What you are about to read is part fact, part fantasy, and is entirely true.
The names, dates, and locations in this story have been changed to protect the guilty.
Enjoy 😉
I got hired to photograph the wedding of a girl I used to date.
The ceremony was yesterday in San Diego at a house right on Mission Beach. Unbelievable.
Also unbelievable – the inside joke she made to me about us having sex, right in front of her new husband.
That my friend, is another story for another day.
I digress –
It’s the next day, and my flight home is later in the day. I’ve got time to kill. I make my way to the storied Del Mar Beach, camera bag in tow.
I’m in that recent divorcee stage of my life where I’m re-learning how to succeed with women, because apparently – succeed I did not.
I’ve become a devotee of the Pickup Artist movement.
(Do you remember Mystery, from VH1? The guy with the big fuzzy top hat? Yeah. That movement).
I’ve just read another chapter in the Pickup Artist’s scriptures:
“Rapport is prerequisite to sex. Rapport is built by entrusting her with a task, they said. “Watch my phone while I run to the bathroom.”
Simple as that. Today, I test the theory.
Del Mar beach sits below a 50’ cliff. It’s Late Sunday afternoon. The tide pulls low, gulls circle high, the cliff wall glows bronze.
I’ve got a camera bag slung over my shoulder, sand between my toes, and the smug satisfaction of a man looking for his next mission.
I take a few pictures of ocean, some rotted pilings, gulls in flight, etc. Downrange, I spot what appears to be a beautiful, yellow bikini clad beach babe. Incoming.
Cooler & umbrella in hand. She is prepared.
She picks a spot right up against the cliff, lays out her big beach towel and sets up camp. I decide to practice my new rapport building skill and check her out in the process.
I approach, and she smiles.
“Hi, I’m Sunshine.”
She’s stunning – I don’t even realize how ridiculous her “name” is.
“Nice to meet you, Sunshine… I want to wander out into the water a little further into the surf to get a couple of photos with my waterproof camera – can I leave the rest of this gear with you for a couple of minutes?”
“Of course!” She chimes.
“Yessss….” I congratulate myself on step one of the seduction happening exactly as they promised it would.
I wade out into the surf, shoot a few frames. Upon my return, she makes a spot for me to sit next to her and gestures for me to join her. As I sit down, she moves her giant 6′ wide umbrella down onto it’s side, which both blocks the late afternoon sun, and blocks anyone’s view of us. Behind us, only rock. We are tucked inside a private chamber. I notice this fact but don’t give it too much credence.
She lies on her side, head propped, eyes with curiosity and a dash of mischief over the tops of her sunglasses.
Sunshine moves in close, welcoming herself into my personal space bubble. It feels good.
Her body language hums a tune: I love being a girl.
Time slows. Her gaze doesn’t flinch. We talk about the weather. About stuff.
You know… stuff. Just blah blah stuff. Words that give our lips an excuse to move for one another.
“I do a little modeling”, she adds.
“Oh really, we should shoot some time”
“Yeah, totally!”
Uh huh…. Right. I live in Salt Lake City, you live in San Diego. Whatever. It’s nice small talk.
My lips start to tingle – the current of a kiss begging to close the circuit.It’s called “The Kiss Vibe”. Yeah, it’s a technical term among those in rehabilitation.
In last week’s lesson from the Pick Up Artist scriptures, I learned that when you feel the tingle, she probably is, too, and you really must go in for the kiss.
But really? Is she REALLY feeling it too?
I don’t want to be presumptuous and ruin this moment with this woman I’ll never see again, ever.
I break eye contact and look down.
Somehow, one half of her bikini top has slipped down. One of her beautiful little breasts has made its way to freedom – her nipple taut, brazen, begging for attention.
Her firm little b-cups look so delicious. I am tying to see if any electricity jumps from her nipple to my fingertips.
I imagine how the firm flesh of her nipple would feel on my lips, on the tip of your tongue.
But hold on. Just because her breast is out, doesn’t mean anything. Clothing mishaps occur all the time.
Do I tell her? Do I pretend I don’t notice? Do I risk embarrassing her?
I don’t want her to think I’m just some basic horny dude that’s been staring at her tits the whole time.
I want her to think of me as a whole person, who has been considering her as a whole person, too.
Like a new AA inductee with his new 30 day chip – stumbling into a raging sports bar with shots lined up –
I forget everything.
A woman offers the sun, and I debate SPF.
Her nipple continues to gaze at me.
“So………… what time do you need to leave for your flight?” she purrs.
I look at my watch.
I do some inner calculations – drive time, rental car return, possible traffic.
It’s 5:30.
“At 6:15. I should probably get going.”
She notices how badly I’ve botched this math problem.
Her top snaps back in place. Her voice turns flat.
“So, uh….let’s keep in touch, huh?” I offer.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
I return to the San Diego Airport and board my flight with plenty of time to spare.
2 hours later, 33,000 feet above Nevada, It dawns on me what Sunshine was really up to…
….and apparently, I wasn’t.
