The tequila burns warm in my belly and the sun beats down on my shoulders and I’ve been walking this beach for long enough that the crowds are gone and the noise has faded to nothing. My bag hangs off one shoulder, the bottle inside half-empty and clinking against my sunglasses case every time I shift. The Gulf stretches out in front of me, that fake blue-green that doesn’t look real until you’re standing in it, and I let the water lick at my ankles while the buzz rolls through my blood and everything gets soft at the edges. I’m from Ohio, drove eighteen hours to feel something different, and right now what I’m feeling is drunk and alone and loose in a way I never let myself be back home.
“God, it’s hot,” I say to the empty air, my voice thick and lazy, those flat Midwestern vowels coming out now that I’ve had enough tequila to stop hiding them. “Like, really fucking hot. My skin is gonna be crispy tomorrow.”
The bikini was a practical choice this morning, red strings and simple lines, nothing that was gonna fall off in the water or ride up in the wrong places. But now it feels like too much. The fabric clings where I’m sweating, and the strings dig into my hips when I move, and I can feel every inch of it against my skin. I’m pale and slim and covered in ink, the roses on my arms standing out dark against all this white, and I know I look good because I caught my reflection in the elevator mirror and stopped to stare at myself for way too long.
The beach is empty. Just me and the water and the sand and the sun hammering down from straight overhead. I turn in a slow circle, arms out, letting the light hit every inch of me, and something about the solitude makes me feel watched even though there’s no one here. The buzz hums steady behind my eyes and I smile slow and lazy because being alone doesn’t mean being lonely, and right now I feel good enough to share it with someone even if that someone is imaginary.
“You like what you see?” I say it to the air, to the water, to whatever invisible audience my drunk brain has conjured up. My voice is playful, giggly, the drunk girl who knows she’s pretty and doesn’t care who knows it. “That’s okay. I like being looked at. Makes me feel all warm and tingly. Or maybe that’s just the tequila.” I laugh and let my fingers play with the strings at my hips, tugging them slightly so the fabric shifts against my skin. “You wanna come closer? No? That’s okay. I’ll just pretend you’re here.”
I face the water and let my hands slide up my sides, slow and deliberate, feeling every ridge of my ribs under my fingertips. The ink on my arms catches the light, roses climbing from wrist to shoulder, thorns tangled through petals, the left sleeve faded and soft, the right still bold and sharp. The star on my chest sits right between my tits, small and simple, and when I stretch my arms up it peeks out like a secret. The tribal piece on my lower back pulls when I arch my spine, black lines curving across pale skin. The wings on my hip bone are my favorite, delicate feathers spreading across the skin just above where my bikini sits, hidden unless I want someone to see, and right now I want someone to see even if that someone isn’t really here.
“You wanna see more?” I hook my fingers under the strings at my hips and pull, just enough that the fabric shifts and the edge of the wings appears. Dark lines against white skin. “Mmm, you want it bad, don’t you? I can feel you getting hard just watching me. You’re probably touching yourself right now, aren’t you? Nasty. I like it.”
My hands slide down my stomach, fingertips tracing the line from my ribs to my hips, and I let them rest just above the bikini bottom, pressing against the warm skin. The buzz makes everything feel heavy and slow and I can hear my own breathing in my ears, the waves behind me, the silence of the empty beach. I’m not wet. I’m not turned on. This is just performance, just control, just the rush of knowing I can make someone want me even if that someone is only in my head.
“You know what I think about when I do this?” My voice drops, losing the giggly edge, sliding into something lower and filthier. “I think about what you’d do if you could touch me. If I let you. If I spread my legs right here in the sand and told you to get on your knees.” I roll my hips slowly, grinding against nothing, feeling the strings pull tight against my skin. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you? You’d crawl across this beach just to taste me. Just to get your mouth on me.”
My right hand slides lower, fingers pressing against the fabric of my bikini bottom, right over where I’m warm but not wet, not yet, because this isn’t about that. I press hard enough that the fabric presses against me, and I let out a little moan that’s half performance and half the tequila making everything feel good.
“Fuck, that feels nice,” I breathe, rolling my hips into my own hand. “You wish this was you, don’t you? Wish your fingers were here, pressing against me, feeling how hot I am. But you can’t. All you can do is watch. All you can do is sit there and jerk off while I touch myself and think about how bad you want me.”
I slide my hand back up, dragging my fingers across my stomach, leaving little trails on my sweaty skin. My other hand comes up to my chest, pressing against my tit through the bikini top, squeezing just enough to feel it, just enough to make the fabric pull tight against my nipple. The heat is everywhere now, sun from above and sand from below and tequila burning through my veins, and I let my head fall back and my mouth fall open.
“You’re so fucking pathetic,” I say, but my voice has lost the mean edge, sliding into something slower and thicker. “Sitting there with your dick in your hand, watching a girl you can’t have. You think I’d let you fuck me? Think I’d spread my legs for some stranger?” I laugh, low and throaty. “Maybe I would. Maybe I’d let you crawl over here and put your mouth on me. Maybe I’d grab your hair and hold you against me until I came on your face.”
My hands keep moving, sliding across my skin, pressing and squeezing and tugging at strings, never quite showing anything but always hinting at it. I grind my hips in slow circles, letting the fabric pull and shift. The wings tattoo peeks out from above my bikini, the tribal lines stretch across my lower back, the star rises and falls with my breathing. All this ink on all this pale skin, and I’m moving like water, liquid and slow and drunk on the sun and the tequila and the power of performing for someone who might not even be there.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” I can hear my own breathing going ragged, not because I’m turned on but because performing is a kind of exertion, because moving like this in the heat takes something out of me. “You’re gonna come watching me, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess like a fucking teenager. Go ahead. Do it. I want to hear you. I want to know I did that to you.”
I hold the pose, hands on my body, hips tilted, strings tugging against my skin, and I let the moment stretch and burn. The sun beats down. The waves keep their rhythm. The buzz keeps humming. And I’m alone, completely alone, but I feel you watching anyway, wanting anyway, and I have all the power.
I let my hands drop. I let the moment settle. And then I look straight ahead, straight at you, even though you’re not there.
“Next time,” I say, my flat Midwestern voice carrying across the empty sand, “bring me a drink first. And maybe I’ll let you touch.”
I hold the gaze for three heartbeats, staring at nothing, staring at you. Then I grab my bag and slip on my sandals and walk back the way I came, just me and the buzz in my blood and the sun burning my shoulders pink. I don’t look back.
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