I was still 29. I wasn't thirty yet - I wasn't a worn-out middle-aged woman, and for the simple reason that I refused to be. I did not want to cross the thirty-border, beyond which I would be unable to wear mini skirts of wedge-heeled shoes anymore; beyond which I could no longer giggle and leave early from dinner parties - I wouldn't be a girl anymore.
In order to avoid facing the fact that I was now a Tupperware-aged spinster, I had taken an early holiday. Away from all the friends wanting to throw birthday parties, all by myself on a campsite in southern France.
And it is truly remarkable what hardships one will put up with when avoiding a birthday. Setting up a tent is no small deal when doing it for the first time, and using the public toilet is something of an achievement too, every day. One afternoon, as I came from the swimming pool and went straight to the shower, the only stall available was one with an unreliable lock. I squeezed it shut, and assured myself that the steam rising up from the cubicle would warrant fellow campers to stay away - I could not have been more wrong.
The moment I had shed my bikini (the last one I'd ever wear, I told myself, for old ladies wore one-piece bathing suits) the door was carelessly thrown open and a blond head poked in. I responses took a moment to kick in, and I only thought of covering myself once the young man had gotten a good long look at me. He too seemed to need a moment to recompose himself, for he only then shook his head and said, "Excusez-moi!"
I smiled sheepishly as he closed the door.
After the weirdness of the moment had worn off, I realized I had not actually minded being displayed in such a respectless manner. The fullness of my pussy lips indicated such as I washed them, and though I told myself it was not-done to feel excited because of this, I felt the adrenalin rushing through my body. I had displayed my naked body to a total stranger (and a very handsome one at that), and I felt the almost irresistible urge of doing it again.
So, the next day, just past nine in the evening, I went down to the showers. I picked the one with the broken lock again, and stripped naked. Nobody entered. I prolonged my shower by an hour until my skin was wrinkly, but then got out.
Why did I feel so disappointed? Had I become an attention-seeking bimbo? I must be going through an early midlife crisis. A typical thing of old age.
The next day, I went to lie by the pool. Perhaps some sun tanning might be good for my mood swings. There were few other people, but I craved to be seen and admired. After a while, I took my top off and turned onto my stomach. When there was no response (I don't know why I expected any) I turned onto my back. Finally, a group of teenaged boys whistled at me. I smiled and, lifting myself up a bit, I winked. They applauded, and left.
This short but powerful establishment of my waning but still present sexual attraction, gave me enough energy to last for another few days. But by the end of the week, I grew restless again. I was hot from tanning, and went to take a cold shower (the one with the broken lock, of course - you never know). On my way over there, towel and shower gel in hand, who should cross my path but the beautiful young man?
By natural light he looked twenty: twenty-two at best. His amber eyes lit up as he saw me, and I winked. Head held high, I walked on. Had he recognized me from the shower? My hair was full and curly now, not wet and hanging down my face, and I was actually wearing clothes. Therefore, I could not be sure...
But insurance came when I was naked again, and the stall-door opened.
Those innocent eyes stared at me. I made no attempt to cover myself this time, but let him look as I kneaded my breasts, stroked my tummy and ran a finger between my legs. Then I motioned for him to come in. He did, and to my delight began undressing.
We did not speak, as I did not speak French and he did not speak English. Instead, he stepped under the water next to me, and ran his hands over my body.
