As I began stroking, the moans came naturally as I raised my head up and back. The strokes felt so damned good — near cathartic — until I noticed the shower curtain move. I stopped my hand and looked more closely, hoping I had imagined the moving curtain. But then I saw masculine fingers grasp the fabric and plastic barrier to pull aside cautiously.

My breath caught. Just as I thought I’d never seen anything more beautiful, more colors came bursting forth just down the beach, and then more and more. Every which way we looked the sky was aflame with startling showers of vibrant hues that doubled in magnitude from their reflections on the water, the likes of which I have never experienced.

My canvas, representing the space for love I have in my heart, is vast and empty. It stands barren against the gigantic easel waiting, hoping to be touched by an artist who will give it life, who will give it purpose, who will give it meaning.