There was Annie. I had her down to her shorts on the sands of Laguna Beach, the full moon shining off her pale breasts as she urged me to make her a woman. A giant wave soon crashed over us, rewarding our passion with freezing water.
There was Myra. She was hot for me, according to my friends who set up the date, and would be an easy score. We went as far as sitting on a Laguna bench overlooking the Pacific. I think I touched her shoulder.
There was Juana. One time, while walking in the surf, a devilish look in her eyes, she recounted how she and her friends went skinny-dipping in Laguna with sexy consequences. My response: “Weren't you cold?”
Besides its stunning cliffside views, unique shrubbery and temperate climate, Laguna Beach is open 24 hours—the only coastline in Orange County without a curfew. That is particularly helpful for a guy like me. See, I've never had a place of my own to take the latest love for some lovin', and the constant search for primo make-out points gets tiring. So I've taken every woman I've ever courted since high school to Laguna Beach in the hope its beauty would help me get lucky.
Laguna Beach is my Gallipoli. Only three gals ever let me kiss them in Laguna, and they—along with everyone else I've taken there—rejected me on the beach itself. It didn't matter if they were Irish or nuts, had big breasts or great asses—they canned me in paradise.
There was Nancy. She still wasn't over her jerk of an ex-boyfriend, so she asked if I could take her back home 15 minutes after we had arrived from Los Angeles. We didn't even have a chance to unbuckle our seat belts.
There was Kate. In the middle of a no-clothes-barred session, she decided to tell me she could never love me. Couldn't she have shared that with me
There was Amy. After I treated her to a fabulous dinner at Las Brisas, she declared me her best guy friend. Not even my revelation of being able to unhook a bra with one hand could dissuade her from such a position.
before she broke my belt buckle?
I'm sure Laguna Beach is a beautiful town, but for me, the city consists of the trail parallel to Cliff Drive that overlooks the coast. It starts next to $4 million homes with their private coves, weaves its way around the bluffs and eventually winds down toward Laguna's Main Beach. It's also an area deserted after 11 p.m., frequented only by people with the same lascivious intentions as mine.
A typical date for me goes like this: an entertaining movie or concert, dinner at a dive, and then a drive to Laguna so “we can walk our dinner off.” I usually make small talk in the car for a while, seeing if I can make my move there. I then suggest a walk on the beach if that approach doesn't work, constantly “accidentally” bumping into her and always bringing a blanket to “sit down” on. As a final resort, I'll sit on a park bench and make sure our legs brush up against each other. They're usually responsive by this time and give me indicative body language: crossed arms and legs, irritated stare, and a simple request—”Can you take me home now?” Our conversations afterward are awkward, whatever spark of interest already waning. Oh, well. On to the next one . . .
There was Luisa. After a pleasant walk on the beach, she said I was really nice. Translation: I wouldn't get any even if I were packing John Holmes in my pants.
There was Natalie. While standing with her in the gazebo, I made my move. I smacked her nose with my elbow. Hard.
Most recently, there was Nydia. When I asked if I could hold her inside my car, she put her jacket back on. “I've never been with a guy who didn't have a place of his own,” she scoffed. “Making out in a car is
so 11th grade.”
That one hurt.
But I always return to Laguna Beach. Who cares if I've met failure after embarrassment after rejection here? I will always return. How could I ever ignore its cragged coast, the murmur of the ceaseless waves speaking to the Neruda in me, its starry nighttime view?
Besides, I still don't have a place of my own.
