I spotted Marianne out on the beach well beyond the clothing optional signs, no one else anywhere near. I slipped off my swimsuit, top and bottoms, and made for her. She was on a beach chair intent on a paperback, and she didn’t see me at first, not until my shadow practically covered her book. “Hey,” I said. “Hot day, huh? What are you reading?”

“Oh, just a trashy novel,” Marianne said, quickly closing the book and pressing it face down on her lap.

“Ah,” I said. “You at one of the good parts?”

Despite her lovely golden tan, I could tell Marianne was blushing.

“Must be a really juicy part,” I said.

She blushed all the harder. “No, no,” she stammered. “It’s just, you know, a trashy novel.”

I left Marianne to her book and strolled along the beach, walking slow and far and feeling a little sad. I remembered the time I was eleven or twelve and we were at the lake for the summer and one day I picked up the paperback which was lying open but face down on the little table by my mom’s bed. I read quickly. I don’t remember the words exactly, but it was about a man and a woman on a boat or ship kissing, caressing, making love. I do remember one sentence: “When she came, it was bright as the sun and swollen as the sea.” Came where? I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what “it” could be. Bright as the sun and swollen as the sea. That didn’t make any sense. I tried to puzzle it out. Probably just a printing mistake. I asked my mom. “What does this mean? ‘When she came, it was bright as the sun and swollen as the sea’?”

“You shouldn’t be reading that,” Mom snapped. “It’s just junk.” She snatched the book from my hands.

“But you’re reading it,” I protested.

“Yeah, well I shouldn’t be reading it either.” She closed the book and took it out of the room, and I never saw it again, though a couple of times I hunted for it.

Maybe I’d deprived my mom of some innocent pleasure. Well, maybe not so innocent. I wondered if my mom would read that stuff and touch herself. Maybe somehow I’d spoiled it for Marianne, too. I decided to tell Marianne about the time I’d picked up my mom’s trashy novel, but on the way back the beach was empty. No sign Marianne had ever been there. Maybe she was in the poolside bar where I’d encountered her yesterday, where over a couple of pina coladas we’d discussed mountain climbing and babies and other things we’d never done but might want to someday. Or maybe she was in the privacy of her room, scrutinizing the juicy parts. I looked out over the dunes. The sea was swollen and the sun was bright and maybe at that moment Marianne was making herself come. A couple of seabirds cried, and that made me smile. A breeze came up, and my nipples stiffened. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do. I slipped into my suit and headed for Marianne’s room. No need for any trashy novels.