Beacon Of Love 01 The Abyss

Everyone's over 18. No real people. No copyright infringement.

Everyone survives and enjoys themselves. Permanent body art is fetishized, but never maiming, branding or amputation. Step-by-step consent. All diverse people are respected. No prostitution. Pure fiction. No politics, ads, AI, or pictures.

*****

"I am an experimenter in the sense that I write in order to change myself and in order not to think the same thing as before."

--Michel Foucault

1: The Abyss

Thank God! Dry land. Well, not dry in this foul weather, but I'd settle for any land by the time we washed ashore. Fifteen minutes more and the twilight would vanish to unforgiving ebony. That blinding light blared again across the heavy rain and fog. We couldn't tell where the beacon came from, but in the abyss, any light is salvation. Our tiny dinghy violently ran aground in an explosion of wet sand, whipped into our faces by the thirty knot gusts. I took her by the hand, stepped ashore, and we staggered into the light.

* * *

Freshman year at Cape University hadn't been easy. The whole hookup culture was a little overwhelming, if I'm being honest. Making out in all those sticky basements, running the bases, and for what? To brag to the other guys at Sunday brunch about who scored the most points that weekend? Seven base hits and counting, but this blond mop-top still hadn't put a run on the board.

What's one more sport I'm not good at? I was never big enough for basketball or football, never fast enough for baseball or track. I always tried to project masculinity, but I was soft and I knew it. There wasn't a hair on my face nor a scrap of meat on my bones. Hell, I was majoring in philosophy.

Alas, one sport my college offered that we'd never had in high school was sailing. It was totally coed, so I could meet girls without having to haunt the vomit-soaked fraternity circuit. Perfect! Besides, I figured sailing would be more relaxing and less physical than other sports. Boy was I wrong.

I should've realized college sports don't run in the summer. Sailing is a spring sport, and we were out practicing in Chatham Harbor in dry suits as early as late March. I got assigned to be crew aboard a 420, a two-person dinghy. I'd hike over the windward rail on a trapeze harness, getting hammered with icy cold spray all day. It made me miss the disgusting Miller Lite in those sticky basements. Hell, I would've quit, if not for Skipper.

Skipper was the kind of hip, liberated alterni-chick I'd always dreamed of. That streak of bleached hair up front, and another intricately braided down the back, contrasting her raven-tone Indian locks. Her light brown skin, her nosering, eight earrings (I counted) and God, that tongue ring! It all drove me wild. I'd have bet anything she was a freak in the sack.

Skipper was an upperclassmen who never would've given me the time of day at a party. She doesn't have to hang with the fake ID crowd anyway. She'd probably be out at a show, letting guys buy her drinks all night. She was so confident! And I was so not. My insecure masculinity could never match her radiant femininity; she was way out of my league.

Still, for two hours of sailing practice every day, it was just the two of us, Skipper & Crew. I was assigned to her, and I had to do whatever she said. Aye aye, Skipper. She was nice enough, but careful not to give me an opening. We weren't dating; we were training to compete. We had to be a finely-tuned machine, and that meant I had to get my act together. I was green; she was going for gold.

The day of the squall, Skipper challenged me to sail out of the harbor, into open ocean. I was terrified, of course, alas masculinity struck again. I wanted so badly to impress her, I didn't even check the radar for weather. In fact, the only such consideration I gave was what might happen if her tongue ring got hit by lightning while she was blowing me. Yowza!

That squall came on so fast, we couldn't tell which way the harbor was. I reckoned it was behind us, but there was too much current to tack and it was too windy to gybe. Taking six-foot rollers head-on, the only way not to capsize was to hold our course. Eventually the storm clouds swallowed the last piece of shoreline on the horizon, and we were truly lost at sea. If not for the beacon, we'd have surely drowned.

Sure enough, it was the old Monomoy Lighthouse, abandoned a century ago when they built the Cape Cod Canal. We didn't even bother knocking. The door wasn't locked. Surely there aren't still lighthouse keepers in the 21st century, right? Who cares? Here we could survive. There was an old, dirty kitchen inside with a table and chairs.

We took off our dry-suits right away, both of which were damaged and leaking. Our dry-bag was long-gone, and with it our phones. We were freezing and soaked from head to toe. The T-shirt I had on underneath was badly torn at the bottom, so I took off what was left of it and cast it aside. I couldn't stand the thought of Skipper seeing me prune in boxer shorts. I'd almost rather submit to hypothermia. Almost.

Skipper tossed her dry-suit in the sink. She was wearing this cute choker, the cheap plastic kind you get at the mall. It turned me on knowing she still wore it even under a dry-suit where nobody could see. She must've been wearing it for herself, not to look wicked sexy but to feel wicked sexy. Looking wicked sexy was a special bonus just for me, and I didn't take it for granted.

Skipper stripped down to her sports bra, exposing her midriff. She had a belly ring, answering a question I'd long wondered in the back of my head. I'd always pictured an elaborate piece like a belly dancer might wear, but it was just a little curved silver barbell, nothing flashy. She could wear it to the gym. I bet she did. I bet she never takes it out, that it's a part of her. I wonder when she got it, and if her parents hated it. I hope they still do.

As fixated as I was, the real showstopper came when she turned around and bent over to take her wet socks off. She had a bright red lotus tattooed on her lower back, with some kind of Sanskrit symbol on top. Fuck I love tramp stamps! It was more than enough stimulus to hoist my boom. I was hypnotized.

"What are you staring at?" Skipper asked impatiently.

"Oh! I'm just, uh..." I panicked, then caught my breath and told the truth, "...admiring your belly ring and tattoo. I didn't know you had them."

"Yeah, the belly ring was standard issue to pledge my sorority. But the tattoo is new. I got it in Boston for my twenty-first, just before the season started."

"Cool. What's it mean?"

"It's Kundalini, the first chakra at the bottom of the spine, the source of Shakti, a divine feminine energy. Through tantric practice, it's a path to spiritual liberation."

"You really believe that?" I scoffed.

"I don't need to believe it. I've experienced it."

"I see... Did it hurt?"

"Spiritual liberation?"

"The tattoo, I mean," I nervously clarified.

"At first much more than I'd expected," Skipper recounted, "But what could I do? As soon as you're inked, you're committed. You have to get over yourself to let it happen. Once the endorphins kicked in, I was able to let go. I submitted myself to the experience, went into a trance and came to profoundly enjoy it."

"Oh... that's wicked sexy."

"Wicked sexy?" Skipper rolled her eyes, as if to say freshman. I regretted saying it immediately. "What about you, kid? You got any... wicked sexy ink​?"

"No," I answered, embarrassed. "I don't think I could commit."

"Sure you could," she insisted, creeping up close to me and whispering in my ear. "You just gotta want it bad enough."

I'll never forget the sensation of her reaching around to tickle my lower spine, right in the chakra. I was rock hard and she knew it. This was the opening I'd been waiting for! Finally, we were half-dressed in private, hearts pumping horny and she serves me this layup on a golden platter. I froze. Come on, man! Just kiss her!

Finally, I felt that cool metal barbell in my mouth. Skipper and I latched onto each other and made out. My hands felt up a storm around her hips--so much decorated skin to explore! I pulled her close, and weight of her breasts pushed up against me. Her bracelets rubbing up my back as she dug her hot pink nails into me. The raw energy. That pierced tongue! I'd never had the privilege to become intimate with one before. Was it thirty seconds? A whole minute? Not long enough!