Religion.
He told her about his part-time job and she told him about her part-time job, and he told her how he was finishing up college in a year at the University of Houston, and she told him she was doing the same and wasn't it amazing that they had never met, and he said, I'll say, and wouldn't it be nice if we took some classes together, and she said yeah, and then he told her things about himself, and how he had tried out for sports in high school and had fallen down a lot, and she told him how she had been on the track and swim team and had been quite good at both, and for him not to take this personal, but it didn't look as if he had become any more athletic than before, considering his dramatic entrance into the water today, and he laughed at that, and they continued to talk about anything and everything until it was very, very late. They went to his apartment in Houston that first night.
........
on me.
on me, Monty.
"Monty. Oh, Monty."
"What?"
"Remember me, your wife? The girl lying next to you on the beach towel? Will you put some suntan lotion on me?"
"Shit, I'm sorry. I was daydreaming."
"About long, brown legs, I bet."
"Yep."
"Well, you shit."
"About yours."
"I bet."
"I was."
"Don't snow me, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, JR."
He put an arm around her. "I was thinking about how we met."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, and how was that? I don't seem to remember.
Seems you've always been with me. Like a birth defect."
"There's always plastic surgery."
"You'd just leave a scar."
"I hope so."
"Were you really thinking about my legs?"
"Yep."
"Do you ever think about other women's legs?"
"God forbid."
"Monty, come on."
"Sometimes?"
"Do you ever think about more than the legs?"
"Sometimes."
"Shithead."
"Sometimes."
"Well, did you know I masturbate to Tom Jones albums when I'm home alone? I just think about that gyrating hunk of man and blammo, double, triple orgasms."
"Sounds nice."
"It is."
"Right there in the living room, huh?"
"Yep, on the couch."
"I see, and I thought that smell was cat piss on the cushions."
"You shithead."
"Sometimes."
"All the time. Here, put this lotion on me."
"How's that?"
"Ummmm."
"Becky?"
"Yes."
"What did you ever do with that black string bikini?"
"It's at home."
"Can you still fit into it?"
"I ought to slap your face, Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr. You know I can. I've gained a pound or two, but nothing that would spill out. Or haven't you noticed?"
"I notice."
"I bet you don't even look at me anymore."
"I look. Why didn't you wear it today?"
"I haven't worn it in years."
"Why?"
"I'm old-fashioned."
"You weren't old-fashioned when I saw you in it—what there was of it."
"I was shopping then."
"My goodness, that doesn't sound very liberated."
"Truth."
"So why don't you wear it now?"
"Like I said, I was shopping. I've got you nabbed now, for what that's worth.
Besides, doesn't this one look nice enough?"
"There's too much of it."
"I believe that was a male chauvinistic remark, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr."
"Definitely."
"What will all your liberal pals say?"
"May I look at your wife's ass, probably."
"Monty."
"I'm not kidding. Have you seen their wives? Yetch, right out of the pound.
Besides, what am I, a eunuch? I like the way you look in that thing."
"Okay, I'll wear it for you next time we come to the beach."
"No way."
"You're impossible."
"You could wear it tonight, at home. That way I'd get to see you in it and Galveston Beach wouldn't have to have its sand dried out."
"What?"
"From all the saliva these male wolves would drip on it when they saw you in that thing."
"Would you like a poke in the nose?"
"How about a kiss?"
"Close enough."
"Lower."
"My God, Monty."
"Not that low."
"We're saving that for home too?"
"You bet, sweetheart. Now kiss me. On the lips."
"Not bad. Now will you finish with rubbing the suntan oil on already?"
He began rubbing the oil on her back, copping a bit of breast feel
He told her about his part-time job and she told him about her part-time job, and he told her how he was finishing up college in a year at the University of Houston, and she told him she was doing the same and wasn't it amazing that they had never met, and he said, I'll say, and wouldn't it be nice if we took some classes together, and she said yeah, and then he told her things about himself, and how he had tried out for sports in high school and had fallen down a lot, and she told him how she had been on the track and swim team and had been quite good at both, and for him not to take this personal, but it didn't look as if he had become any more athletic than before, considering his dramatic entrance into the water today, and he laughed at that, and they continued to talk about anything and everything until it was very, very late. They went to his apartment in Houston that first night.
........
on me.
on me, Monty.
"Monty. Oh, Monty."
"What?"
"Remember me, your wife? The girl lying next to you on the beach towel? Will you put some suntan lotion on me?"
"Shit, I'm sorry. I was daydreaming."
"About long, brown legs, I bet."
"Yep."
"Well, you shit."
"About yours."
"I bet."
"I was."
"Don't snow me, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, JR."
He put an arm around her. "I was thinking about how we met."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, and how was that? I don't seem to remember.
Seems you've always been with me. Like a birth defect."
"There's always plastic surgery."
"You'd just leave a scar."
"I hope so."
"Were you really thinking about my legs?"
"Yep."
"Do you ever think about other women's legs?"
"God forbid."
"Monty, come on."
"Sometimes?"
"Do you ever think about more than the legs?"
"Sometimes."
"Shithead."
"Sometimes."
"Well, did you know I masturbate to Tom Jones albums when I'm home alone? I just think about that gyrating hunk of man and blammo, double, triple orgasms."
"Sounds nice."
"It is."
"Right there in the living room, huh?"
"Yep, on the couch."
"I see, and I thought that smell was cat piss on the cushions."
"You shithead."
"Sometimes."
"All the time. Here, put this lotion on me."
"How's that?"
"Ummmm."
"Becky?"
"Yes."
"What did you ever do with that black string bikini?"
"It's at home."
"Can you still fit into it?"
"I ought to slap your face, Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr. You know I can. I've gained a pound or two, but nothing that would spill out. Or haven't you noticed?"
"I notice."
"I bet you don't even look at me anymore."
"I look. Why didn't you wear it today?"
"I haven't worn it in years."
"Why?"
"I'm old-fashioned."
"You weren't old-fashioned when I saw you in it—what there was of it."
"I was shopping then."
"My goodness, that doesn't sound very liberated."
"Truth."
"So why don't you wear it now?"
"Like I said, I was shopping. I've got you nabbed now, for what that's worth.
Besides, doesn't this one look nice enough?"
"There's too much of it."
"I believe that was a male chauvinistic remark, Mr. Montgomery Buford Jones, Jr."
"Definitely."
"What will all your liberal pals say?"
"May I look at your wife's ass, probably."
"Monty."
"I'm not kidding. Have you seen their wives? Yetch, right out of the pound.
Besides, what am I, a eunuch? I like the way you look in that thing."
"Okay, I'll wear it for you next time we come to the beach."
"No way."
"You're impossible."
"You could wear it tonight, at home. That way I'd get to see you in it and Galveston Beach wouldn't have to have its sand dried out."
"What?"
"From all the saliva these male wolves would drip on it when they saw you in that thing."
"Would you like a poke in the nose?"
"How about a kiss?"
"Close enough."
"Lower."
"My God, Monty."
"Not that low."
"We're saving that for home too?"
"You bet, sweetheart. Now kiss me. On the lips."
"Not bad. Now will you finish with rubbing the suntan oil on already?"
He began rubbing the oil on her back, copping a bit of breast feel
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