In "The Best Of Men" Leigh arranges to see long-time friend Ray and they go to bed. Although it is her idea, Leigh is skittish about the affair and intends for Ray and her to only go off together once. But she sees Ray several times after the day at her friend's apartment.
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"Don't you love the ocean?" I asked Leigh.
"Yes, Ray". The woman beside me didn't look up from her People magazine. She put her hand on my arm, then rested her elbow in the crook of my arm.
We both had identical lawn chairs except for the colors. Leigh's was a tutti fruity design of yellows, oranges and lime, and my own chair was black. Leigh did look up at last to admire the Atlantic Ocean shore.
"We picked a good day to venture to the ocean side, boyfriend. The surf is not so loud. Oh, look."
Leigh pointed in the direction of a tugboat traveling past the pier. Flying south down the beach were pelicans in a flock of five or six.
"You see the pelicans? One of them is white."
"So it is." I answered. I thought it was some other species of bird just tagging along. It was a nice March day to go to the beach. I never had been to Wrightsville Beach.
It felt like 20 years since I was on or at a beach. Leigh suggested here because Leigh and "another guy" own a trailer nearby. Leigh said we could take a shower at the trailer. If the trailer was very cold we could waste some hot water, she said. That all depends, I said, but to myself.
Leigh wanted to do the driving again and we rode to the beach in her little Malibu. She wore cutoff jeans. I was about to chew the seat belt apart. Leigh's cutoffs stopped just below Love Valley.
God knows, she has the nicest legs. Not the pretties legs, I told her the nicest. If we were listening to George Jones or Tammy Wynette I'd been bound to say prettiest. Leigh's legs are not skinny. They are streamlined, and just enough fat to make them tasty.
I tried to run my hand over Leigh's thigh and watched the surf slide up the brown sand. Leigh pushed my hand away, a veiled smile upon her face. The glossy magazine glowed in front of her, balanced on her knees.
"Do your word find puzzle." Leigh demanded.
"O.K. sweetie pie." I get bored with them after I have found all the words that spell across left to right. So I tossed the puzzle book aside and looked in my shirt for a cigar.
I stood downwind from Leigh, or as close to that standing on a beach as is possible. I fired up the little cigar and looked over at the pier past her. A few tiny figures walked back and forth on the distant pier. Some looked to be fishing.
Leigh was wearing a bikini, but only because we were at the beach. Then again, I might get to see her in the bikini. She had on the cutoffs and she had a Rip Torn shirt on, a white polyester button-down.
"That your shirt?" I inquired like a jerk.
"No. My brother gave it to me. It's two sizes too big. See?" She raised an arm. Leigh looked out at the water and back down at her magazine, flipping pages.
I was thinking about 9 ½ Weeks. Kim Basinger does a strip tease for Mickey Rourke. Basinger has on a top hat, a black skirt and a white dress shirt, plus her intimates.
Everything comes off by the time Joe Cocker finishes the song. Not naked for the camera, the actress holds a white table cloth in front of her at the finale.
"We need a white table cloth, babe. Your jeans will work fine."
"What are you talking about?" Leigh looked at me. She had on pink sun-glasses. With obsidian black lenses I could not see possibly see through.
"The old movie Nine and A Half Weeks. Remember the striptease?"
"What made you think of that movie?" Leigh asks.
I had on sunglasses today, and I gave Leigh the once over. My sunglasses were more revealing. I looked at Leigh's cleavage, waiting for an answer.
"I don't have the body Kim Basinger had then. Or has now, I suppose."
"Your body is my temple, baby." I pulled up the shades.
Leigh smiled a smile brighter than the sun in a ultraviolet sky.
"You are sweet" Leigh said. Then she pulled up her sunglasses and looked at me for more than a minute. I held her gaze.
"How can you compare..." and she did not finish.
"Because I am so picky, now that I have tasted all the rotting produce." Leigh lost her magazine and her sunglasses flew off her head.
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It was cloudless, 73 degrees Fahrenheit, with only a light breeze. Leigh looked at her little jeweled watch and noted she had to be back in Goldbug before 4 pm. She closed her magazine. Seeing I was about to be called upon I crushed out the little cigar in the surf.
It was 12:00. We talked about what we wanted to do for lunch. Leigh gave me her brush and I brushed her hair.
"Why don't we have cold cuts, or something simple at least." I thought out loud.