Classic Rock One Shots

David Gimour I "Under the Sea" {Pursuit}

Muse: German Model, Actress, and Artist Veruschka Von Lehndorff
Musician: English Musician, Co-Vocalist & Guitarist of Pink Floyd, David Gilmour
Time: Early Seventies

Strutting down the boardwalk, the sightly woman seemed entirely uninterested in the bountiful attention that she was receiving. Her name was Ida, and although she had the looks of a model and turned heads like an entertainer, she was far from a celebrity by any definition. Ida was just a regular girl with a job in accounting, vacationing at a beach resort. She wasn't in the market for a fleeting romance, she was part of the crowd who went on vacation for one thing and one thing only: a delicious summer tan. And by the looks of her bronzed skin, she'd already gotten it.

Amazonian and statuesque, she wore a white linen maxi dress with a haltered drawstring neckline, the skirt dancing tauntingly in the breeze. Her bright pink bikini shouted through the sheer fabric, and when the sun hit her just right, you could see everything; her long, tanned, slender legs being the center of attention.

David was among those encapsulated by her beauty. The woman was so ethereal that he'd burst into a fit of frantic blinking just to ensure that she wasn't a mirage. Some conjured up eye-candy to sooth his suffering: like a sailor in days of old, hallucinating a mermaid after harrowing weeks out at sea. After all, he'd been having a less than fun time the weeks leading up to his trip — work had been relentlessly piling up recently and it left him completely exhausted.

But she wasn't an apparition, she was real. Very real. And David decided that he had to cease this chance, knowing that one doesn't see people this perfect every day. He knew he was attractive, and he hadn't had any trouble getting ladies before, so this should be a breeze. He scanned the beach from his place underneath his umbrella for the long, tall figure, but came up blank. She was no longer swaggering down the long span of wooden planks that stretched out to the sea.

The guitarist sat up in his foldable chair, craning his head to survey each end of the plage, eyes halting at the sight of any and every bronze and leggy blonde they caught. Much to his delight, he eventually did find the girl again. She now stood under a cabana, leaning over the counter of the humble-but-busy bar with some fruity drink he didn't recognize sat in her hand. He helped himself to his feet by way of hands on the armrests of his cheap chair, squinting as he lost the shade provided by the beach umbrella.

He was, of course, headed for Ida (although he didn't know that that was her name quite yet), and he cringed at the sensation of his bare feet practically shoveling sand into the cuffs of his jeans with each step.

The closer be came to her, the more it became clear to him that she matched his stature — in fact, she might've even been taller than him. His eyes drifted down her never-ending legs: no shoes. If she had to look down at him while barefoot, imagine what it'd be like when she was wearing heels. Her tallness, although humbling, only infatuated him further, adding fuel to his burning and primal desire to rouse her.