Kelly grabs the suntan lotion and throws it in the cooler with the beer. He has always burned easily - the downside of a fair complexion. He throws the lotion with force, like he threw down Otis Nixon at first - that creepy little bastard - in the 8th of last night. He's trying not to be upset that no one wanted to go to the beach. No one. He even asked Winfield, for Christ's sake (and was mostly glad he also refused). None of the boys like the idea of a public beach. Too much hassle and attention, they'd spend all day signing autographs. They were going up to someone's cottage to go fishing.

Fishing.

Fuck.

Who goes fishing?

Kelly knows that the public beach is a hassle, but it's so easy to pick up there. Of course these days, being Kelly means it's easy to pick up anywhere. But the beach has always had it's own special allure: full disclosure. You pick a girl up at the beach, and you know there won't be any unpleasant surprises when push comes to shove. The left is proportional to the right. Nothing sagging. Kelly isn't a prick, he knows he isn't - it's just that when you have so much choice, you want to make sure you don't rush into a bad decision.

What the fuck do the boys know anyway? It's easy to hide at the beach. Mirrored sunglasses and a hat, and you're invisible. You see a girl, you see one you want, and you walk up and start talking. You have to time it right - when you're Kelly timing is everything. About a minute into the conversation, and after a closer inspection, the glasses come off, and then the hat, and it's Kelly. The Kelly. That seals it. Every time. And if it doesn't - a toss of the hair might, but only if it's absolutely necessary.

At the beach Kelly fishes the suntan lotion from between the beers and out of the cooler. It's ice cold as it hits his skin.

* * * * *

Day 6 | Kelly Home | Day 8