I got the nickname because I've been writing since I learned to form the alphabet. I'm of a literary bent. My natural habitat is bookstores and libraries, so why was I preparing to spend a week in a three bedroom beach house with eleven near strangers?

Under normal circumstances, I never would have gone to the beach for my vacation, especially not for an entire week. To begin with, I'm not a beach person. I can't swim, I can't play volleyball or Frisbee, and I can't tan--nothing except for a faint apricot tint on my arms. Other than that, I practically glow in the dark. I also do not deal well with sand getting into uncomfortable places. Yes, generally I can only take beaches in very small doses. The second reason was financial. Even though I lived only about an hour away from the shore, actually STAYING on the beach was normally an expensive proposition.

The only reason I was there was because the accountant got a bright idea. They were going to completely renovate the offices, which would entail closing down for a week. The beancounter didn't like the idea of having to give the staff a week's paid leave, and he couldn't insist that we use it as our vacation time.

He came up with the idea of a 'retreat', one that could be chronicled for our readers. That meant that as long as we all attended and participated in group bull sessions, the company could claim our pay as a business expense. Clever, if it worked. But if we wanted to be paid, we had to attend. Everyone else seemed happy enough. After all, it amounted to a week's paid vacation at the shore. It was a real bonus for me. I was the new kid on the staff. I hadn't even been there the year needed to qualify for vacation time.

I wasn't really an outsider in the office, but I'm older than most of them. They tended to view me with a tolerant, amused attitude. It did make me want to shake them sometimes. I'm forty, they were mostly in their mid-to-late twenties, early thirties. I kept wanting to tell them that they would reach my ancient stage, too--if they were lucky.

I didn't realize till we got there, all crammed into one car and a truck, that I would be sleeping on the screened-in porch. I was assured that it used to be a very common practice. I'd even heard of 'sleeping porches'. In our subtropical Gulf Coast climate, it made sense. In pre-air conditioning days a breezy screened porch was the perfect place to sleep on sweltering nights. Of course that didn't pull much weight with me, since the place had central air and heat.

There were three official couples, so they got the three bedrooms. The foldout couch in the living room held two more, and three would have sleeping bags on the floor. Then there was the roll away bed on the back porch. I drew the short straw.

Maybe I should have explained before--I work for an erotic magazine. Notice I said erotic, not pornographic. We're definitely adult material, but we seldom go into the graphic gynecological detail most people associate with 'mature' magazines. I write the 'Sex Through the Ages' column, and do book and movie reviews. It puts to use all the college credits I've earned in English and Lit. I cover anything from ancient sacred prostitutes to Victorian porn to Betty Page pin ups and 'French' postcards. It's interesting work, but I wasn't as fully involved in office machinations as most of them. There was almost as much sex going on among the staffers as there was in the magazine. I was just careful to knock before I went into the supply closet. You never knew what you might surprise.

The readers would be expecting a tale of seven days of debauchery, and most of the others were determined to give it to them. Conner and Janice were man and wife, and owner/editor and assistant editor, respectively. They were the experts on 'open relationships', and their relationship was as open as your average football field. There was Dan and Phillip, a committed gay couple. Isaac and Belinda weren't married, on paper. They were exclusive in their physical relations, except for the fact that they were both exhibitionists and voyeurs, and covered those aspects of sexuality for the mag. Then there were Charles (photographer), Boz (advertising), Lawrence (copyboy and general office dogs-body), Melinda (office manager), and Bernice (layout). It was a remarkably attractive bunch. It was almost as if Conner had hand picked them for looks as well as ability. I had to discard that notion, because I wouldn't have been there if it were entirely true. I don't frighten babies, but they aren't lining up to offer centerfold opportunities.

Knowing that they would spend most of the time partying, I brought along a large supply of reading material. I would read, relax, and let the carnality flow around me. Maybe I could work up a comparison piece, something about the licentiousness that happened during the house parties of the nobility during the Edwardian era. I certainly wasn't planning on being seduced.

The house was up on piers, like all the ones that close to the water. You had to be prepared for storm surges. The house faced the road, with the back toward the beach. It consisted of two stories--two bedrooms and a bath on the second, living area, bedroom and kitchen on the first, with the small back porch behind the kitchen.

While everyone was milling about, unloading supplies and stowing their things, I went out on the back porch and surveyed my new domain. It could be worse, I supposed. It was screened, and it was clean. Besides the bed I had several padded deck chairs and a table. There was a long flight of steps leading down to the sand, and the water was only about fifty yards away. The surf would lull me to sleep at night. As I was looking around, Lawrence came out back and joined me. "Nice," he commented.

"Not too shabby," I agreed.

He was a handsome kid. Kid... Well, he was only about twenty, twenty one. But he'd been working for the publication since he was eighteen, fresh out of high school. Conner was grooming him as a junior editor.

Lawrence was big, about 6'2", more than half a foot taller than I, and must've weighed around 200 lb. He worked out regularly, usually spending most of his lunchtime at the gym. I was kind of looking forward to seeing him in a bathing suit. He had gold blonde hair that was probably going to bleach in the sun, and cat eyes. You never knew from one moment to the next what color they were going to be: blue, gray, green, hazel, or a combination of those. It all depended on what he was wearing, and his mood. Charles was the best looking of all the male staffers, nearly a Tom Cruise clone, but Lawrence was a close second.

"At least you've got some privacy out here. I'm on the floor with Boz and Charlie. Bernice says Charlie snores like a chainsaw."

I laughed. "Then there is some justice in the world. He isn't perfect."

"Do you snore?"

"I don't think so."

"Would you mind if I spread my sleeping bag out here? I really can't sleep with someone who snores, and I didn't bring any earplugs."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Great." He went and fetched his bedroll, stashing it under my cot. I didn't think anything about it. Like I said, he was a kid. It kind of made me feel like a den mother.

I went back inside to find the place empty. There were clothes scattered everywhere. It looked like someone had bombed the luggage carousel at an airport. I went back to the porch and, sure enough, there they were. Bathing suit clad, every one of them was either basking in the sun or scampering through the waves.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen...

Lord, didn't they even have enough sense to put up the perishables before they took off? Looked like if I didn't want to get food poisoning, I'd better get busy. With a sigh I began to load the refrigerator and freezer with meat, eggs, milk, butter... Lawrence came in, took one look, and picked up a sack full of canned goods. Going into the open pantry, he began to load the shelves. "Sweetie, you don't have to do that. I can get it."

"Why should you? You're not here to do all the work. We share." Okay, fine by me. His mama raised a thoughtful boy.

We worked together companionably. I hadn't had all that much to do with Lawrence during the ten months I'd worked for the magazine. I was good at proofing my own copy (all those damn theme papers finally paid off), and he was kept pretty busy with the others' work.

We soon had everything stowed away neatly. You could tell this house was built to party--there was a separate refrigerator just for beer and drink mixers. Lawrence mentioned that Boz claimed that the only greens he ever got were olives and lime twists in his drinks. "That gives me evil ideas, Lawrence." I wouldn't tell him what I meant by that. I was just thinking how easy it was to convince someone that well made zucchini nut bread was just nut bread.

Lawrence clapped his hands and said, "Okay, beach! I'll take the upstairs bathroom." He was pounding up the stairs before I had a chance to say anything. I shrugged, went back out on the porch, and selected my first reading project--something with absolutely no brainwork required, sheer glitz. I could do a review of it for the magazine later. I settled into one of the deck chairs and immersed myself in the world of transgender runway supermodels.

I heard Lawrence come down, and the bang of the screen door as he exited. I watched till he passed under the house, between the piers, and appeared, headed for the crowd on the beach. I'll admit it--I leaned a little forward for a better look. Ooh, those were a teeny, tiny pair of Speedos he was wearing. I'd have to try to get a closer look at that later.

Once again I settled into my read. I had high hopes for it. The author seemed to have a light comic touch, so that it was a spoof of the conventional view of high fashion.

I can pretty much enter my own zone when I read. I won't say the world could blow up without my noticing, but someone could definitely sneak up on me if they'd a mind to. "Hey!" I jumped almost dropping the book, and turned to berate whoever had just taken a year off my life. I found myself at eye level with a teeny, tiny pair of black Speedos that were covering a definitely not teeny, tiny basket.

Wow.

At that level I also noted that fists were planted firmly on narrow hips, and that the hair that swirled around a perfect innie bellybutton and descended in a fuzzy line below the suit waistband was so fine as to be not much more than a shimmer.

Said bellybutton resided on an abdomen that could be used as a visual aid to illustrate the term 'six pack' in body building vernacular. Above that was a broad chest with well-defined pectorals (which did not go over the edge into what I considered the male equivalent of looking like there had been a boob job) decorated with nice little flat brown nipples, and...

Oh, that was too much. I couldn't sit there and contemplate the nipples of a man young enough to be my son. I snapped my eyes up to his face. Uh oh, he looked annoyed. He must not appreciate the dirty old lady ogling. Now I'd get some sort of snappish remark. Instead, he said, "What are you doing up here? I was looking for you out on the beach."

He was? "You were?"

The eyes, not having a predominant color to reflect at present, had settled on being gray, and he rolled them. "Of course! I thought you were going to get into your suit and come out. We could even out the volleyball teams."

"A--I do not play volleyball. B--I did not bring a suit."

His mouth actually dropped open. Lovely teeth the boy had. "You didn't bring a suit to the beach?"

"No."

"But why not?" I slapped my hands to my hips, then my belly in silent explanation. He looked at me. I mean, he looked at me. I don't think anyone in the office, male or female, had really looked at me since I'd been there. Lawrence didn't just look, he scoped. The silver eyes returned to my face. "So?"

"I'm not inflicting this on anyone. I have too much pride."

"You don't look so bad."

I sighed. Backhanded compliments, gotta love 'em. "To quote Oscar Wilde, nothing is quite so bad as not so bad. Like I want total strangers discussing how big my butt looks."

"One should never listen. To listen is a sign of indifference to one's hearers." I blinked. He'd tossed a rather obscure Oscar Wilde quote right back at me. Then he said, "There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about." More Wilde.

Oh ho. "Vulgarity is the conduct of others."

He came right back with, "Life is too important to be taken seriously."

"I have nothing to declare but my genius."

He cocked his head. "Women are made to be loved, not to be understood."

Damn, he was good. I was running low on quotes. "Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes."

"Life is one fool thing after another, whereas love is two fool things after each other." I searched my mind, but couldn't come up with anything right away. "I can resist anything except temptation." He waited.

I threw up my hands. "You win."

"Good." He opened my duffle bag and began digging through it.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

"Finding you something to wear on the beach."

"Now wait a minute..." He pulled out a pair of shorts and a ragged sweatshirt I'd cut the arms off with an eye toward sleeping in it, and dropped them in my lap.

"You said I won. Well, this is what I won." He looked at me expectantly.

I sighed. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"I'll sit here and stare at you." He demonstrated.

"Sheesh. All right, but only for a little while. I don't tan, I burn."

He waited while I went in the bathroom and changed. I didn't feel too conspicuous when I came out. Maybe I wasn't wearing a bra, but I was pretty well covered from the neck almost to my knees. "That'll do."

"I'm so glad I meet your approval."

"You always meet my approval. C'mon."

We went out the back way, down to the sand. I hung back, letting him get ahead. It didn't work. He backtracked, grabbed my hand, and hustled me along till we reached the area where the others were amusing themselves.

Charlie spotted us and started snapping pictures. *Ah, geez. Now my cellulite will be admired by thousands. There's gonna be a lot of disappointed readers out there. Oh, well, maybe the mash notes will taper off.* I had been planning on quietly avoiding the lens. I should have known that wouldn't be possible. Charles did a booming sideline as a paparazzi, selling hideously candid photos of reluctant celebrities to the tabloids. He was a pro.

"Okay, Tugboat, you got me here. Lemme have my hand back." He kissed it (and Charles got a shot of that, too), then let it go. "Thanks, Galahad."

I looked around, trying to decide what to do now. After a moment's thought I walked down to where the sand was moistened by the surf, plopped down, and began to make a sand castle. I'd forgotten how much fun it was. The sand was the right consistency to pack well, but I just couldn't get the forms as smooth as I wanted. I was startled when a couple of Tupperware bowls and a highball glass landed beside me. Lawrence squatted down next to me. "I thought you might like something to use as molds." He touched the highball glass. "This'll be good for towers. Now I'll go find some seashells for decoration." I stared after him.

It turned out to be a pretty decent sand castle. Lawrence found a couple of little spiral shells I used on the turrets, and a big scallop for the door. Everyone eventually wandered over to look at it, and Conner and Janice started discussing having a sand sculpture contest. I wondered if anyone would refrain from sculpting body parts.

No one felt like cooking the first night, so there were pizzas and mammoth buckets of chicken, washed down with lots of wine--except for me. I stuck with my soda. Various staff members tried to tease me into taking some wine throughout the evening. I told them, "Look, I don't like the taste. It's a waste of perfectly good grapes. No, I'm not a prohibitionist. I'll suck down a vodka Collins in a minute, but I have to have the alcohol disguised. Otherwise, ech."

By eleven everyone was pretty sloshed, except me. It was decided to use one of the empty wine bottles to play Truth or Dare. They would take turns spinning the bottle, and the one it pointed to had to choose truth, or dare. I sat off to the side--I saw how those dares were going. Flash the room. Grope your neighbor. Choose someone of the same sex (or opposite sex if you were gay) to tongue kiss, kiss to last at least ten seconds. Most of them picked dares, but the truths were pretty hairy, too. I'd had no idea that Charlie was so fond of cunnilingus.

I was kind of squeezed back between Lawrence and Conner, when someone yelled, "Hah! Scribe, finally!"

"What? Huh? No way, I wasn't playing."

"Yes, you were," Conner insisted. "I'm your boss, I say so."

I rolled my eyes. "Who's the spinner?"

Charlie wiggled his fingers, grinning drunkenly. "Me!"

I regarded him. "God knows what sort of stunt you'd want performed, so truth."

"Awright. Describe the first time you made looooove." There were hoots and whistles. "And we want details."

I cocked my head. "If I can't answer, do I still have to do the dare?"

"You can't back down." Conner patted my knee encouragingly. "Bite the bullet and go for it."

I shook my head. "No, honestly, I can't."

"C'mon, Scribe," called Bernice. "Time to open up and spill it."

"Look, it's not that I won't, it's that I can't."

"Why?" Charlie snickered. "Was it with a government agent, and it's classified?"

"No, ditz. It's because it hasn't happened yet." There was complete silence. "Don't act so fucking shocked, people. Y'all were aware that there was such a thing as virgins, weren't you?"

Boz looked awed. "Yes, but we were unaware that they walked among us."

"Well, now you know."

Charlie was staring at me like he'd never seen me before. "Okay," he said in a clogged voice. "You can't do the truth, gotta take the dare. I choose we go upstairs and fuck."

I almost sprayed a mouthful of Coke. I looked at him in shock. He'd never come on to me before, aside from the generally flirtatious manner he used on all females, be they toddlers or grandmas. "Ha ha, Charlie."

"No, I'm serious." He lurched to his feet and lunged toward me. I flinched back in my seat, but he grabbed my wrists and pulled me upright.

"Charlie, quit it. Joke's over." I said, trying to keep my voice mild. There was laughter. It might have been funny from their side, but his grip on my wrists was anything except humorous. It was hard, and felt determined. He pulled me against his body, and I felt an erection. "That's enough!"

"C'mon." He pulled me toward the stairs.

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"I said I wanna fuck. You. C'mon." He was drunk, but he was strong.

"Stop it. Guys? Charlie, I don't want to go with you!"

"Charlie, let her go." Lawrence stood up and followed us. He was more sober than the others.

"Don't wanna." Charlie wrapped his arms around me from behind, and nuzzled my neck. "Wanna pop her cherry."

"She doesn't want that, Charlie."

"Why not?"

"You're drunk." I said.

"So? I can still fuck."

"Charlie, you bastard, I don't want to sleep with anybody!" I jerked hard, and managed to get out of his grasp. He lost his balance, and sat down hard.

He started to try to get up, but Lawrence put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. "Maybe you should just sit for a while, Charlie."

Charlie shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "Awright, for a little while, but I'm gonna fuck her later on." He slumped on the stairs, closing his eyes, and was snoring in a minute.

Lawrence looked at me. "You all right?"

"Yeah. I hope he wakes up with a headache like an atomic bomb went off in his skull." I glared at the others. "Thanks for the support, people."

Boz shrugged. "He wouldn't have really done anything."

"You didn't have his cock pressed up against your butt." Boz peered at Charlie. His hard on was still there, clearly visible.

"Oh. Um..."

"Right. Good night, all. Please zip him into his sleeping bag, so he doesn't wander around in the dark."