I’ll give you three guesses why his name is Thumper, and the first two don’t count.
Thumper and I first met – where did we meet? – through a mutual friend Phoebe at one of her parties. She always threw these huge things down at the local beach well past the time of night when alcohol was allowed, when music and bonfires and disruptively loud singing was allowed. Her father was the head of the police station so she was never getting in trouble for that.
I digress. That is to say, we met on the beach under the cover of darkness, only the embers crackling against the night to light us up. We met a little drunk on the beers Phoebe stashed in that cooler, the water dripping down our arms. We met with the waves crashing behind us and the sky turning a pale black above us. Of course something was going to happen.
That was when I was firmly into my photography phase. I still dabble in photography, but I really thought I was going to make it there. All of the photos from that night are still stored on a hard drive somewhere. I remember them well. I hounded the guitarist all night asking if I could get a photo of him by the fire, and he was just some asshole with a guitar. I took photos of the reflection of the full moon against the ocean, and birds in the sand, and Phoebe in the water with the flash on, all that. And I remember when I saw Thumper, I knew I had to take a photo of him.
His strong jawline. His serious look. His muscles. The way the light of the fire reflected off of his fur. He was sitting on an upturned log, looking off into the water. Whatever it was, I stalked up to him in the sand. Thumper looked back at me and grinned.
“Hey, man,” he said, his voice low.
“Hi. I was wondering if I could take a photo of you.”
He grinned at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We ended up taking pictures all night. Thumper skinny dipping in the water in just his boxers, him drying off after, him sitting on rocks and piers posing and flaunting. We quickly ditched the party without even saying goodbye to Phoebe, going back to his car to get high. Some of the best photos of the night are from that car, the warm light of the parking lot seeping in to disturb the darkness of the car.
He’s a gorgeous, gorgeous man. I still look at the photos sometimes.
And in the heat of that car, he turned to me. “What do you need the photos for?”
I realized I hadn’t told him all night. We talked about his life – his girlfriend, his job down at the CVS, spending his free time skateboarding and trying to make a name for himself doing that, and the whole time I hadn’t explained what the hell I was doing.
“Ah, I think I know.”
I tried to give him an explanation but he refused.
“Hey,” he said, “Come over and let’s get some more photos soon. I think I’ve got something you’ll like.”
Two days later, we went to his skate park to take some photos. I was impressed by everything. His confident gait, his sunglasses, the way he showed himself off to everyone with a casual wave. I took some photos of him skateboarding around, doing 360s and aerials – gorgeous, gorgeous stuff.
It wasn’t until I got home until I knew what he was really showing me. I’m still kind of proud of the photo. It’s Thumper sitting on the steps of the skate park, shifting his shorts so that his dick flopped out of his pant leg.
And after that, let’s just say that one thing led to another. I learned very well the origin of his name.
(He’s a thumper, that’s why.)
(Plus, you can’t go around being named “Humper.”)
(Incidentally, he eats ass very well.)