The World of T. Maxwell WhiteKnight

Up the tongue of black rock, wound a crack. She hung there, her fingernails driven in deep, her sneakers scouting for bumps and abrasions, her hair lit up in unkempt elegance. I craned my neck to watch her.
Rebeca and I climbed to the top. We mounted the fat igneous lip, giggling. I was looking at her and she was looking at me until we stumbled upon something pink.
Legs. Their oily sheen caught the sun- the highlights pointed to a restive penis, to a hairy chest, and to a face concealed by Ray-Bans. He was not so much a man as part of the mountain, a sedimentary accretion of pulp and fur. He did not stir as we continued our ascent.
At the next plateau, everything was visible. The cliffs, drawn with violent crests and dips, created natural partitions, and nestled within each was a nude. Some basked in the strongest rays, teats thrust to the sky, while others kept to the shadows in reptilian languor. There were bronze women, tails of smoke rising from their lips, fathers with practical mustaches, leathery elders with chests of white down. “NATURISTA” a scrawl of chalk on rock proclaimed.
We laid down a blanket of our coats and Rebeca slipped off her shirt and the knot of linen she used as a belt unraveled. Her bra and panties composed a delicate mound beside her. She smiled, neither shy nor confident. “What is that?” she asked, pointing at a dark shape floating in a cove. It was impossible to tell.
We were approached by an old man selling coffee from a tray. I fished out some change from my jeans and the body disappeared behind the ridge once more.
Soon another figure passed through that threshold- younger, wider, denser. He came very close and sat with us in a tight triangle.
He spoke thickly, with the languor of a bovine. Our French was very limited and we understood almost nothing. Rebeca smiled at the sea-foam and I ran my fingers through her hair. The man’s eyes drew lazy circles around us.
“Beau… Beau…”
He gestured toward my pale body. His voice had the tone of someone appraising peaches. He shifted his gaze.
“Belle… Belle…”
Rebeca’s smile stretched like a distressed rubber band. He pointed two fingers at his own body.
“Beau?”
We nodded in bewildered assent. He directed our attention towards his genitals, reclusive in a nest of black hair.
“Beau?” he chimed again, his voice peaking. His head was cocked, like a dog that waits for a stick to be thrown.
As we left, we passed the cove we’d seen earlier. The dark shape Rebeca noticed had washed up. It was a flounder. Three nude youths huddled around it. One of them had the creature propped up in his arms, its glazed eyes facing the others. The boy manipulated its mouth, making it speak.
“Ça va?” the fish asked in a gravelly voice. The children laughed riotously.