Shirtless men gather upon the sand dunes of Fire Island. A full moon is high overhead, the smell of the Atlantic is a mix of salt and sweat and there seems to be a purpose to this mating ritual where seed is cast upon sand still warm from a summer sun.
Eyes shift in the darkness from one torso to another. In a moment, in unison, the mermen moan with delight, but no sooner than the last drop of nectar reaches the earth, they run away in shame as if they simply took a piss together.
Mermaids will never know the secret delight that men of war share with their tentacles in hand. There is a rush greater than the waves in the Atlantic when men play at war.