Introducing a horny young man.
This tale starts slow, but is bound to get juicier in future installments. It is not meant to be taken seriously despite the weighty matters it deals with. All characters are fictional and are over eighteen.
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The young man tramped along the sand immune to the charms of his surroundings. The bright blue sky, the soothing tumbling of the waves, and the cooling breeze, which did it's best to make the lad comfortable on a warm day, was lost on the troubled strider. An observer would be excused for supposing the man to be one of those severe brooding types.
The fact was more tragic in all respects. James Wheatley, for such was the young man's name, was at the end of his rope. He had gambled and lost. There seemed to be no way forward in life. There were no coins in his pockets, and he couldn't see a way to get any, short of robbery. Whatever else he was, he wasn't a criminal. He might be starving, but that didn't give him a license to do unto others what he wouldn't want to be done to himself.
James was alone in the world and had no relatives or friends to fall back on in times of need. Indeed it was the passing of his last relative that had led to his present straits. A one thousand pound legacy from a distant uncle had fallen into his lap at that critical stage of a young man's life when it could prove to be most dangerous. It had definitely proved to be disastrous in this case.
If an itemization of each of his purchases or costly decisions were supplied to you, dear reader, there's no doubt the foolishness of youth would be readily apparent. Especially to those of you who long ago through wisdom or timidity chose not to pursue your own dreams. Even the much fewer of you, which had your hopes cruelly crushed while chasing yours, might find fault with one or two of the lad's choices. As for the tiny handful of you who achieved your dreams, well, bully for you.
For it was the pursuit of a dream that led to the present tragedy. The unlikely figure tramping along the beach had been given the heart and soul of an artist. It proved to be a nasty trick by whoever was responsible for the gift because the necessary talent had not been supplied with it.
There are those scoffing out there who will say, "Where's the problem with that?" No doubt you are thinking of the scads of untalented actors or actresses who've made it big on the stage or screen. If such was Wheatley's dream, lack of talent wouldn't be an adequate excuse, for he had the good looks required for that. He had the goods in spades.
Alas, it wasn't something as banal as a matinee idol he dreamed of becoming. It was as a painter he wished to express his soul to the world. The world was not impressed. Remember, dear reader, when this story takes place, and you will understand the problem. It is the 1920's and, therefore, before the time when a painter can throw paint at a canvas and call it Art. There might have been some, and perhaps there were many paint flingers. These painters undoubtedly suffered Wheatley's affliction, namely hunger. The notion that such productions were Art hadn't taken hold as of yet.
Paintings, at least the kind which sold, had to actually look like something one might encounter in the real world. Even the Impressionist daubs had a fuzzy resemblance to reality. The paintings that really sold were of people, things, or places rendered skillfully.
Perhaps a description of the would-be artist's oeuvre is in order. Let it pass. It would only depress you even further. Alas, he wasn't a painter flinger, for then he would have only been ahead of his time. It was worse than that. Such was the lack of skill of his rendering, it was impossible to discern what the subjects were. James had no conception of line or color. It was as if the idea of composition wasn't in his lexicon. As for perspective, his work made it look as if the Renaissance had been a mere rumor.
Early on in his career as an artist, when he'd been flush with cash, he found models, both male and female, willing to doff their clothes. The results of these endless sittings, for the paid victims, were so unlike their reality, he was forced to cover up his work so they couldn't see it. He did this to avoid a repetition of the abuse heaped upon him by an outraged model. She was convinced by his lack of skill that he was just a pervert posing as an artist for prurient reasons.
This accusation was untrue, but it was an unfortunate fact that he did become sexually aroused during these nude sessions. The response was beyond his control. It was a natural reaction of a young male virgin to being in the presence of nakedness. He wished he could convey that feeling through his work. The formless blobs of vaguely flesh-colored paint somehow failed to arouse any emotion at all. Unless the viewer had recently eaten oysters. Then the unfortunate one would suffer an acute case of a queasy stomach.
Suffice to relate, he had never been close to making painting a paying proposition. No dealer would take his paintings. Even the promise to use them as payment or collateral for the previous months' rent had been a nonstarter. He was forced to leave his work behind with the none too happy landlady when she'd thrown him out. He couldn't carry it all because if nothing else, he'd been prolific. Where would he move it to? It was two years of creative labor lost.
Turning our gaze back to James on the beach, we find that he has run out it. He had come to a headland jutting into the sea that blocked any further progress in that direction. Wheatley is stymied and sits on the sand to consider. Of course, the beach couldn't go on forever, but now that he wasn't walking, he had to think.
He could turn around and head back to the French village he'd been lodging in, but what was the point. It was a fact that he could starve here as well as there. Though he was no sluggard, it seemed a shame to undo what he'd spent hours to accomplish. So the first concrete decision he made on his future was to sit in the warm sun and the comfortable breeze.
He thought of all the treasure buried in the world. Why shouldn't some of it be buried on the beach he was sitting on. It was unlikely, and even if some of it was, how would he find it? That was the rub. They say X marks the spot. From where he sat, no X, Y, or Z could be seen.
James Wheatley pondered his future while gazing out to the blue Mediterranean. In all respects, it seemed grim. If it wasn't for a curious faith that things would work out somehow, he might have contemplated a desperate act. Not as dire as looking for a job, but suicide. As it was, he thought he might as well smoke his last cigarette.
Necessity had driven Wheatley to pawn his beloved Meerschaum pipe and brass trench lighter. He was left with one cigarette and three matches. The first match was a dud. It merely fizzled then gave up the ghost. The second match broke in the middle. When he struck the shortened stick, he didn't have time to get the smoke lit. His fingers were scorched before he was forced to toss the flame away.
