High cliffs protected the fragile Palos Verdes coastline;
the shore was rocky, strewn with rotting kelp. Tiny flies swarmed.
Rusted machinery and bits of old shipwrecks littered the bays.
We slipped and slid down the dirt path, Lynn and I,
the smell of wild anise strong on the ocean air.
It was the only nude beach for miles.
We brought a bottle of sweet wine with us, Night Train Express.
We were pie-eyed in no time.
The naked man who landed his dinghy on the shore
must've spotted us from the yacht moored in the cove.
He made some preliminary remarks —
they couldn't have been too unusual,
for by now I've forgotten what they were —
and began jerking off.
Through the haze of the wine
I didn't even realize
what he was doing
until he came onto the sand near Lynn's towel.
"That was so tacky." Lynn said, and began to laugh.
We were too drunk to climb back up the cliff.
"He looked familiar, didn't he?" I said
as he got his fat ass back into the rowboat
and headed out to sea.
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