turn to me and whisper slowly, “come back to beach party.”

leave first, i tell myself, but i always stay too long. the others have packed up. the mothers left early to beat traffic, burdened by stacks of towels and coolers dripping with condensation, with romance novels tucked into the back of their short shorts they drag whiny children with bright red noses back to the car by force. the couples who went rollerblading in matching Dockers linger past sunset, and then leave arm in arm to make dinner reservations where they will wear white cloth napkins and eat lobster. the vendors pack up at six sharp. even Malibu Jane, who sat there all day in her Channel suit, lathering herself in oil with robotic grace, has gathered together her pink towel set and left. she, bronze sun-slave statuette, iconic beach-party Madonna whose beauty and predictability is the one constant of the shoreline, has indicated last call.

we sat there in sand throwns like Ken and Barbie, and yet, you were an honest lover, you whispered, “this isn’t real. they put die in the water to make it so blue, and real sand is made from glass, not sugar. that puddle of melted ice cream is actually Malibu Jane’s vomit.” you were a selfish drug. i spent hours with you, until i was sick with like, until i was sitting in the sand, leeched of my autonomy and strength, a sun-kissed mermaid in like-trance cooing, “please never leave.” my skin is thicker now, like yours. i leave a trail of bread crumbs to help me find my way back to the car, and bring a towel to protect the car’s upholstery. we brought sunscreen and life jackets. i kept a few mementos: there is taffy stuck in my teeth and a light dusting of pink on my chest, there are crumbs of sand at the bottom of my bed i let shake off my feet. once the spell broke, you were gone and instead of needing you more i needed you less. it’s the difference between being guarded and careful. the difference between wearing sunglasses to protect your heart and taking off your sunglasses to look someone in the eye and say “i like you, today.” which isn’t a promise, it’s a party.