Five o’clock. Time to sweep the last customers out of the store, souvenirs in hand, and call it a day. By the time Nate and I finished straightening the shelves, sweeping the floors and balancing the registers it was just after 5:30. I left him to lock up and I headed off to the men’s dorm, stopping by the refectory to get some fruit and rolls.
At my room I changed into my swim trunks, threw a baggy pair of shorts over that and tossed a towel into my bag with the munchies. The weather was humid and close, so an early swim for two seemed indicated. But when I checked the calendar I saw that Sandi was scheduled for the Bolling jazz suite, so I gave her a mental delay of game penalty and grabbed a tape player and some tapes as well.
I wandered over to the concert shell and found a seat in the big middle. A couple of 12-year-olds were playing a saxophone reduction of the Gershwin preludes, notable more for the audacity of the concept than the execution, and I took a few minutes to scan the program. Sandi’s group was third on the program, then the Vivaldi concerto for four violins and the last movement of Schubert’s Trout quintet.
After the Gershwin came a woodwind quintet arrangement of the Candide overture, better realized even if I’ve heard that overture a thousand times. The audience applauded as the piano and trap set were rolled out on stage, and the trio took their places. The flutist sent the first strains of cool jazz floating out into the muggy August air. I enjoyed watching her play – the way she got into the rhythm, her upper body swaying with the music.
Her legs were long and strong-looking, cleanly defined thanks to the camp shorts she was wearing, and the stiff cloth of her shirt only hinted tantalizingly at the curves beneath. I can’t say much about the pianist, some guy sporting a Van Dyck beard. Then, of course there was Sandi. It’s always a joy to watch her at work. Think Tito Puente, only younger and with curves that move delightfully as she shifts and bounces from one drum to another.
This was a fun piece at any rate; you could see the audience smiling and getting into it. Claude Bolling wrote four jazz suites, but I’ve always liked the one for flute and jazz piano the best. I took a bathroom break when it was over, and returned to my seat for the Vivaldi. Two of the violinists were college-age girls and the other two looked like high school seniors in jean shorts and crop tops; I was enjoying the visual aspect of the performance as much as the musicianship. Sandi slipped into the seat next to me midway through the second movement and we gossiped quietly until the performance was over.
The concert closed with the Trout quintet. As the melodic strains of Schubert rolled into the woodland behind the concert shell, I leaned over and kissed her soft lips lightly. “Enjoy the performance?,” she asked. “Always – and I liked the music too,” I joked. She poked me in the ribs, then held my hand on her leg as we listened to the music. I felt the warmth of her bare skin under my palm, and squeezed her a couple of times, lightly.
After the concert, we made our way across the quad past the now-quiet art building. Sandi stopped to peer into one glazed window; there was a long-standing rumor that some of the art students had unapproved “private” modeling sessions after hours. The room was dark, though, and we continued on down toward the woods with her arm laced through mine.
There’s an inlet off the lake, and a secluded place we found last year that is just right for swimming in the late summer. Sandi pulled a beach towel out of her backpack and I pulled out my cache of munchies, and we settled down for a byte to eat. When we finished, the sun was well down and the moon was above the horizon. Out of nowhere, Sandi spoke up. “You enjoyed the view at the concert, didn’t you?”
I didn’t connect with what she was talking about, until her hand slid out of my palm and onto my leg, insinuating itself under the leg of my shorts. “A couple of those violinists were jailbait, hon, in case you didn’t notice.” Her fingers had found the crease where my leg meets my thigh, and my camp shorts started feeling tight on me. “I didn’t think so,” she went on. And with that she leaned over and kissed me.
Kissing Sandi is like eating a full six-course Italian meal. It takes your entire attention and focus, and involves your whole body. It felt like hours later when her lips left mine, and I watched as she unbuttoned her camp blouse and pulled it off, her white bra gleaming in the soft moonlight.
“You’re overdressed for swimming,” she pointed out as she headed toward the water’s edge. By the time I got my wits together and got undressed, she was already treading water in the shallows.
“This is a public area, you know,” I told her.
“Not after sundown,” she replied as I got into the still-warm water and swum out to meet her.
I stood up in the shallow water and we kissed, ankles playing against calves, her breasts warm against my chest. We swam for a bit in the sheltered cove, and then I found the Pirate’s Chair. That was our name for an underwater outcropping of rock, just at the right depth for one person to sit on.
I took the seat and urged Sandi into my lap, where we kissed with urgently dueling tongues while she swiveled around to find my erection. She straddled me and held me in her hand as she lowered herself down, until we were no longer two but one.
We held there for a timeless moment, our breathing perfectly synchronized, and then she lifted her hips and sank back down on me in a rhythm older than any heard in the concert hall. Her nipples tickled my chest as the water supported her breasts, and I held her hips tightly as my passion rose to meet hers. When I exploded, barely keeping my position in the Pirate’s Chair, she came right along with me and we splashed quietly together in the leaf-mottled light.
When her breathing and mine were back to normal, and she pulled her face back from mine, I reached up to brush a damp strand of hair from her face. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” She smiled back at me and chuckled, “I bet you say that to all the mermaids you make love to.”
She shivered as a breeze whipped across the surface of the water, and I realized it was way past lights-out. We made our way with giggles and familiar intimate touches out of the water, finding our various pieces of clothing and eventually getting the towel out of my bag so we’d look presentable when we made it to our respective cabins.
Sure enough, the camp was dark and still when we made it back through the wooded path. It was a good thing they didn’t have bed checks in the college-age dorms. I took her in my arms at the door to her cabin, holding her gently against me just listening to her breathe. She gave me a peck on my forehead, and quietly opened her door just enough to slip inside.
I went back to my own room, the moon and her scent keeping me company. There’s nothing like a summer night!