‘No tipping allowed, this is British territory.’ Kissma was saddened, thinking trust the Brits to stuff up free enterprise so far away from London. She looked across to the deck of the adjoining hut and saw a familiar cap, a nice fuzzy feeling ran through her. Kissma thought he’d be better company than those other couples who appeared to be coming here just to screw, judging by the conversations she’d heard when waiting to board the aircraft. ‘Hi – you again?’ came the greeting of someone coming up from the beach. She turned and waved, smiled brightly and her mouth fell open. He was jogging towards her carrying a small netting bag of something, but he was naked. His face and most of his arms and the mid section of his legs were very suntanned, making her conclude that he lives in open necked shirts and shorts. His thingy was swinging from side to side. ‘Come over in an hour – by then the shellfish will have soaked long enough in coconut cream to eat. We’ll down some beers with them. I never told her how we came for each other, how we mutually masturbated down the phone. That would have been a step too far. There was no point trying to tell her about the website I'd become so hooked on. She just wouldn’t comprehend. She 'Ooohed' and 'Aaahed' in all the right places. Told me what a dirty bitch I was, but I could see that she was slightly envious, found my virtual adventures exciting. We finished our lunch and she filled me in on all that had been happening with her, which seemed tame by comparison. As usual, we argued over the bill, with her insisting that it was her turn to pay (she always did this, out of pity I think, as I didn't have a full-time job). We meandered around the store, picking up another few bits and bobs, before returning to the car. I put the bags onto the back seat and got in, throwing my handbag into the passengers' footwell. I turned the key to start the car and the radio came on automatically. I turned it down a bit, listening as I.
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