‘I’m an American. My flag is American. My body is American.’
Brad’s jaw squared up, his pecks ribbed and tucked, whilst
his legs made scissors through the waves.
All the time Miranda watched and absent-mindedly rubbed
almond oil over her hide; her booty crack filling and spilling warm granules of
sand onto her toes.
Funeral Dave stayed supine; his cool undertaker’s body
bringing his heart beat down below 40; his mind imagining the sun as a seaweed
tangled fanny.
‘Want to play with my Frisbee?’ shouted Brad.
Miranda twiddled her teat as if adjusting the knob on a
transistor radio.
‘No, thank you,’ she whispered.
Funeral Dave let his own cock leave his body and enter a
small space between Brad’s flag and Miranda’s seated rear.
The cock stayed there in the heart of the sea-scented
slipstream, its tip tickled by the passing currents of air.
When Miranda saw it she smiled whilst Brad sprinted away to
mend the hole in his flag.
