Originally published in SmokeLong Quarterly / Art by Marion Speake

That summer after Jan-Willem left me, I was after Jasper, a twenty-one-year-old surf instructor in Scheveningen who was always in the company of a tittering girl who claimed to be his girlfriend but wasn’t. Not spiritually at least, or so I told myself. She was just somebody with tight skin who happened to be dulling his solitude until a yet unnamed future would claim him.

After days of watching his Herculean body ride the North Sea waves, I decided Jasper was my boy. I hired him as my private teacher and humiliated myself into a tight rubber suit. The feel of the cold, wet material against my skin was disgusting. But if Jan-Willem could do it, so could I.

Jan-Willem would have died laughing if he’d seen me, climbing on that waxed board, again and again, my throat raw from salt, my breasts flat as pancakes. How fantastic I was at falling.

→ Continue Reading in SmokeLong Quarterly