When you picture a Georgia beach resort you see swaying chairs in front of a picturesque manner house shaded by trees across the way from a nice white beach, right? With people offering you sweet tea and lemonade, and dogs chasing swallows or whatever birds they have? At least I did. No matter my prior conceptions -- we loaded up the RV and drove from Kansas City (Kansas, not to be confused with those fuckers from Missouri) to Georgia. 27 hours later (including a rough night's sleep at an RV park) there I was. Darien, Georgia. Me, my parents, my sister, and 1,719 poor souls who for some reason decided to stay in this godforsaken corner of the Deep South. To think I brought my finest Polo shirts on this trip, the kinds you pop the collar and look like a badass, hoping to charm some pretty young thing. The things I'd do to a girl with a southern accent...
The Piggly Wiggly in town smelled like rotten sour cream, and all the perishables were expired. So we loaded up on preserved meats and old loafs of bread, tortilla chips and the one tub of guacamole that was still green, catfish, some candy bars and a pound cake, and got the hell out of there, hoping to evade the stares of the regular customers, who weren't accustomed to seeing outsiders, it seemed. Next stop was the rental house agency, where we needed to pick up our key. The first thing I noticed when we went to the rental office, which was in fact just a very small house near the other vacation homes, was how dark and humid the room was. A woman was sitting behind a desk in the back of the room, with a light illuminating her area. She was wearing an old red sweater, faded to a pinkish color now, and had on heavy makeup that at first glance made her appear quite frightening. Her bosom was full and heaved as she shifted forward over the desk to find our paperwork. Her flaxen hair had traces of silver, strands woven into fine patterns by the hand of nature. As I took notice of a freckle on the left base of her neck, next to her silver cross necklace, I felt my crotch grow firm, as blood gushed to my penis, and my nipples grew hard. Then, as fate would have it, she spoke to me: "Want me to suck your cock, son?"
Well, that's what I thought she said. In reality it was something like "That's a nice blue shirt, son." I realized my fantasy had overcome my real-life sensory perception as my mother nudged me to say "Thank you," in her usual nagging way. I nodded and walked towards a table displaying literature about the scenic Georgia coast. Fun facts from the brochures: Scottish settlers founded Darien in 1736. It's known for its butterflies and hanging moss, apparently. And goddamnit I just couldn't stop staring at that woman. Had it really been this long since I'd seen a woman who wasn't my kin? I sweat was soaking my clothing, ruining the seat of my slacks. What if people thought I wet myself? I glided outside for some air. As soon as I exited the rental office I saw a blur in my peripheral vision. Someone, someone wearing red, with brown hair, had sprinted around the corner of the building as soon as I left. Were they afraid of me? Or was this just a coincidence. I imagined they saw me leaving and felt some sort of intimidation or embarrassment. Anyway, I felt satisfied because in the words of a former president or prince or someone, "It's better to be feared than loved."
We drove the few blocks to the house we rented and unpacked our belongings. I brought a couple boxes of Magnum condoms because I heard they were for studs, and my sister almost saw them when she walked into my room as I was unpacking. She hopped up on my bed, on top of the admittedly tasteful quilt whoever decorated the house had on there, and glared down at me in her usual way as I hurriedly rearranged some clothing to conceal the black boxes with gold letters symbolizing my manhood. She was such a fucking prude back then. Just 14, but I hear kids that age are having sex parties and sexting now. Back when I was 14 -- I'm 19 now, 18 at the time of this story -- we didn't have those things or maybe I just wasn't invited. Though I'm certain I would've been invited.
"Dad says we can go on a boat tour tomorrow," she said.
"Fuck that," I replied.
"You shouldn't talk like that. I heard there are kids in, you know, New York and Chicago who don't even get to go to the beach."
"Mhmm."
"And there are bird watching trails. And a fort with reenactments, and fishing..."
"I'm just gonna stop you there because you had me at historical reenactments."
She looked annoyed and jumped off the bed and out of my room. Finally I had some time alone to test out these condoms. I closed and locked the door, careful not to make noise since my dad hates locked doors, and pulled out the package. I thought about the woman at the rental office. Her tits. Her sweaty armpits. The sweat between her thighs. Her tangy moistness growing as she spies my seductive gaze. Me shoving the stuff off her desk and picking her up on top of me and her riding me as my family flees in terror, afraid of my sexuality let alone their own, those fucking prudes, and she rides me like the stallion I am until... And shit — I came on my suitcase. I didn't even have a chance to open the condom wrapper. Well maybe next time.
That night after dinner I took an ill-advised walk around the nature trails in the forest near the beach. I was looking for a place I could bring beer if I stole it from the store. People are so slow around here I bet I could easily get away with it. Lethargy is like the default emotion here. I reached the dead-end of a trail and turned around and --- there again, the blur of some person fleeing my gaze. This time I had to pursue. I grabbed a stick, an admittedly small stick since it was the only one near me, and ran after him or her or whoever it was, waving my arm. I got silver at track and field regionals so I'm pretty fast. Also the guys on the lacrosse team called me jackrabbit boy, which I took as a compliment. My point is I'm fucking fast and I still couldn't catch up with my fearful stalker.
