Sex on the Beach I could say the ...

I had sex on the beach years before at Cayo Costa, a deserted island off the west coast of Florida, close by the famed Sanibel Island. I was with a group of environmentalists who were collecting live saltwater specimens for a local museum; basically a group of ex-hippies with great reefer, a canoe, a couple of tents and bottles of cheap brandy. The lead curator of the expedition, Joey, was very cute and consistently wore blue nylon shorts without underwear, so I had the hots for him. I was an incongruous addition to the expedition with my red leather suitcase, high-heeled sandals and tiger-eye earrings. Obviously I didn't understand the concept of a "deserted island," but what the hell did I care. I had dibs on Joey's shorts and that's all that mattered.

We drove to the Gulf of Mexico, loaded all our gear onto a boat and headed north. I sat primly on my red suitcase, all set for serious scientific exploration, my legs crossed, swigging brandy out of the bottle. The island was heartbreakingly beautiful, the windward side composed entirely of small mountains of seashells and constantly pounded by the surf. This was the wild side of the island. The leeward side, the quiet side, was like a lagoon, with dolphins frolicking in the water, their silky snouts popping up in the aquamarine gulf.

And this is where Joey and I had sex. It was late afternoon, and we were on our way back to camp. We'd been collecting horseshoe crabs in yellow plastic buckets. They were mating like crazy along the shore, and I guess this is what inspired Joey to pull me down into the warm sand. I protested, "Hey, how close are we to camp?" I didn't want any of the others to accidentally wander by and watch us coupling in the sand. He reassured me, "Don't worry, baby, the camp's a quarter-mile away." He was lying. As it turned out, we were much, much closer. But I slipped off my tanktop and shorts, and he followed suit. Completely naked, he took my hand and we walked into the water. After a few minutes, he got out and lay back down on the sand, his erection pointing straight up into the sun. I was self-conscious coming out of the water, not exactly Botticelli's Venus, but close enough.

Fifteen years later, I found myself wandering the ocean's edge at Coney Island with a man I'd been dating for just a week. I could see this was going nowhere fast, he was too young, but I wanted to at least get laid. Earlier we rode the F train to Stillwell Ave. to walk along the boardwalk. I like the boardwalk; the seediness, the greasy french fries, the Wonder Wheel. I like the fact that my great-aunt used to swim here almost a century ago. I even love Little Odessa; the dark canopy of the elevated train tracks, the flamboyant fox fur coats in store windows next to $10 polyester suits, the Russian women in spiked heels, even the restaurants where they won't serve me. It's a time warp, it's another country, it's Coney Island, life at the edge.

So it was getting dark, and I was getting drunk. It was now or never. I suggested a walk on the beach. Harold is half Haitian, half Chinese; his skin is a smoky cafe-au-lait, almond eyes, dreds poking up around his spherical head?in short, beautiful. The kind of man you only find in New York City; polyglot, multiracial. He was tending bar in a restaurant on the Lower East Side. I asked for coffee and he gave me shiraz, so I was in love, at least for the week. And though the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Brooklyn is a far cry from the Gulf of Mexico, I fondly recalled rolling in the warm sand with Joey, the sweat from his forehead dripping onto my breasts, the pungent, salty taste of his skin, the rustle of palm trees over our heads. I thought I could convince Harold to do me on the darkened beach at Coney Island. Anyone can put on her favorite CD, light candles, uncork a bottle of red and seduce a man. But not every woman can seduce a man into taking off his clothes on a hot summer night on a public beach. I am that woman. I like having sex outdoors; it's primitive, it's primal, it's really, really hot.

As it turned out, Harold didn't need much coaxing. From the minute I stuck my tongue in his mouth, he began shedding his clothes. I thought about what my friend had said about doing it in the winter on the hood of his red Miata, his ass freezing, his arousal intensifying when his lover grabbed onto the windshield wipers. It's not only erotic, it's naughty and a bit debased, which is the best possible combination. We were inches from the ocean, inky black under the cloudy sky, my feet firmly planted into the damp sand. Howard's blue plaid shirt lay twitching in the surf, his broad arms wrapped around my waist, his hips thrusting into mine. A fat white gull landed farther up on the beach, then another and then another, until it seemed we had an audience. Otherwise the beach was deserted. He unbuttoned my blouse, exposing my ridiculous pink lace bra to the night air.

We slowly collapsed into each other, until our arms and legs lay comfortably entangled on a damp bed of sand. I looked up into the sky as Harold slowly kissed my neck and then my shoulders; as a lover he was getting high marks for patience and foreplay. I thought to myself, "That's right, baby, take it slow, make it last." Surprisingly, I really didn't care about getting caught. I leisurely returned his kisses, glorying in the sea breeze on my skin, the warm night air. Then Harold rolled me over and created a makeshift bed with his pants and my blouse, and got down to business. I confess I lost track of time, even place, as we made love. I imagined we looked like the horseshoe crabs on Cayo Costa from so many years ago.

When I got on top of him I could see the Wonder Wheel, silhouetted against the lights from Neptune Ave., the gulls now hovering in the air over our heads. Harold was moaning that he was going to come, so I rode him harder, and caressed his face with my hands, grabbed a handful of his dreds and pulled tight. He said, "Now, that I like." Making love like this was a little like tobogganing down a slick slope of ice, losing control, an amusement park right there on the beach, the boardwalk discernible, even an elderly couple noshing on hotdogs.

Afterward we were in no hurry to get dressed. We lay there, like unstrung puppets, my foot just inches from the surf, my big toe catching a bit of a wave as it washed upward. Harold dangled my pink padded bra in the air over our heads and said, "Pretty." I playfully grabbed it from his hands and said, "We better get going." But he grabbed it back, and took off running down the beach, leaving me topless in the night. I sat up and thought, "It just doesn't get any better than this."

And it really doesn't. I got up, pulled on my underwear and slowly walked down to the water. Again, it never occurred to me to worry about getting caught, wearing only my blue satin bikinis. I laughed because I had come a long way from the young woman who was terrified about being discovered making love on a deserted beach. Because here, on Coney Island, who would possibly care? This is where crazy old men wearing underwear jump in the ocean on New Year's Day. So I really didn't give much thought to standing there almost completely naked, at 10 o'clock on a hot July night. It just didn't matter.

Harold appeared out of the darkness, wearing my brassiere around his neck like a trophy or a garland, skipping in and out of the water, still completely naked. When he caught up to me, he tenderly fastened it back on. And while we got dressed, dripping sand and sea water, we talked about where we would go for a celebratory drink. I suggested my bedroom. Rocking back and forth on the F train, on our way home, he nestled his head on my shoulder and slept, his hands curled into my lap. I could smell the sea and the salt in his hair. The words "Cayo Costa, Coney Island" were running through my head like a refrain, a song to summer, and I was glad.