All the Beaches

I’m sitting here after an ass cold walk down on the beach and I still don’t really feel the cold. Or at least, shall I say, it doesn’t bother me too much. Having spent a week down on an island, I know, is me being totally spoiled. I like to think I deserved the breather, the time with J and being in a warm spot for a bit.

At the resort where he booked our room, was a beach just a few blocks away. We went down for a swim on my first day there and I felt like I was at a Club Med. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but it felt like I was in America. We swam quickly, avoiding other visitors that littered the waters on the small beach. It was hardly an intimate swim.

The following day, he drove me down the road to where he is put up for this two month gig. It’s on a more remote beach and every day that we went there, there were only a few scattered locals along with ocean debris and gorgeous sand. We could swim there with my top off, comfortably, I could wrap the 62 inches of my legs around him and float around. Topless, I could just hang on to him there in the water as we floated around, face to face.

A smooch here. A smile there. A mouthful of water spit in each other’s faces, more likely.

Just like the movies. Seriously.

And then he’d swim out on his own, and do his vocal exercises while I lay out on the beach working on not having any tan lines. It was awesome aside from the fact that we had to walk a ways to get away from his landlord’s house…I may have been in a foreign land where topless tanning is acceptable, but I wasn’t comfortable with his landlord knowing my boobs better than my face.

On New Year’s Day, he didn’t have to play because the club was closed.  We stayed in bed and did the naked eating thing again and then set out to the other side of the island where there was a well known beach. By the time we got there, the beach was crowded, wall to wall people on the sand, with wall to wall people in the water along with all sorts of gas powered machines and sails and skis, you name it. I stood on the edge of the walkway, took one look and turned away  saying, “I can’t sit there. We can’t even find a place to sit there unless we’re rubbing elbows and who knows what else with half naked folks.”

J gestured in the other direction and said, “That’s the nude side.”

It looked less crowded and so I led the way, trying not to look at the overly middle aged naked men sitting on chaises at the water’s edge, completely naked, their packages hanging out and legs spread wide, pre-vacation-fake-and-bake tans and smiles on their faces. It was slightly unreal, I mean, I’ve never seen so many penises at once. 

Regarding the naked women, well, I realized exactly how much (and what) clothes can hide on bodies.

I also fully understand now, why bras are so important. 

In addition, I saw only one woman who didn’t have the full on Brazilian wax job. The other one on the beach was me, but of course, no one knew that considering I refused to take off my bikini bottoms.

And most shockingly, the men were all waxed too. Every single one of them. Every little bit of them.

Imagine, if you put them all in a room at once to wax at once, you’d be able to hear them all cringe and screech in China, in unison.

When we settled ourselves in a more remote patch of sand, I took off my top because a) I won’t walk down the beach with my top off and b) I was used to sitting down and taking it off by the sixth day and felt confidence through the fact that I was one of the few that wasn’t sagging on the beach.

J stretched out on his towel in the sun, face up. And then he looks over at me and goes, “fuck it, I’m taking these things off.”

He had to take advantage, of course.

I loved every moment of it.

My unwaxed piano man, who’s been tanned in the sun the past 6 weeks, strong and sweet with a hilarious smile of contentment, lying beside me with his arms flung out to his sides in the sand, completely in the nude for all to see, his legs spread wide, free and easy and lovely.