In a strange sort of way, the bikini, my motivation, Steve's comment and the flash I had up his pants were all interconnected and now the thought process had been started my brain kept working on it as I crossed the road to the beach. Steve was a player. Girls threw themselves at him and he wasn't rude enough to throw them back. I knew that eye I'd got a glimpse of had seen the inside of an awful lot of pussy (and I hope you'll forgive me here if a lifetime of living with older brothers has let me pick up less decorous aspects of the way they talk). Me, I was a virgin. Nearly 21 and still a virgin.
Not for religious or moral reasons, not even because of any attitude of my parents β my brothers had girlfriends sleep over all the time and my mother had long ago insisted I carry a few condoms in my purse. She was far more concerned with me not getting pregnant or catching something than pretending she could stop her teenage children from experimenting.
Nor did I feel I was 'saving it' in the sense of doing that was something special. It's just that, much as I yeaned for it, sex to me was part of a bigger package of love, companionship and desire and I'd never really got that far in a relationship.
I know these days a girl is allowed to want it nearly as much as a guy and there were certainly times I felt sexually deprived or yearned for something more. Maybe I am a little old-fashioned, but however driven the need for sex was, it wasn't enough to lower my expectations; even masturbation didn't seem to offer what I really was seeking and I'd never tried it. I was an avid reader of Cleo magazine and read all the articles about sex and that sort of stuff, so considered myself as knowing about as much as you could know without ever having been there.
I'm happy to acknowledge I had a suite of sexual fantasies, and when the confusion of a young girl's life made it hard to get to sleep, or when I was feeling deprived and wanted to indulge in that lovely feeling of strong hot arousal, I'd entertain myself with them as I dropped off to sleep.
My favourites all involved slow tactile romantic love making; his hands touching me, exploring me as I willingly surrendered to him. In my most used one our bodies were intertwined, our mouths engaged as with sensitive hands he pulled the string ties to strip a bikini off me and fingers me. But it says something about my love life that in all my fantasies, the males were faceless. Even when I had a boyfriend, he wasn't the one in my imagination. It was like the right man to fill out those fantasies just hadn't come along yet.
Just once a recognisable face popped up in one; and even then I didn't knowingly put him there. I'd been entertaining myself with such thoughts and was slowly dropping off to sleep, when suddenly I realised my lover had morphed into a guy from my Accounting 1 course at Uni. Even though he sat opposite me in the class, I'd never spoken to him, never really focused very much on him. I'd been in class with him that day and he'd been an active β and I thought quite intelligent - participant in the class discussion; so maybe he'd imprinted himself on my sub-conscious. Because two of the guys from my friend group sat either side of me in the class, it more than most was one where I hadn't really got to know the rest of my class-mates. And silly though it seems, I never really had followed up and made the guys acquaintance.
In some ways my favourite fantasy did disclose much about me. Notice it was not penetrative. I have to acknowledge it was more powerful for the fact it didn't confront the fear I, and I'm sure every girl, feels about being penetrated for the first time. And probably that fear contributed to my virginal status. When a fantasy did involve penetrative sex, I was nearly always on top, in control.
Notice also the bikini. Embarrassing though it is to admit it, my one seriously erotic weakness is an attraction to β almost an obsession with - bikinis. I feel sexy in them. I don't just mean I think I look sexy in them. I mean they activate feeling of sexuality and they trigger a sense of arousal in my erogenous zones. I like the way they fit my body like a glove. I like the way their soft silky material pushes against and rubs so very subtly on the most sensitive parts of my body.
I have drawers full of bikinis. I often wear them as undies and a bikini top is virtually the only type of bra I wear. If I'm feeling vaguely randy, I sometimes wear one to bed because they seem to trigger erotic dreams and compliment the fantasy I usually indulge in. Maybe the closest I've come to feeling the need to masturbate was when I did wear one to bed.
But I do also know I look good in them in a way that is attractive to guys; which is what was so reaffirming about Steve's comment. I am confident about my body β vague desires about a bigger cup size notwithstanding β and know its sexual power. They actually make me feel confident when I wear them. Whether it's a skimpy bikini at the beach or appropriate displays of cleavage or leg and figure hugging clothing in other contexts, I use my figure to attract attention without β I hope β going so far as to look slutty in the process. But I think about how I dress. How I dress when I am safe and in control is different from my approach when I am in a less secure environment.
And to that extent it works. There's been no shortage of guys who tried to chat me up. The hard part was to sift out those who just wanted sex from those offering something more; and even in the latter category working out which ones might really push the right buttons. Plus I know enough about myself to realise that some of the shy ones who might actually suit me might feel competed out, so I am always willing to make the first move on a good prospect who is hanging back.
So once I've got through all the angst of pissing off those disappointed by the refusal of a quickie, once I've as nicely as possible shaken free of those who clearly weren't right for me, why haven't I found myself a boyfriend? Why hasn't there been someone my heart fell for and my body wanted?
I know some of the fault is mine. I am a little boring; probably more than a little in the eyes of some. I'm not a big party girl, I don't really like to drink much and I'm not keen on bars and pubs. So without the social lubricant of alcohol and the venues designed for it, guys have to work a bit harder to keep my interest and they're not going to get my body by getting me drunk enough. Somehow a relationship had never reached take-off point.
That was starting to bother me. I'd hoped that I might find the right guy during my first year at Uni. While I was part of a great mixed social group, the right guy wasn't there. Then I'd hoped something might happen during the long summer break β which is why coming to this place for the whole break was not the joy for me it was for the rest of the family.
More recently that feeling of sexual deprivation had been growing. I still want the whole relationship package and I certainly wasn't interested in just hooking -up; it's just the desire for it was now made increasingly urgent by a more primitive urge. That's where, in the most obtuse way, catching a glimpse of Steve's trouser eye that morning had set the thought processes rolling. That eye might have seen the inside of a lot of pussy, but it made me think about the fact that somewhere out there was one that would be seeing mine. Where was it?
While completely distracted by these thoughts, I walked down the track to the beach and looked up and down it. To my right was the main part of the town and the flagged area about 400metres away a little beyond which was the headland which closed off that end of the beach and created the point break. To the left, the beach just seemed to go on forever as it ran alongside the bushland. Apart from someone in the water about 50 metres up the beach, it was deserted. It was time to put my motivational image into operation.
In the end I'll admit my motivational image was not just crass. It was sexist, demeaning, inappropriate and any other adjective you want to attach to it. But I offer two defences. The first is that as much as the exercise bunny is there just to appeal to the baser elements of the male half of the audience, if there's one thing my brothers and their friends had taught me it's that every single male has that baser element within him however nice they might otherwise be. Beauty might be skin deep, but without that element of attraction nothing else happens. Perhaps the more important thing I had learnt is that beauty can take many forms and I was well aware I was offering only one; albeit a popular one.
The second was more practical. It was still the one that got me out here early on the first day of my holiday. So on that basis alone I'm sticking to it. In good time half my objective was to be seen by a beach full of guys as I exercised. But today I was just starting out. I wasn't sure how far my fitness would carry me; for all I knew I'd spend most of my time walking. Since it would also give me a chance to explore the more natural side of things, I turned left and started jogging along the firm damp sand near the shoreline.
I soon decided the bag I was carrying was a mistake. It was a canvas satchel type with a long cloth shoulder strap. Unfortunately if I swung the bag around behind my back it constrained my movements; but if I left it at my side it swung back and forwards uncomfortably β the beading on it even threatening to catch the side ties of my bikini and pull the bow. Plus it somehow didn't fit the picture of the cool sexy athlete exercising on the beach that was my motivational image. I was starting to think about ditching it and picking it up on the way back.