its hinges, so she doesnât feel so bad going in.
Stepping inside, she breathes deeply, sharp perfume. Dark, dank, brown shag carpeting, a musty smell, like old sneakersâhard to know if itâs the house or the boys. Bags of chips, Coke cans, dirty socks, T-shirts, pizza cartons on the counter. Itâs an overnight version of the guard shack. Four bedrooms, none of the sheets match. In the bathroom a large tube of toothpaste, a dripping faucet, grime, toilet seat up, a single bar of soap, two combs and a brushâall of it like a stable stall youâd want to muck out.
She pokes around, taking a T-shirt she knows belongs to her best boy. She takes a pair of shorts from another one, a baseball hat from a third, socks from a fourth. Itâs not that she needs so much, but this way no one will think much of it, at most it will be a load of laundry gone missing.
As though the boys were still at summer camp, their names are written into the back of their clothes, each in his own handwritingâCharlie, Todd, Travis, Cliff.
She drives back to town, to a different beach, moodier, more desolate. Hunkering down in the dunes, she immediately spots two people in the waterâmale and female. She takes out her birding glasses, identifying the boyâone of the older ones, diving naked into the waves. He swims toward the woman and she swims away. Hide and go seek. The woman comes out of the water, revealing herself, long brown hair, her body rounded and ripe, a woman, not a girl. He swims to shore, climbs out after her, and pulls her down onto the sand. She frees herself and runs back into the water. He goes after her and, pretending to rescue her, carries her out of the sea to a towel spread over the sand. They are like animals, tearing at each other. He stops for a moment, rummages through his clothing, takes something outâshe canât see what, but sheâs hopeful. Their mating is violent, desperate. The woman both fights him and asks for more. He is biting the woman, mounting her from the back, the woman is on her hands and knees like a dog, and she seems to like it.
Finished, they pack up. They walk past her, see her, nod hello as though nothing ever happened. The woman is older, wild-looking, a kind of earthy goddess.
When they are gone she hurries across the sand. She finds the condom half covered in sandâlimp debris. Something about the intensity of their coupling, so sexual, so graphic, leaves her not wanting to touch it. She unzips her fanny pack, pulls out a pair of latex examination gloves, pulls them on and then carefully rescues the sampleâ2.5 cc, usable if a little sandy.
She goes back to the car, assumes the position, and, making an effort to be discreet, inseminates. She stays in position for half an hour and then continues her rounds.
The romance of the hunt. She walks up and down looking for her men. The beaches are crowded with bonfires, picnics, catered parties. The air is filled with the scent of starter fluid, meat cooking; barbecue embers pulse, radiant red like molten lava.
She puts on the night-vision glasses, the world glows the green of things otherworldly and outside of nature. Everything is dramatic, everything is inverted, every gesture is evidence, every motion has meaning. She is seeing in the dark, seeing what canât be seen. A cigarette sails through the night like a tracer. She has to maximize, itâs not enough to try just once, she wants to fill herself, she wants many, multiple, may the best man win. She wants competition, she wants there to be a race, a blend, she wants it to mix and match.
It is still earlyâthe girl doesnât get off until ten or possibly eleven. She lies back in the sand, rubbing the points on her head where the screws were, dreaming. She glances up at the bathhouse. On the roof is a weather vaneâa whale, a mounted Moby spinning north, south, east, west, to tell which way the wind blows, its outline sharp
Stepping inside, she breathes deeply, sharp perfume. Dark, dank, brown shag carpeting, a musty smell, like old sneakersâhard to know if itâs the house or the boys. Bags of chips, Coke cans, dirty socks, T-shirts, pizza cartons on the counter. Itâs an overnight version of the guard shack. Four bedrooms, none of the sheets match. In the bathroom a large tube of toothpaste, a dripping faucet, grime, toilet seat up, a single bar of soap, two combs and a brushâall of it like a stable stall youâd want to muck out.
She pokes around, taking a T-shirt she knows belongs to her best boy. She takes a pair of shorts from another one, a baseball hat from a third, socks from a fourth. Itâs not that she needs so much, but this way no one will think much of it, at most it will be a load of laundry gone missing.
As though the boys were still at summer camp, their names are written into the back of their clothes, each in his own handwritingâCharlie, Todd, Travis, Cliff.
She drives back to town, to a different beach, moodier, more desolate. Hunkering down in the dunes, she immediately spots two people in the waterâmale and female. She takes out her birding glasses, identifying the boyâone of the older ones, diving naked into the waves. He swims toward the woman and she swims away. Hide and go seek. The woman comes out of the water, revealing herself, long brown hair, her body rounded and ripe, a woman, not a girl. He swims to shore, climbs out after her, and pulls her down onto the sand. She frees herself and runs back into the water. He goes after her and, pretending to rescue her, carries her out of the sea to a towel spread over the sand. They are like animals, tearing at each other. He stops for a moment, rummages through his clothing, takes something outâshe canât see what, but sheâs hopeful. Their mating is violent, desperate. The woman both fights him and asks for more. He is biting the woman, mounting her from the back, the woman is on her hands and knees like a dog, and she seems to like it.
Finished, they pack up. They walk past her, see her, nod hello as though nothing ever happened. The woman is older, wild-looking, a kind of earthy goddess.
When they are gone she hurries across the sand. She finds the condom half covered in sandâlimp debris. Something about the intensity of their coupling, so sexual, so graphic, leaves her not wanting to touch it. She unzips her fanny pack, pulls out a pair of latex examination gloves, pulls them on and then carefully rescues the sampleâ2.5 cc, usable if a little sandy.
She goes back to the car, assumes the position, and, making an effort to be discreet, inseminates. She stays in position for half an hour and then continues her rounds.
The romance of the hunt. She walks up and down looking for her men. The beaches are crowded with bonfires, picnics, catered parties. The air is filled with the scent of starter fluid, meat cooking; barbecue embers pulse, radiant red like molten lava.
She puts on the night-vision glasses, the world glows the green of things otherworldly and outside of nature. Everything is dramatic, everything is inverted, every gesture is evidence, every motion has meaning. She is seeing in the dark, seeing what canât be seen. A cigarette sails through the night like a tracer. She has to maximize, itâs not enough to try just once, she wants to fill herself, she wants many, multiple, may the best man win. She wants competition, she wants there to be a race, a blend, she wants it to mix and match.
It is still earlyâthe girl doesnât get off until ten or possibly eleven. She lies back in the sand, rubbing the points on her head where the screws were, dreaming. She glances up at the bathhouse. On the roof is a weather vaneâa whale, a mounted Moby spinning north, south, east, west, to tell which way the wind blows, its outline sharp
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