Suddenly I felt alone. No one to share my dreams, my fears, my moments of joy and my moments of sadness. They became mine and mine alone in which to revel or to wallow.

Twenty-three years old and a graduate from the local college with a degree in English, specializing in literature! What could I do with that? Who reads Chaucer anymore? And who would want to?

Finally, I lucked out and found a job, more or less by happenstance. You see, mom had spent her last few years on this earth in a nursing home as multiple sclerosis sapped the strength from the muscles of her once vibrant body — the body of the professional dancer she had once been. I had spent hours and hours at the nursing home in her last months, so much so that I had found myself voluntarily helping out the aides and service staff on mom’s wing of the home to pass the time when mom might be sleeping.

She died, and I was alone. You’d think at age twenty-three I might have gained some friends, either in high school or college or during my work hours as a barista or retail clerk. But no, I hadn’t. Mom was my best and only friend in my life. I cried night after night in trying to sleep as she slipped away and finally — and mercifully — died.

Except for my work of about 20 hours a week at a local coffee shop, I had nothing much to do once she died. I loved to write and spent hours doing that; I began a romance novel, finding strange satisfaction as I created a life of an ordinary-looking girl struggling to find love. The heroine of my novel — I named her Sharon Howell — thought of herself as an “ugly duckling,” having missed all of her high school proms and with rare dates. In a sense, I guess I created Sharon based on the model of myself (I had never been on a date, ever!). Perhaps the fictionalized Sharon could have an exciting, rewarding life that so far had been denied to me. I was about one hundred pages into the novel and was excited by the life I was creating.

On the day after the funeral, I went back to the nursing home to deliver several bouquets of flowers that had been left after the burial and to thank the staff for their kindness during mom’s last days. Even though mom was a Title 19 patient (and the home largely served patients that were without resources), the staff had been attentive and caring. I could never forget how marvelous they had been in easing the pain mom had suffered.

Emily Green, administrator of the home, saw me in the halls talking with the staff and asked me to come into her office. She was a tall, women whose kind and generous nature was masked by a direct, almost blunt manner of speaking. I wondered why she wanted to talk with me; she had already expressed her condolences at the loss of my mother at the funeral and no further such words were necessary.

Without ceremony, she got right to the point: “If you’re still looking for work, I think we have a position for you here.”

“Me?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t have a degree in this work. My degree’s in English.”

“I know, dear,” she said. “I’ve seen you here now for several months and saw how often you read to some of the patients and even played Scrabble with Mrs. Rosenthal. You’re so sweet with them and I think you’d work out fine.”

A week later, I began working 30 hours a week as the home’s social director. The pay wasn’t great, but it still was better than my barista’s income and I got benefits and a promise of fulltime work soon. Besides I found myself developing great fondness for most of the patients, nearly all of whom were older women.

Of course, I was the youngest person on staff at the time; unlike most nursing homes, where turnover among staff was a major issue, most of the workers were long-timers, including many single mothers and several grandmothers. The few male employees tended to be older, as well, though there were two, husky younger men who worked as aides and were called upon to assist with lifting chores.

Perhaps it was my youth, but I got the feeling that I was fully accepted by both the patients and the staff. For the first time in my pathetic life, I felt I was accepted within a group; it was comforting. In short, in spite of the ongoing terrible pain I suffered from missing mom, I found myself truly happy for the first time in my life. I couldn’t wait most days to get to work, and often put in more than my 30 hours each week until the union steward said that if I worked overtime I should get paid for it. I appreciated working in a place where there was a union, since I could see that fact helped to make the nursing home a generally positive place to work, since the staff was better paid than most. The fact, too, that Mrs. Green, the administrator, was a wise and fair manager who seemed to accept the union as a given certainly helped to build a positive atmosphere in the home. Oh, to be sure, it wasn’t perfect, since there always were some interpersonal feuds going on among some staffers and the union and management often argued over working issues, but by and large it was a happy place to work, if you can say working among terribly ill, fragile and dying patients could ever be so described.

Yet, I continued during my off-hours to be lonely, a void I filled by continuing my barista job with reduced hours, working only weekends.

At home, alone at night, still living in the cozy bungalow mom and I had shared, I often cried myself to sleep at night. I wanted so badly to arrive home from work, to open the back door and yell out to mom: “I’m home, mom,” and then tell her the news about my job. I wanted to feel her hugs and kisses. I wanted to help her put our dinner on the table and then clean up afterward, chattering together about anything and everything as we used to do before her illness had debilitated her into inaction.

Now, as I stripped down to my panties, taking off the slacks and shirt I wore for work, I’d wonder about what to wear. Mom often had suggestions of what to wear for the evening, since we both tried to look stylish for the night, even if we weren’t leaving the house. I loved wearing sundresses during the warm months so that my somewhat chubby body would feel less restrained.

Mom had a great fashion sense, having performed on stage as a young woman; she always dressed in good taste, wearing modest but classy outfits and wearing limited makeup. I began admiring how she dressed when I was in third grade; apparently sensing that, she suggested I try on a few dresses and skirts, and I found I liked how they felt. Soon we were having mother-daughter shopping trips, and through the years I had developed quite a decent wardrobe. I was always pleased when store clerks or customers in stores would look at me and then tell mom: “What a cute little girl you have here!”

I guess I could have been described as “cute,” but the fact was I was always a bit chubby. I must have inherited my tendency to be fat from my father. I don’t remember him, since he left mom when I was only an infant, but I was told he was a stocky man.

Now, with mom no longer around, I took little care in how I dressed and on most nights during the summer of mom’s death I either put on shorts and a tank top or tee-shirt or went directly into my nightie. Of course, there was housework to do, our small lawn to be mowed and our flower garden to be weeded. These chores often occupied my summer evenings, forcing me to be out of the house and usually saying “hi” to the neighbors. Most of our neighborhood seemed to be populated by either young families with children or older “empty-nesters,” including Mr. Phillips our next door neighbor and his wife. They were both active, spry 80-year-olds, and I did little more than say “Hi” to them across the fence that separated our yard. I missed mom so much.

*****
The Fourth of July weekend came — it was a three-day holiday for most people since the Fourth fell on a Monday that year — and I was scheduled to work at the coffee shop only on Saturday. That left me at liberty on Sunday and Monday, free to do anything my heart desired. But what?

“Explore Point Pleasant,” the advertisement screamed at me as I aimlessly bounced around my computer after arriving home from my Saturday shift at the coffee shop.

“Mmmm,” I thought. “Point Pleasant? Sounds nice.”

A few clicks later and I was on the Point Pleasant community website: “A Unique Experience, combining the traditions of a picturesque fishing village and a great swimming beach. Come and explore our friendly atmosphere where reasonably priced accommodations await you.”

The accompanying photographs portrayed a quaint village seemingly frozen in the simpler times of the 1930s. Smallish frame buildings and store fronts lined what was termed “Ocean Avenue,” with the blue of the water in the background. Other street scenes showed modest, almost tiny, frame bungalows, most with screen porches. Fishing trawlers crammed into crowded dock space, interspersed with several modern, spiffy yachts and an occasional sailboat. A nearby beach with a wide expanse of sand was what I found most attractive; it seemed like a perfect way to lull away a warm summer afternoon lying on a beach chair. No, I wouldn’t wear a bikini; I had no interest in showing the world the soft white fat of my tummy. I had a nice, floral two piece swimsuit with a tankini top.

The best part was that I could take the train to a stop about seven miles away, where there would be a shuttle available to take me to the community. It was supplied by the town’s only resort, The Pelican Inn, and it charged but a modest fee for those who were only day visitors as I planned to be.

For a moment, I considered that I could visit Point Pleasant on Sunday and spend a few hours on the beach and take the train back to my apartment that night.

“No, Julie, you can’t do that,” a warning voice sounded in my head.

The voice was right: I couldn’t just up and go on the spur of the moment out to some strange place on my own. I needed time to think over whether I should do it; I had never done anything so adventurous. It would be so scary, I realized.

But, I was so lonely, so alone. I had to do something this weekend or else I’ll go nuts. Mom was no longer around to advise me and I felt lost. Hadn’t I ever acted on my own in the past? It seemed I hadn’t. Now I had to do everything by myself.

“I’m going to Point Pleasant on Sunday,” I said to myself after about 15 minutes of mulling it over in my mind.

I was pleased with myself: I made a decision. Now we’d see if it was a wise one.

*****
I had trouble sleeping that night. My heart pounded against the mattress in my bed, I tossed and turned, my nightie becoming tangled as I turned to and fro. In truth, I was scared to death. I had rarely done anything alone — without mom by my side — and the prospect of moving out into a new, strange place, even for a day, was fraught with all sorts of uncertainties. I had attended the local university, just three miles from our bungalow where a simple bus ride made it an easy commute. The coffee shop where I worked was just a mile and a short 20-minute walk away. I didn’t drive, as you might have suspected.

Something told me, however, I had to venture out that Sunday and to become my own person since the ties to mother had been torn apart by her painful, terrible death. I was not stupid; I realized that someone who was twenty-three years old should be well on the way to becoming an adult. I knew I had become socially stifled and that I would have to begin to take chances and to begin to live my life at its fullest. As I reflected upon it that night in bed, the prospect of breaking out into the cruel world excited me even more than it frightened me. The trip to Point Pleasant would be my first step.

Naturally I woke early on Sunday morning. I just couldn’t sleep. I prepared myself a warm, bubble bath, bringing my shaving kit to the tub with me so that I could carefully rid my legs of any hair. I had shampooed my hair and put it up the previous night. For nearly half an hour, I luxuriated in the bubbly, fragrant water, occasionally adding spurts of hot water to keep it warm. I shaved my legs gingerly, worried about cutting the smooth, soft skin and leaving a scar. I must admit I felt vain as I admired my soft, lovely legs whose only flaw may have been the flabby upper thighs. I should get back to bike-riding, I told myself, to firm up my legs a bit.

Later I carefully shaved my face to remove any sign of hair; I did the same to my chest just above the cleavage between my tiny breasts, since some errant hairs seemed to be growing. Of course, I shaved under my arms.

Because the day was already heating up, I ventured to the front door to retrieve the morning paper, hoping no neighbors would see my scantily clad, chubby body as I snuck onto the porch. I wore only peach-colored satin panties, a matching bra and a camisole since the day was already growing warm. Taking tiny, almost dainty bites, I ate the breakfast of yogurt, granola and a banana, sipping my green tea.

By nine-thirty I was dressed and ready for the four-block walk to the train stop. I examined myself closely before I ventured out. In the full length front hall mirror, I saw a moderately tall young woman wearing loosely hanging navy blue shorts that ended just above the knees, exposing lovely legs below. She was wearing sandals with a short heel, and her toenails were painted in a light pink. She wore a sleeveless teal-colored summer blouse that hung without being tucked into the shorts. The young woman obviously dressed this way to hide her chubby tummy. She wore a Chicago Cubs baseball hat, and her light brown hair was tied in a ponytail that dangled out the back of the cap.

She wore virtually no makeup, except for a minor darkening of her brows, a bit of blush and light pink lipstick. Her face was rosy-cheeked, with the hint of flesh under her chin. She had bright blue eyes, coupled with a sweet smile.

The girl smiled at her image; she felt, in truth, that while she had physical flaws (being slightly overweight, for one), she created a fetchingly attractive sight.

The girl, of course, was me, and I loved what I saw. Am I too vain, do you think?

*****
Before I ventured out, however, I decided to take off my sandals and put on a pair of tennis shoes, with a pair of socks. I put on a light, summer jacket with the Cubs insignia on the left breast to cover my summer blouse, and I tucked my ponytail up to hide it under the baseball cap.

As I walked down my front walk to the sidewalk, I saw our neighbor out setting up sprinklers on his lawn.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it, Jason,” Mr. Phillips said cheerfully.

“Yes, it is,” I said, taken aback by his greeting, since I hadn’t noticed he was out. I had hoped to get down out of our block without meeting anyone.

“Off to a picnic today?” he said, obviously noticing the tote bag I carried that contained my sandals, a change of undies, my swimsuit and a large beach towel.

“Yes, Mr. Phillips, off to an outing.”

“Have a good time, Jason,” he said as I continued down the walk, trying hard to stroll in a straight-forward, manly manner.

Mr. Phillips was a sweet neighbor and had been so helpful while mom was in the hospital, even shoveling the snow off my walk when I was too busy to attend to it. In mom’s last days, he had driven me to the hospice, where she had spent her last few days of life. The hospice was some eleven miles away and normally I would have had to take the bus, nearly an hour and a half trip each way.

Though he was married, I had noticed through the years that the old man always took notice of mom. I’m sure he was hot for her, as many men often are about pretty women they’d never seek to do much more about than dream. You could hardly blame him, since even in her last days, mom continued to radiate beauty, always having a trim, though curvy figure. In my mind, however, it was not her lovely looks that made her to special; it was her smile and obvious warmth for other people. Mr. Phillips had taken me under his wing and tried to make a boy out of me, probably at the behest of mother who was always worried that I might never be able to function as a man in the world as I grew up. Mr. Phillips taught me how to throw and catch a baseball and not appear to look too much like a girl doing it; he introduced me to the same skills with a basketball and a football, though I can’t say I ever liked football, which I considered barbaric.

I’m sure Mr. Phillips and the other neighbors considered me a sissy and probably gay. I’m not sure about the gay thing, since I was so inexperienced in sexual relationships, and, of course, still a virgin. I attributed by lack of experience to my basic shyness. But, how could I know what I was? My only sexual explorations came when I masturbated while fantasizing that I was a girl. I guess I have to confess that the “sissy” label might fit me, if the term meant I was physically weak and had developed some effeminate mannerisms. I had rarely played as a young child with other boys, finding my only friend to be Amy Struthers, who lived across the street; sadly, she moved away when she was 14, and I cried long and hard on the day the moving van pulled away from her house. In retrospect, it was probably for the best, since she discovered boys, and I obviously didn’t fit her idea of what a boy should be.

We were more like two girlfriends, spending time drawing together, putting on plays for the younger kids, and even, I blush to admit it, playing with dolls. We both even took up sewing, and I actually became more skilled at it than she was. We giggled a lot, too.

On that third day of July, I was introducing Julie to the world, but I was not yet ready to introduce her to Mr. Phillips and the other neighbors, nor to my workmates or my other few acquaintances. I’d try to be Julie to the strangers on the train and the citizens of Pleasant Point and see how it goes. So you can see why I was both excited and frightened at what I was doing. For some reason, in spite of the uncertainty and fright, I felt comfortable with Julie, a comfort I never felt being Jason whom I considered to be pathetic and hopeless.

*****
“After you, miss,” an elderly gentleman said in a courtly manner, as he stepped aside to let me move ahead of him in boarding the train.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, giving him a slight friendly nod of my head.

He took my hand, and assisted me in getting up to the first step. He smiled and I tingled all over at the attention, knowing that he had accepted me as a young woman.

As I awaited the train at the stop, I had removed my jacket and stuffed it in my tote bag; also I had released my ponytail from its hidden place under my baseball cap and stuck it through the opening in the back of the cap. I always liked the way girls’ hair, stuck through the back of a baseball cap, bounced while they walked. I had hoped mine would, too, since my natural walk had assumed an effeminate effect. Over the last year, it seemed I had begun walking in shorter steps, keeping my feet pointed straight forward, causing my ample hips to sway.

It dawned on me that the man might be hitting on me; I had heard girls talk about being subjects of attention from men, including those they called “dirty old men,” and realized that now I might become the object of their sexual desires. It made me remember that some of the girls talked about carrying pepper spray, mace or even a long sewing needle for protection; perhaps I would need to do the same when I ventured out as Julie.

There were plenty of empty seats on this Sunday morning trip, and I took one midway in the car and slid over to the window as I sat. I worried: Would this man try to sit on the aisle seat? Phew! No, he walked right by me, taking a seat several rows ahead.

At the next stop, however, two teenage boys chose to sit across the aisle from me, both wearing torn denim shorts and oversized tee-shirts; they wore their baseball caps backwards so typical of the teen boys. They were talking in loud voices, commenting about some girl or other, it seemed. I looked at them, mainly out of curiosity I think, and the boy at the window, a bespectacled lad with long dirty blond hair, smiled at me. Without thinking, I smiled back at him.

The boy poked his friend, and said something I couldn’t hear over the train noise. Both boys looked at me, smiling and giving me a wave.

Again, I smiled back; it was something I did automatically. Even though I was shy and found it difficult to meet people, I did like to be friendly to others. It just seemed the right thing to do.

Obviously encouraged by my response, the boy in the aisle seat leaned over toward me and asked:

“Goin’ out to the beach?”

I nodded, finally realizing I shouldn’t encourage them any further. I certainly didn’t want to get involved on my first time out as Julie. Besides, they were obviously five or six years younger than me.

“It’s going to be a nice day for the beach,” he persisted.

Again, I nodded and then turned to look out the window, as if to let him know I was not interested in carrying on any further conversation. In no more than a few seconds, the boy had moved across the aisle and sat down next to me. He was so close to me I could feel the heat from his body. I tried not to look at him, but out of the corner of my eye I could see he had strong, hard, sinewy thighs.

“Don’t be that way, honey,” the boy said softly to me. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“Just let me be,” I said, turning to him. My voice came out timid, weak.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you seemed a bit lonely,” the boy said. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, have a good time at the beach,” the boy said. “By the way, my name is Randy and I go to Hamilton High in the city. Where do you go?”

I was shocked. Did the boys think I was a teenager still in high school?

“Oh, I graduated some years ago,” I said, hoping my “extreme” age might settle the issue and he’d leave me alone.

“You did? But you look so young and so . . . oh my . . . I better not.” The boy began blushing.

“You better not what?”

“Nothing,” the boy said, growing even redder.

“I’m curious what you were going to say,” I said. Strangely I had begun to enjoy the conversation with this boy. I suddenly realized the power that girls could have over boys.

“Well, that you were so cute,” he admitted.

I smiled at him and thanked him for his compliment.

“A girl likes to get compliments, young man,” I said, assuming the role of an adult now. “You should treat your girlfriend like that all the time and tell her how pretty she is.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” the boy admitted.

“A handsome boy like you? No girlfriend? The girls don’t know what they’re missing.”

I could see I was making this poor boy uncomfortable. He was certainly a desirable teen boy and in spite of his brazen behavior in apparently trying to pick me up, he seemed sensitive and kind.

“Yes, I was hoping maybe you’d join us on the beach, just for the day, since you seemed alone, and Ryan — that’s my friend there — his girlfriend is joining us and I’d just be alone, too. And you looked like a nice girl. I just can’t believe you’re so old.”

I guess I giggled. “I’m not sooooooooo old, just twenty-three if you’d like the truth.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m sixteen. You’re more like my aunty. I’m sorry, I really thought you were like . . . ah . . . in high school.”

“OK, I’ll be your aunty. How’s that?”

“Cool. Still, if you’re alone on the beach and see Ryan and me and his girlfriend, you could join us. I’d kinda like to have an older girlfriend.”

He said it with a cute twinkle in his eye and I replied I might just do that. He was a captivating boy, I thought.

“Well, guess I better go back to sit with Ryan,” he said.

“Nice meeting you, Randy,” I said, offering my hand, which felt soft and tiny in his large, young firm hand.

“You too. Ah, what’s your name? May I ask?”

“Julie.”

With that he took my hand and raised it to his lips, giving it a courtly kiss.

*****
After leaving the train, I joined the two boys as we and several other persons waited for the shuttle bus to take us all to Point Pleasant. For some strange reason, I hit it off with these two teenaged boys; perhaps it was because of my own backwardness with the dating scene (having never been on a date of any kind in my twenty-three years) that I felt comfortable with these two boys. I must say I flirted shamelessly with them, and they enjoyed it.

Soon a dark-complexioned girl with brunette hair and strikingly beautiful features joined us.

“This is Carmen, my friend,” Ryan said, as she joined us.

Carmen nodded toward me with a look of skepticism and I feared she might have detected my gender.

“And who is she?” Carmen demanded sharply of Ryan.

“Oh somebody we met on the train. Her name’s Julie,” Ryan answered.

Her eyes flashed at him and then turned to me and said: “He’s mine and keep your hands off.”

I was shocked. The girl was jealous of me, apparently also not realizing I was older and forgetting that there had been no sign of closeness between her boyfriend and me.

“Carmen, Ryan didn’t meet her,” Randy interjected. “I did. She was alone and we just invited her along as company. She’s kinda cool.”

Carmen’s attitude seemed to soften and she looked more closely at me, finally offering me her hand. “Sorry dear, I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that,” she said. “You can’t trust boys these days you know.”

“I suppose you can’t in some cases, but Ryan seems like a nice boy, and I don’t think he flirted with me at all,” I said.

“I know. He’s really a sweetie.”

“Besides, Carmen, I’m really too old for the boys,” I said, hoping to put the girl at ease.

“Too old? What are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“No,” I said, beginning to blush. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three? No way,” she said.

“Yes, but I enjoyed meeting the boys,” I said.

“That’s pretty old, I guess,” Carmen said. Quickly she caught herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, but if you wish to join us that’s OK.”

“I’d like that if you all don’t mind being seen with such an old girl.”

“Great!” Randy said, taking my hand. “Now we’re a foursome.”

“And here comes the shuttle,” announced Ryan.

We paired up and as far as I could imagine we must have looked like four teenagers out on a double-date headed toward the beach. I looked at Carmen and was astonished to see that she and I looked almost like identical twins, except for our skin color, mine being pale and white and hers being a pretty tan. We were about the same height with the same chunky body shape, only her breasts were better developed than mine. I know we attracted looks from the men on the shuttle platform and I guessed that the boys felt that they were admired for having two such fetching girlfriends. I never felt better about myself as we headed to the beach on that shuttle.

*****
“Let’s go change into our suits, Julie,” Carmen said, grabbing my hand. We had found a spot on the beach and placed our blankets down. I had wisely brought a large beach blanket, large enough for Randy and I to find space to recline together. Carmen had a blanket that was slightly smaller, but it was clear she and Ryan were not likely to need much space, since I could tell they’d be in each other’s arms most of the day.

Suddenly, it dawned on me that I would have to change in the women’s side of the clapboard bathhouse that stood at the backend of the beach. Why hadn’t I thought of that and worn my swimming suit under my street clothes? How could I keep from my boy thing, even as small as it was, from betraying me?

“Come on, Julie,” she persisted, giving me no choice but to join her in the trek to the bathhouse.

My stomach was churning as I considered the issue of changing in front of a bunch of women and girls while trying to hide my male appendage. Hopefully, I could stand so as to hide my front as I changed. I was relieved, however, when I saw there were stalls into which I could change.

“They’re all full. Guess we’ll have to change out here,” Carmen announced as we entered and explored the situation.

I nodded and then noticed a young girl leaving a stall at the far end of the room. “Oh, there’s one, mind if I take it?”

“No, take it, Julie, and I’ll join you. It’s big enough for two.”

“What?” I said, shocked at changing in front of the girl.

“Oh, it’s no big deal, honey, I’m from a family of eight kids and I’ve seen it all,” Carmen said. “Nothing can shock me.”

Little did she know, I thought. Certainly once she saw my pathetic piece of manhood, I was sure she’d be shocked. I had no choice. Carmen followed me into the stall, which was large enough for two; it even had two seats attached to the walls and several extra hooks.

Somehow I managed to change into my suit, keeping my back to her at the critical moment when my penis would be exposed. Whether Carmen noticed my shy behavior in the dressing stall, I didn’t know, since she didn’t say anything. Hopefully she just attributed it to my shyness.

“You know, Julie, Ryan is the first boy who has taken an interest in me,” Carmen said.

“Well he seems like a nice boy,” I said.

“I bet you’ve had lots of boyfriends, if you’re 23 now,” she said.

“Not really,” I said, leaving the indication that I had some experience with boys.

“I’ve been losing weight,” Carmen continued. “I used to be real fat so I guess the boys didn’t look at me much. As I said, Ryan’s the first.”

“I could lose some weight, I know, Carmen.”

“Oh I don’t know, Julie. It seems I’m finally having guys look at me, and you and I seem to have the same types of bodies.”

I smiled at Carmen. She was a disarmingly honest, straightforward girl and I couldn’t help liking her.

“I haven’t had many men knocking down my door,” I said, “But I do sense some guys do like girls like us with a little meat on our bones.”

I was pleased that Carmen had chosen to wear a sensible suit and not chosen a bikini. Neither one of us would look good in such an abbreviated suit, since then our soft, fat flesh would be made apparent to even the casual viewer. One fact was certain: In spite of our age difference, I felt confident I had found a friend with whom I could share most — not all — of the hopes and fears that girls have.

*****
After we got back to our blankets, the boys went off to change and I began putting on sunscreen. I knew it was supposed to be a sunny day and that I probably should have applied it at home before leaving, but I was in a rush and didn’t do so. The instructions on the bottle said you should put on the screen at least 30 minutes before exposing yourself to the sun. There was no question I needed it; otherwise I knew I’d be red as a crab before the day was done.

With her darker skin, Carmen felt she didn’t need such protection.

I was just finishing applying the cream to my face when Randy and Ryan returned both shirtless and wearing swim trunks that fell to the knees as if they were shorts. I don’t know why boys wear such long trunks. I shocked myself, wishing they wore old-fashioned swim briefs (like the boys wore in old-time movies) that would have displayed their sinewy, sculptured thighs. Randy had a particularly Adonis-like figure with firm muscular arms, broad shoulders and a rock-hard stomach. Ryan had only a slightly less Greek godlike figure. I must have gawked at Randy as he sat down on the blanket next to me, because he said to me: “You like what you see, Julie?”

He caught me, I knew, and I nodded tentatively, blushing at the same time.

“You’re cute when you blush,” he said.

Of course that only made matters worse; I was sure that by now my face must have been a blazing red. I turned from him, partly to hide my embarrassment but more likely because I didn’t wish to show how enamored I had become of this high school boy. These feelings seemed to grow more intense as I felt my penis hardening and the nipples on my breasts grow firm. This was insane, I told myself. Not only was I seven years older than he was and he was technically a minor, but I was physically a boy and I certainly didn’t think I was gay. It was then I realized that I was thinking more like a girl and that my senses were those of a girl. Suddenly, I wanted to be in his arms, his strong, hard arms. I wanted him to hold me tightly against his torso; I wanted to smell his boy odor and to run my hands up and down his marvelous body.

Trying to distract myself from these thoughts, I busied myself by beginning to apply the sunscreen to my legs. I splashed some cream into my palm, then laid the bottle down and began using both hands to rub in the sunscreen on my legs.

Randy picked up the bottle and said: “Here let me finish that for you.”

“No, that’s OK. I can do it,” I protested.

“Let me, Julie,” he said still holding onto the bottle.

I tried to grab for it, but he easily held me off. I was no match for this strong boy. I gave in and turned over onto my stomach to let him finish off the back of my legs and the exposed flesh on my arms, shoulders and upper back. His touch was surprisingly gentle and caressing; as his hands coursed the soft, smooth flesh I felt my penis become so hard that it became painful. I feared I would ejaculate into my swim suit.

I felt his hand linger on the mushiness of my inner thigh, getting dangerously close to my groin.

“No further, Randy,” I warned, squirming a bit.

He removed his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that sounded like he was gasping for air. Was he breathing hard, I wondered?

“Do you want me to stop?” he said.

“No, Randy, just don’t get too close to you know what,” I said, adding a slight giggle at the euphemism I used.

He responded with a laugh. The slight bit of humor seemed to have decreased the obvious sexual urges that both of us had as he applied the lotion.

*****
Randy seemed to sense — as I did — that it would be foolish for either of us to become too involved in a relationship. We said nothing to each other about it, and the rest of the day on the beach continued with but one moment when sexual arousal became a possibility.

I’m not much of a swimmer, largely because I rarely took to the beaches or the pools since I hated to display my unmanly body to the world. Randy, however, led me into the cool water where the chilly shock made me pause as the waves began to cover my ankles.

“That’s so cold,” I said, squealing and waving my arms.

“Just like a girl,” Randy said, grabbing my hand and pulling me deeper into the water.

“Randy don’t,” I pleaded, growing a bit scared as he dragged me into water up to my chest.

“Come on, girl, I’ll protect you,” he said. “Can you swim?”

“Not very well,” I said, as the small waves (fortunately the winds were mild that day) began to lap rhythmically up to my shoulders.

“Try it,” he said.

I raised myself in the water and begin to swim. I knew how to float and to do a sort of dog paddle, but that was about all. As I struggled, I felt his arms move under me, grabbing me under my tummy and holding me up.

“Now, move your legs,” he ordered

Feeling secure in his arms, I did as told and soon he removed his hands from under me and I could feel myself moving forward, suspended in the water.

“That’s it, Julie. I knew you could swim,” he said, grabbing me after a few feet and easing my feet down so I could stand.

I was in his arms, my body against his. I looked up into his eyes and saw him looking at me. I wanted to kiss him in the worst way. Never before had I felt like this. I was under a spell that I couldn’t explain, and my excitement grew, making me grow warm in spite of the chill of the water. I felt his male appendage press into my soft tummy; I imagined that his must be huge.

Since he was about six inches taller than I was, I found myself standing on my tiptoes so that I could press my lips to his. I could see the pleading in his eyes, awaiting my kiss.

“None of that, you two.” Our kiss was aborted suddenly as Ryan yelled out, splashing us with water at the same time. I looked to see him and Carmen in the water near us, both playfully splashing water on us.

“Oh, you wanna play, Ryan?” Randy said, breaking our embrace and proceeding to respond by sending water toward his friend.

Soon the four of us broke into an all-out water fight, full of laughter and mutual drenching. I fell several times in the melee, always helped up by Randy. He was so attentive.

The spell was ended. I was mad at first, but soon realized that Randy and I were saved from making a terrible mistake by Ryan’s intervention. We spend several more hours on the beach, then changed out of our swim suits; we took in a few shops along the shabby Point Pleasant main street and had snacks at a beachfront café, where we were able to sit outside and watch the swimmers.

*****
On the train ride back, Randy and I sat together with Ryan across the aisle. As Randy slid down next to me, I felt his thighs touch mine; I was thankful I had worn long shorts so that my bare skin was covered. Even so, his closeness aroused excitement in me. He really was quite a hunk.

“This is so weird,” I said once we had settled in.

“Why’s that, Julie?” he said, a quizzical look on his face.

“I have to say, Randy, that this has been the most fun I’ve ever had . . . meeting you and Ryan and Carmen.”

“The most fun?”

I blushed. “Yes, the most fun ever and with kids. Look at the difference in our ages. There must be something wrong with me.”

He grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Julie, and we’re not kids.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Randy,” I said, trying to explain my comment. “You all certainly are not kids; I just meant I’m so old, compared to you three.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have to say this was the most fun I’ve had in a long time, too, Julie. And I like you, too.”

“I like you, Randy,” I said quickly. “But let’s just leave it at that. We all had a nice day together and you need to go about finding a girl your age and I guess I’ll have to see if there are any men out there for me.”

“I’d like to see you again, Julie,” he persisted.

“Oh I don’t think you really want to do that, Randy.”

“Why? Can’t we even meet for a soda somewhere, or see a movie together?”

“No, Randy, I’d rather not.”

“Don’t you like me?”

“I like you, Randy. I like you a lot, but we can’t continue this. You’re underage for one thing and I could get arrested for doing stuff with you.”

Technically I guess I was right, but as I understood the law, sexual abuse of a minor often is not considered a crime if the minor is 16, as Randy was. Nonetheless, I felt it was wrong to encourage a teenage boy in a romantic sense. Besides, the boy believed I was a girl anatomically; eventually I knew I would have had to tell him the truth. I can’t imagine how that would have affected him and whether he would have tried to hurt me in response. I was no match for him and could hardly defend myself. Furthermore, I worried what that might do to his psyche; I know boys of that age — in spite of their bravado — can be sensitive and hurt permanently sometimes.

“I don’t care about your age, Julie,” Randy said. “Lots of guys get involved with older women these days.”

“I know, but if you were twenty-three and me thirty, that would be a different story. But, you’re still only 16.”

“I like you so much, Julie. I just want to get to know you better. We don’t need to be romantic if you don’t want.”

The boy grew more intense as he talked; he seemed determined to get me to change my mind. Randy was becoming obsessed with me and it was painful to see. I debated with myself as to whether to end his infatuation by telling him about Jason.

“If you knew everything about me, Randy, you wouldn’t like me so much,” I said finally.

“I can’t believe that,” the boy said. “Let me be the judge of that.”

“No, Randy. I can’t tell you that.”

“What are you? An axe murderer? Or, are you already married? Or what?”

I giggled. “I’m not one of those.”

“Then what?”

Just then Ryan leaned across the aisle and said, “Our stop’s coming up, Randy.”

Randy looked at me in desperation. “Oh, we gotta go. At least give me your phone number or email address.”

I leaned over and gave him a sisterly kiss on his cheek and said: “Randy I really like you, but we can’t see each other again. Really. I’m sorry.”

He made a grab for me, but his friend Ryan took his arm as the train came to rest at the subway stop. The boys gathered their beach bags, but Randy held back, kissing me back and whispering, “I love you, Julie.”

The two boys charged off the train, getting off just before the doors slid shut. I saw them stop on the platform. Randy looked back toward the train and he saw me in the window. He blew me a kiss and I responded with a tentative wave, and then, as the train began to move, I blew a kiss back to him. I doubt if he saw the kiss as the train quickly moved from his view.

Tears began to flow down my face. I doubt if he could see those either.