New guy. He's tall, skinny, blond; hot. Looks more suited to a skateboard but is easily steering a pair of bright orange-my color; a good sign-Air Treks through the crowd. A pro. As I said, he's oh-so-hot, so I watch.

Headphones around his slim neck, the bulky kind. One side tilted up, his head bobbing occasionally in time with whatever he's listening to, until he settles, plopping on a bench roughly two feet from me. Doesn't seem to notice me, though. I want him to notice me.

"Hey."

Looks up; his eyes are green. "Hey what?"

I shrug, "Just hey."

"Hey."

Dippy conversation, and we both know it. Finally, he sticks out a hand-bony and long-and sighs, "Friends call me Surf."

"Spitfire."

"Sweet."

Silence.

"Hey, Spitfire. Want to see something cool?"

"Sure."

"Follow me."

We leave the meeting. Nobody cares, anyway; it's not like we were discussing anything major. Surf is a speed demon, leaving streaks of orange behind him where he skates, but, being a Sky King, I keep up pretty well. He takes us to the sealine; what the hell?

Smirking, he turns back to me. "Ready for the ride of your life?"

I can't resist; that mouth is unbelievably tempting. "You bet."

"Then hold on."

I only process his words and grab his arm in the nick of time; he jets out across the beach, then over open water, into the waves. All I can do is hold on tighter and pray to whatever is out there that I don't fall in. That water looks damn cold, and I'm not much of a swimmer, anyway.

Then, in a single adept movement, Surf sweeps me around so I'm pulled flush against him, a wild grin overtaking his girl-pretty face. Hesitantly slip my arms around his torso; it is the right thing to do, yet he barely even cares, just goes faster, faster, faster. He skates over and through the waves-miraculously, without getting us wet-like he's surfing, whooping excitedly; I can see now why his friends call him Surf.

Finally, he sets me back on my own two feet, but my legs wobble and go limp, with the support and consistency of a tub of jello; we sit. Surf is out of breath, but thoroughly ecstatic: "Whew! What a rush. Man. . . So, did you like it? Or did it totally freak you out?" At my brief hesitation, he chided, "It's okay, be honest."

I shake my head in amazement and disbelief. "Honestly? It scared the living shit out of me. When you took off into the water, I thought I was going to die, and you along with me, but after that. . . It was fucking amazing."

"Great!" Surf enthuses, beaming, then his expression turns sly. "Now, where's my thank-you kiss, huh?"

I tease, "If you want it, YOU come get it," a bit surprised when he does exactly that. In literally no time at all, we are making out on the sand, bodies tight against one another. Tongue in my mouth, feels so good, the way he's pushing his hips against mine. . .

But, like all beings of the human race, I do need to breathe at some point or another, and I do. Our panting gasps make miniature puffs of fog in the cool night air. He shivers-Surf isn't wearing much, other than his thin tee and jeans-and huddles closer to me. "That was some kiss. Pretty grateful, were you?"

"And horny."

Both of us laugh. "Yeah, that too."

Silence. Again.

Then, "Do you want to do this again sometime?"

"What? AT-surf or make out?" Surf snorts.

"Well, maybe you could teach me how to AT-surf, and if we just so happen to make out afterwards, so be it."

"I'd love to do this again."