I'm hiding in a snow drift in my backyard, waiting to hear his truck leave. He bellows, "Let me in, Beth Mann." I know what he wants. And I can't give it to him. But why?

Kurt is the youngest of the brothers I've befriended here at the Jersey shore. At 22, he'll do anything, try anything. Risk taker? An understatement. He's impulsive, explosive and unbridled. Fiery and wild. A bit of a badass.

He's also exceedingly kind and simple, with an energy that feels like B-complex to my soul. He is an unlikely mentor to me, reminding me to live from my id occasionally. He teaches me that in order to live, one must risk. One must be a wild thing.

Kurt has been one of the biggest influences on my surfing. He is a hardcore, competitive surfer. Everyone's eyes are on him when he surfs, like watching a drunk rock star on the edge of a stage. Because of our time surfing together, I surf aggressively. I charge big waves and take big chances.

Last summer, I watched him compete with the big boys at a longboard competition. The top contenders are real athletes. They don't drink or smoke. They don't blow stuff up or break the law or steal food from a seagull. Kurt was the wild card - a stoner, a slacker, a troublemaker. He didn't care. He just wanted to surf and have fun.

As the competition progressed, Kurt continued to advance to the next heat. Each time they announced his name, we screamed and hugged. He placed fourth out of 60 competitors, which is remarkable, considering the advanced level of the top three. Those three technically surf better, but Kurt is more fun to watch.



Kurt not taking the tournament very seriously.



Kurt not taking the tournament very seriously, again.



Kurt listening to the results of the tournament.




The moment he hears that he advanced.


Kurt is 22. I'm 43. I have a friend and mentor who is half my age. We fight, we talk, we cry. We eat, we drink, we smoke, we wrestle, we carouse. We surf and get in more fights because he surfs like a maniac and has almost plowed me down several times. Somehow, after years of close-calls, we've never had any accidents.

Hiding behind a snowdrift in my backyard, I'm experiencing another kind of close call with Kurt.

Kurt has a a lot testosterone pulsing through that taut, blue collar body of his. I forget this sometimes. I joked with him via text, after the snowstorm last week, that he should come "plow me out." He responded that he'd be happy to, wink, wink. I realized the double entendre and continued to make jokes about the drilling, pounding, stripping and hammering I also need done.

But as I came to quickly realize, it is unwise to make sexual innuendo with a 22 year-old hormonal demon like Kurt. He was always a boy to me before. Now he's a man, at my front door, demanding to come inside. Suddenly I feel like a cavewoman about to be clubbed and dragged away by my hair.

"I'm here to plow you, Beth Mann. Let me in!"

Shit. I hightail it out the backdoor. The snow is four feet deep and I sink into a good spot. He means business. The pounding continues. I'm not even sure if he's knocking with his hands at this point.

"I know you're in there, woman!"

Finally, the banging stops and I sneak back inside, wet and cold-assed. As I return to my routine, I ask myself why I ran. If I had let him, he would have probably fucked me six ways to Sunday. Senseless. The kind of hardcore sex you feel cheapened by, in all the right ways. The "it hurts to walk" sex.

But I locked my door. I ran out into the cold, protected by a wall of snow. I was wet for all the wrong reasons.

Sure, sure. I know why: He and I have been friends for years. I created a needed boundary that kept, and keeps, our friendship in check. Why ruin a good thing? Sex changes everything! He's half my age. Be the moral compass and blah, blah, fucking blah.

But where's the risk taker? Where's the Kurt inside of me? (I mean, in me, not, like, inside of me, because he wasn't...oh hell, you know what I mean.)

Crouched in the snow that day, I was afraid. Afraid to break down an internal wall that's been building in me, built of apathy, social inactivity and fears. Was I getting rusty? Stale? Where's that ol' sexy Scorpio mojo of mine? My openness to new experiences....sexual experiences? I used to be such a fine and willing slut.

I visited his home several days later. Standing on the far side of the room, out of pouncing range, I asked him how things were going. His hormone level seemed back to normal, I relaxed and we chatted for a bit. Maybe he came over to plow snow afterall?

As he walked me to the door, we hugged as we always do. At that moment I realized I made the right decision, keeping my distance, regardless of his intent.

Then I said fuck it to right decisions. I grabbed him and kissed him, tongue and all. I wanted him to feel, quite literally, the influence he's had on me. I was ready to come in from the cold.



Kurt, years ago.



Even though it's blurry, this still remains one of my fave photos him.

 


Kurt being Kurt. I think he was going after a 70's porn star look that day.




Kurt the summer before last.




After the competition this summer, feeling like a bigshot.