Patty’s account of her fishing trip with her husband reads like a fisherman’s fantasy, but she assures me it’s all true:

You keep driving another fifteen minutes, and then turn the wheels to face the surf. “This will do I think?”

“Good!” I smile. It’s only when I climb out and pull open the extended cab to get the chairs and towels that I really realize how alone we are. There are no tire tracks in the sand, suggesting that there are no fishermen or picnickers further up the beach, and I know we are more than two miles from the spot where we saw the last intrepid souls parked. “Nobody’s out this far.”

“That’s the plan.” You tell me with a very evil smile.

Your evil grin immediately wakes the deepest parts of me to the plans you’ve kept to yourself.

“Put the chairs in the surf, get the rods and bait…and strip.”

Ya gotta be careful with all that hedonism, though; it can lead to taking naked pictures amongst the dunes, spanking, and even *gasp* sex.