We've all seen the film, we've all heard the premise: Groundhog Day. It's funny, right? Okay, yeah, for Bill Murray it's a total fucking nightmare, isn't it? I'm not Bill Murray, though; my Groundhog Day's better than his. This is the seventh time my alarm has woken me up in this hotel bed at 7 am on the 29th of September. Every day, I hope to see '30th September' and I'm always disappointed.
I thought I'd hate it: the same old things over and over again. You're eating the same food, walking the same route, seeing the same people. Boring. Dull. Yawn. Right?
What if you're eating steak for the rest of your life? What if every day was just fantastic scenery in blistering hot sunshine? Would you want anyone else if you spent every day with the most beautiful girl in the world?
I don't know why I'm stuck on the 29th. Maybe I pissed off the universe on the 28th? Maybe someone cursed me, or my bed is situated on a rift in space-time. Perhaps the universe is one big video game and I'm stuck on whatever level this is until I succeed? Who knows? Who cares? I just know I'm still here, trying again and again. I suppose there are worse days to be stuck in, though. I've spent a week perfecting this to be arguably the best fucking Groundhog Day ever. Every word and every action is rehearsed. I should be enjoying myself, right?
Okay, I'm not eating steak. Breakfast in the hotel is the usual fare, but who gets excited about breakfast anyway? Here I am indulging in a big bowl of cereal. Don't ask me why. It's soon finished and I'm away once more down the promenade.
The sun gloriously beats against my skin, the sea breeze complimenting it perfectly, tousling my hair. It would seem strange to wear the same white linen shirt and blue cotton shorts for a whole week, but 'if it ain't broke...'. Despite the heat, I'm comfortable. I'm happy. I'm meeting Hazel, how can I not be excited? Okay, I'm not so nervous or apprehensive any more. I know exactly what I'm getting into, but this is Hazel! Dear, sweet, sexy Hazel. Of course I'm excited.
The café isn't far away, a few minutes along the seafront. It's always a pleasant walk. The waves lap softly at the shore and roll along the sand, taking my imagination back to the evening when Hazel and I were... Y'know what, it's better if I don't think about tenses anymore.
I arrive on time, of course, and there she is, at the table in the corner. She glows, and it's not just the light of her phone screen. I know every thread of her outfit by now, but I still have to drink in the sight of her. She reclines on the bench, her smooth, tanned legs crossed, idly bouncing a cute black heel under the table.
I follow the long luscious line of leg up to the red floral patterned dress. The skirt hangs loosely about her and I think, not for the first time, how beautifully it suits her. She's even coordinated her lipstick and nails to suit.
When her eyes lift to mine, I still feel the racing of my heart. She still takes my breath away.
“Ah, you made it!” she coos in that soft, delicious voice.
I know it's coming, but I still can't control the flush of my cheeks when she kisses them both and invites me to join her. It's ridiculous. I fidget and twiddle my thumbs, no matter how much I tell myself to stop. Luckily, I know it won't put her off.
She's animated when she talks, telling me everything about her morning, her family, her plans for the future. I don't need to listen anymore, I know every word. I can just enjoy the moment. Hazel flicks her hair over her shoulder occasionally and my imagination wanders to my lips on her soft neck, shifting down her chest. She's easy to admire, but I've had this conversation so many times already. I'm impatient.
She asks me a question, to which I automatically reply, and she's away again. She strokes back her hair; she teases her lips; she taps the table; she motions around the room and she plays idly with her coffee cup. I watch her, lost in the image of her thin, delicate fingers reaching towards me, wrapping slowly around my...
She grips my hands and I flinch. This always happens, but I never can stop my body from lurching with surprise. She holds them tight with a big, happy smile. The coffee cup is empty and she's springing to her feet, taking me with her.
“C'mon, let's go to the sea, I haven't been yet!” she beams, skipping out of the café with me in tow.
I always love watching her bounce out into the street, her dancing feet causing hair and dress alike to swish and billow about her like a storm. She beams at me with the light of the sun, dragging me to the sea wall and kicking off her heels.
She leaps up and over the stone wall, her dress flying just high enough to glimpse her bare beautiful bum. I remember how her flashing first excited me when I realised she wasn't wearing underwear. The cheeky grin she shoots my way when she lands in the sand tells me she knew I'd seen it, too. Just to be sure, though, she pirouettes perfectly on the spot, the skirt fanning out around her, showing off her firm, tanned cheeks.
Hazel happily hops down the beach, carrying her heels. It's easy to forget that this is our first proper date, besides our chats online; at least for her. This is her first day by the sea, the first time she's seen me in person, the first flirtatious step into a big scary unknown future. I watch her kicking up the surf, the sea lapping at her feet. I've seen her do it so much, but this is her first time. I can feel her excitement, sense it bubbling inside her; it's painted over her face, it's an energy that radiates from her. Her smile feels wholesome and beautiful against the idyllic backdrop.
Being with Hazel makes me smile; it makes my heart pound. My mind whirs with images of her and I together, but deep down it doesn't feel quite the same. I don't feel that radiating joy. I know how this story ends, I've already seen and lived it – a few times, in fact. It's lost its mystery to me.
As I reach the shoreline, she turns and skips beautifully towards me, hair adrift behind her and dress failing to keep pace. She reaches me with arms as wide as her grin and throws herself upon me.
I surprise myself every time I catch her. It's an instinctive motion. With her arms around my neck, her body is pressed tight to mine and my hands act on impulse. I seize her sweet, firm cheeks, lift her bodily from the ground and spin her on the spot. I imagine it must look impressive to a passer-by, but it's never a view I've been afforded. Her legs encircle my waist and she squeals playfully, before our lips connect, swallowing her cries.
She stays there for what feels like forever. Our lips crash hungrily together, releasing the cumulative pent up need of all those late-night texting sessions. My hands shift their grip, slipping beneath her dress. The firm flesh of her cheeks contours perfectly around my fingers. I will never tire of feeling her flesh conform to my hold and the delicious moan she pours into my mouth.
When our lips finally detach, she's looking into my eyes, but the joyous expression now has a mischievous little glimmer to it.
“Well, that was hot,” she whispers. “As first kisses go, that's pretty fucking good.”
The second she bites her bottom lip, I can't help kissing her once more, my lips trailing across her cheek to the nape of her neck. She moans in my ear as I softly suck her earlobe and whisper to her.
“You're the one without panties, Hazel. I follow your lead.”
Sporting a beautifully filthy grin, she shuffles out of my grip and alights to her feet, wandering away up the beach and plonking herself down on the sand. I watch her thighs open towards the sea, the dress slipping along her legs as they spread, but she stops short with a playful giggle and crosses her legs.
“Sit with me,” She pats the sand next to her, wearing the most irresistible smile I've ever seen, teeth gripping her lip. “It'll be fun.”
“You should be careful,” I warn, sitting and wrapping her hand in mine, my fingers nesting over hers. “Commando around all this sand is a recipe for disaster.”
She smirks at me, one look that promises cheekiness and mischief. Her hand squeezes my thigh and strokes inside my leg as her breath feathers my neck. I can already hear her reply before she even moves her lips.
“Sand only sticks to you if you're wet, though, right?”
Her slender fingers ensnare my wrist, guiding my hand to her thigh and walking my fingers beneath her dress. I feel the first soft caress of her swollen folds on my fingertips just as her lips find mine.
My eyes closed, I focus on the teasing stroke of my finger as it explores her smooth, delicate lips. It traces the outline of her sex with the merest of kisses, tickling up and down the length of her engorging lips. Her breath falls warm and gentle against my face between kisses, her hips moving beneath my touch. I'm sure I could never tire of hearing the way she softly sighs as my fingertip tenderly teases her firm, aching clit.
“God, you know what I need. I think you've done this before.” She's right, I have. “Am I wet, baby?” she breathes, just as I slowly spread her lips and dip into the sweet, hot pool of her excitement.
Her eyelids flutter as my thick digit scythes through the length of her sex, up to brush her clit and down again to her sweetness. Hazel leans heavily against my shoulder, her legs laying brazenly apart. We both watch as I bring my hand out from the folds of her dress and raise one very obviously wet finger between us with practised melodrama. It gleams in the sunlight. Reaching my tongue out, I taste it from the knuckle to the tip with a murmur of approval.
Hazel watches it all the way, her lids seeming to grow heavier, her lips parting and her tongue emerging for the briefest second. I have studied her beautiful face many times now and I adore witnessing the moment she submits to the urge. A calmness comes over her face as she leans forward and envelops my finger in her warm, wet lips with a single plunging strike. The seal of her lips is immense, as is the deep, hungry suck, but I adore the absolute abandon behind the moan at the taste of her own wetness.
She pulls away with a pop of her lips and I'm in love. That's the moment that I want to throw her on her back, lift her dress over her head and fuck her there on the beach. I don't give a fuck who's watching, I just want to crawl between her thighs and head straight for the source of that delicious sweet sauce. I can feel the already solid shaft in my shorts just pulsating with need.
Instead, I watch as she hops gracefully to her feet, the hot, breathless minx replaced by the grinning, bubbly beauty once more as she hauls me impressively to my feet. Maybe tomorrow, I tell myself.
“C'mon, let's go into town! I wanna go shopping and you can carry my bags!” she beams at me, straightening her dress.
She leans closer and whispers in my ear, as if to reassure me that I hadn't just dreamed the whole Goddamn thing, “You're right, I'm far too wet to be sitting on a beach. It's not safe.” She closes her hand around the prominent bulge in my shorts. “Don't worry, we'll satisfy him later.”
God, I fucking hope so. I need it.
Within just a couple of minutes, we're back on the promenade. Hazel has her heels back on, after I dutifully brush all the sand from her feet amid her teasingly overblown moans of appreciation, drawing all the attention of the passing crowd. She really cannot help but tease.
We head into town, now holding hands. It seems ridiculously sweet and romantic after the moment on the beach but still feels perfect. We walk together, arms swinging and Hazel skipping happily. I can't resist continually pulling her in for kisses, eliciting her adorable giggles. I lean her dramatically over my arm for a deep kiss and she playfully kicks a long, slender leg out, pretending to swoon. We barely make ten consecutive steps without sharing a kiss, squeezing each other, pinching or stroking in some way.
It's like being teenagers, excited and silly with love. I can't take my eyes off the way she moves, so lithe and elegant. The way her joy transfers to her hips makes every movement graceful and endearing. She's entrancing.
“You!” I hiss. She turns on the spot, surprised at my tone, her eyes wide open. She's yanked into my embrace and I casually knocking a strand of her hair aside. “You are ridiculously beautiful, have I told you, Hazel?”
Her face splits with the broadest, most genuine smile I've seen . I was never going to stop myself from planting the deepest, most passionate kiss to her lips yet.
We're locked there, stuck in time, just entwined in the moment and unable – unwilling, even – to escape it. The world carries on around us, but we remain resolutely removed from it all.
At last, we slip apart and she looks up at me with a breathless smile, fingers running over my chest.
“You are my gorgeous,” she whispers, kissing my chest through the open section of my shirt.
Hazel steps back, blowing her lips and shaking her head, like a dog shaking off the rain. The grin is back on her face. Her hand snatches mine up once more and she's away again, tripping down the road and dragging me along as she bundles headlong into the nearest shop.
I don't need to tell you the way men feel about shopping, do I? Least of all, shopping with the significant other. It's been a staple of comedians for decades. That dreaded requirement of all relationships: a hardship and a duty to be performed – nay, suffered. It's true, every shop we enter is strewn with the abandoned, listless carcasses of apathetic boyfriends and resigned husbands. They gather in doorways, seating areas and paltry “men's sections”, laden down with bags and the weight of their own depression.
