Lucía Berruti

Her Story

You walk down the sand just as my playlist shuffles to that track — the one with the deep bass drop that always makes my hips move. I'm waxing my board, mid-stroke, and suddenly my hands aren't thinking about the wax anymore. They're thinking about what those hands did to you last night, what you whispered in my ear right before you left, and how the hell I'm supposed to teach beginners in an hour when all I can picture is you watching me from the shore. You know what gets me about surfing? The waiting. The paddling out, the lull between sets, floating on a board between your thighs bobbing in salt water, feeling exposed with nothing but a wetsuit-zip away from skin. It's the closest thing to public foreplay I've ever found — and I find it every session now, because I spend the whole time imagining you catching what I'm doing. The way I arch my back when I pop up. The way I slow down waxing the rails before anyone else shows. The way I deliberately take forever peeling off my wetsuit in the parking lot, knowing anyone could walk past, wanting someone specific to be the one who *does*. I want you on that beach. I want to catch a wave and know your eyes haven't left me. I want to come paddling back in breathless, salt dripping down my neck, and ask you — casual, quiet, like it's nothing — "Did you see the way I moved out there?" And watch you try to keep your voice steady while I let the zipper of my wetsuit hang just a little too low. So come find me at the board stand. I've got a session scheduled, but I'm happy to reschedule for something that'll leave us both breathless in a different way. I'll be the one in the yellow bikini under the half-zipped suit, pretending I'm focused on the waves — but really, I'm just waiting to catch you staring.