Downsizing, Desire, and a Weekend at the Beach House

We started out a bunch of
people who worked in the
same
office. We nodded at each
other, chatted idly over coffee
about last night's TV movie, the weather, and did anyone
really think that blonde in
accounting was a former porno
star? (She wasn't, but hot
damn, she could have been. I'd
have popped for a copy of the flick in a heartbeat.) We
sent each other funny
birthday cards signed by
everybody,
forgave each other for dumb
drunken jokes at the annual Christmas party. Then the
bastards up above started
downsizing the company, and
used an ax to do it. We
seemed
to morph into a band of guerrilla fighters, a tightly knit
group willing to go down
together, fighting to the death
with honor rather than let
"The Man" rape our tiny
nation. (Uh...we started drinking a little
too much, too.) There were six of us. There
used to be eight, but one got
a pink slip one day, went into
shock, and ended up back
working for his father in some
shit small town. Another was sexually harassed by her
boss, and got a lawyer and a
better job rapidly. So the six
of us clung together
waiting for the ax to fall, and
making a lot of noise about what we'd do if it did.
Curl up and die was the
general consensus. I think it was Twig who got
the idea for renting the beach
house. She's got maybe 50
more IQ points than she has
pounds on her skinny little
body. She's into alternative everything, vegetarianism, and
is really very stable for a
flake. She thought we should
all take a vacation and "find
our centers." My name is Jack,
and the last time I felt like my life had a center was
when my dad and I built
racecars in the garage.
Adulthood sucks. Carney was
getting over a bad relationship.
Nick was getting over a cracked rib he got when he
suggested Carney's asshole
boyfriend take a hike WITHOUT
her stereo. "Little Stacy,"
never just "Stacy," was a tiny,
fragile looking woman who never said much, but once
kicked the living shit out of a
drunk in a bar once that
touched Twig's breast and
scared
her. Still waters run dangerous. Cleve was our "token
everything" as he put it. Son
of a Jewish mother, a black
and Hispanic father, and gay.
(We all spend December at
his parents' house. Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanza. Wow. The
food....) We honestly didn't plan on
having anything happen on the
beach. (We keep saying that to
ourselves, and wondering if
we sounded convincing.) We
spent the day drinking sangria and talking, and when it was
night, we all went down to
the beach to...look at the
waves and stars, I guess. We
spread out a bunch of
blankets into one big soft spot, sat
down and were quiet for a
while. Somebody had some
music.
And "Little Stacy" stood up and
took off all of her clothes. We stared at her in collective
silence for a few minutes
as she swayed to the music,
eyes closed, hands gliding
over her body. "Uh," Nick said,
then looked down at the bulge in his shorts. "Uh," I
repeated. I also looked down
at my own bulge. Cleve looked
into Nick's lap, then into
mine, then into his own.
"Contagious," he said mildly. So was the urge to be naked.
Twig and Carney went to their
feet tossing clothes off, and
soon were naked and dancing.
Nick stood up painfully, and
began to take off his clothes. Cleve and I looked at
each other, shrugged...and
stripped. All six of us were
naked, moving to the music
and openly ogling each other.
I don't think even then we had any other intentions than
blatant exhibitionism. That
situation lasted for...oh,
I 'd say maybe another two
minutes. Then "Little Stacy"
went to her little knees and put her little mouth around

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THE END