two bathers

One hot summers day, I decided to go to the beach to cool off.I pulled in at the large carpark which was relatively near the water. My car was stationed front on and touching the curb. In front of me was a footpath for access to the beach, and just behind the path were five showers where bathers could rinse all the sand and salt from their swim wear and hair. The showers were only five yards directly in front of me. A young mum was showering herself and washing her hair out. She had a stunning figure and I could make out her pubic mound and her hard nipples. Just looking at her body made me so hot, I got an instant erection. I was only wearing a pair of surfing board-shorts, with an elastic waist. I slipped my hand down the front of my shorts and started wanking away, fantasizing about having sex with her. After a few minutes, she was joined by another shapely female in a rather skimpy yellow bikini. I was taking my time as the view and feeling was so pleasurable. If I didn’t cum with the two women in the showers in front of me, I could easily wait until someone else came along. All of a sudden without warning, I heard a woman’s voice come through my front passenger side window saying ‘I see what you are doing, are you enjoying the show?’ I turned to my left and saw a woman, probably in her twenties, shorts and bikini top, with her head beside my car window with a big smile on her face. I was so embarrassed, I started stammering some excuse which she didn’t accept. She knew I was perving on the women in the open showers and getting my rocks off looking at them.The woman then asked me to pull my shorts down and wank off with her watching, or else she would let the other women know what I was doing. I was shamed but didn’t want the other women to know what I was doing. I had no choice but to pull down my shorts and expose myself to her wishes. I was still hard and the woman commented to me 'Very nice, keep stroking.’ I looked at the two bathers in the shower and wrapped my fist around the head of my penis and kept stroking until I cum. I have always been a shooter and before long, I squirted my first load onto the windscreen in front of me. The second and third squirt went over the steering wheel while the rest of my cum oozed onto the front seat between my legs. The woman smiled at me and commented on my huge squirt and told me 'Let that be a lesson to you’ Don’t do it again or I shall report you to the police.   

George Hoyningen-Huene: Divers, Paris, 1930

Hoyningen-Huene’s best-known photograph shows two bathers - one, his lover and protégé, Horst P. Horst; the other, an androgynous female model - facing away from the camera, staring across an infinite horizon toward the “sea” (in reality, the balustrade on the roof of Vogue’s Paris studio). Here and in all of Hoyningen-Huene’s best works, lighting imparts drama, sophistication and longing for both.

George Hoyningen-Huene :: Divers, Paris, 1930 

Probably Hoyningen-Huene’s best-known photograph.It shows two bathers: one, his lover and protégé, Horst P. Horst, the other, an androgynous female model; both facing away from the camera, staring across an infinite horizon toward the ‘sea’ [actually, the balustrade on the roof of Vogue’s Paris studio]  

Seaside, and the fragment of one running—
calves, ribs, green eyes into water.
There he goes. Waves. Buoying up
as into sky. And the seagulls fly,
seeing it as relief, a story. Once

they were there, two on a white blanket.
The circumference of a shadow.
Sunlight around that shadow.
The relation of two: bathers,
robed figures configured as one.
And she touches him—tender—and it is done.

(I’ve gone back to it. I’ve, I've—
it’s not where I am. I give it away again.)
You’re there. It’s still in the sand.
It’s trying to chisel it in.

How it comes forth: the story.
Wanting it, carving it down to vision.
Architecture, a coliseum of bent light,
the beautiful scatter of broken stones.
(And I can turn it into stones.)
Love, love: a portico, a labyrinth.

And his simple aquatics, legs and arms
in the brackish, etched against white fish.

The song, under there, of how he’ll leave,
and naturally, like all living things:
animals, summer, daylight for the eves.

And the buildings, all shadows and beings:
block, angels, curves. With the love,
memory of all loves. The pediments,
these reliquaries.

It’s our landscape, artifact—it might hurt.
(Run to, run away from it.)

—  “The Reliquaries,” Valerie Martínez