The Truth About Sex & Surfing [Featured Story]

Chapter eighteen -- Dylan's P.O.V.

The blond one whose name he could never remember bent over from the waist.

He racked his brain. This would look bad; he’d already forgotten it twice before. Greta? Gerta? Gerte… if that was even a name?

She exhaled, like a yogi, interrupting his thoughts. God, she was really getting into it, wasn’t she? These young girls were always so flexible, so loose-limbed and fit, but then every now and again one would really surprise you. This one was like some kind of contortionist. Maybe she’d trained as a gymnast or something when she was younger (well, even younger; she didn’t seem much past nineteen or so now). He had a feeling like no matter what he asked for or seemed to want, she’d be up to the challenge.

The other thing he could tell about her – Greta, that was it ­– was that she liked to be watched. There she was, with her breasts touching her knees, her face practically grazing her own ankles, and he could still feel her eyes searching his out, trying to see where he was looking, trying to make eye contact. Not exactly a subtle signal on her part.

Well, she’d hardly been subtle before today if he was being honest. The day she’d signed up, and he’d handed her the clipboard to fill out her information, she’d touched his arm, tracing one of his tattoos with the tip of her finger and saying something low in German he couldn’t understand. He’d just stood there, half smiling, waiting for her to wrap it up. He was pretty much doing the same thing now.

“Dylan,” she breathed, still bent over. Even her exhaling had an accent. “I think I am ready now.”

“Right, okay. Come lie down next to me, here. That’s it.”

She’d laid down just a foot or two away, so close he probably could have felt her breath on his face if it weren’t for the breeze.

Glad for the chance to break that near-maniacal eye contact, he started to demonstrate how to slide onto the board, how to do the surfer’s pop. The thing was, you couldn’t sleep with your students. Not the ones who made it clear from the beginning what it was they wanted. Not the shy ones either, who blushed and stammered, sometimes in their second language, while signing up. Not any of them. It was a bad road. It didn’t exactly improve the reputation of the business, but there was more to it than that as well. He didn’t want to make himself into some cliché. No matter whether the girls were German or Dutch or Italian or whatever, they all had the same idea: Sleeping with the surfing instructor on their holiday. They’d all seen the same movies, read the same books. Had the same expectations. And it made him feel like he was some bit of touristy crap like they’d buy in one of the souvenir shops. Like a little ceramic shark or whatever.

Screw that.

Not sleeping with the students was the one rule he’d set for himself when he opened the surf school, and by god, he’d kept it. Well, almost. He’d nearly kept it.

He thought of that American, Hailey, missing her third lesson in a row just that morning, then pushed the thought down. Greta was trying out her own surfer’s pop now, her thigh muscles working, the hair over her temples darkening with a streak of sweat.

“You’re a natural,” he said. It was true she was taking to it quickly.

“You are an excellent teacher.” She grinned – Jesus, it was almost a leer. “I have always wanted to do this. I pop, for you.”

“Right. Well, I think that’s enough for one day.”

Greta looked at him questioningly. “It’s only been thirty minutes. You have another lesson?”

“Yep. I’m on a, uh, pretty tight schedule.”

“Tight?”

“But I’ll make it up to you next time.”