QuarterReads Story Seven: Tropical Bond

"I am James Bond."

He waded out of the cobalt sea. The water fell from his torso in thin rivulets, coruscating in the morning sun. Walking up the beach the sand slid softly under his heel, some sticking to his toes, an irritant being stored for later annoyance.

"I am James Bond, and I am going to have a mojito."

He could already feel the chill of the tall glass in his hand. The sweet, minty syrup coating his tongue and throat. The sensuous glow of the alcohol burning into his exercise and sun-boiled blood. Expectation was at a pitch so sweet, reality would need to be perfect to match it.

As he progressed up the beach, his aura expanded outwards. A golden halo of calm masculine virility that inspired confidence and awe, throwing out subtle lures of unavoidable attraction which, inevitably, turned heads and drew stares.

He entered the cabana, sandy feet crunching on the hard wooden floor, and sat confidently at the thick teak bar, sweeping his head with the same sure confidence as the second hand on his limited edition sub-mariner watch. He could see no immediate threat in the surroundings and relaxed. Flashing a smile at the waiter, he requested the desired mojito.

"I am James Bond, this is my watering hole, in my jungle, and I am the predator."

His Speedos were drying despite the humidity. He shifted to avoid sticking embarrassingly to the wooden stool. Arm resting casually upon the bar, he gazed out across the pale yellow beach. Holidaymakers kicked and danced in the small surf, swam in the clear blue sea. They strolled along the shore to impress casual watchers, or lay on long towels and occasionally turned from front to back, back to front, stopping only to slather on more lotion.

His constantly sweeping gaze fell from one vision of feminine beauty to another, one potential object of desire to another. He felt good, calm, centred. The early run, the hard swim and now the cooling refreshment eased the nagging worries which squirmed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to crowd in and overwhelm him. He sat, sipping slowly, and found himself becoming entranced as a woman made her way along the beach toward the cabana. No coltish girl this, but a mature and confident women exuding warmth and strength that drew him towards her like the lion is drawn to the gazelle.

There was gentle pressure on his elbow, and a warm breath across his ear, "Excuse me sir, there is a telephone call for you in the main bar."

Of course, with the run and swim he had not brought his mobile phone to the beach and now an ill-timed call would intrude rudely, spoiling plans that had not yet been made. He nodded to the porter and mouthed gruff thanks. Moving off, he just failed to catch the eye of the woman who positioned herself immediately adjacent the spot he vacated. He turned and bumped a table heavily, splashing water from the jug on it, but not upsetting the drinks being clutched by the two bikini clad women sat there.

"My apologies," he murmured, and carried on toward the main bar, his mind already turned toward whatever problem could be calling him to the phone.

The two young women watched him move away and giggled, the copious free drinks making them tipsy despite the early hour. They would soon look to have a long siesta before an evening of loose debauchery. For now they giggled, and discussed his overly tight shorts, baggy man breasts and rolling paunch which, in the intense sunshine, had turned from an unhealthy pale milkiness to angry redness.

One of the young holidaymakers related how she heard the man's wife berating him for sloping off and leaving her alone with both children. Their laughs brayed loudly, drawing a look from the bar-tender, and interest from a group of young men coming down from the hotel. They soon forgot the object of their amusement and gave themselves over to flirting in the warmth of the tropical sun.

An original story and photograph by Stuart C Turnbull.