A Day With Miss May

I first see her standing just outside the beach shop. It's no more than a wooden shack with a bunch of buckets and spades arranged around the roof. There's a humming electric generator powering the cooler, and a miniature TV showing some overblown Italian soap opera. She's talking in a broad American accent, something southern, and the owner is talking back in broken English. They're not arguing exactly, but she's loudly making it clear that she still doesn't understand him.

The strings of a black bikini disappear under a towel she has wrapped around her like a shawl. Lower down is a pair of tight denim shorts with a Discman hooked into them. She's waving around a pair of sunglasses in one hand and a bottle of sun tan lotion in the other as she attempts to communicate. That's more or less all that is visible from the back, except the bright golden hair spilling from under a broad sun hat all the way down her shoulders and some very long legs which end in a disappointingly ordinary pair of flip-flops.

Suddenly, I decide that what I need most in all the world is a Coke.

I step up from the pebble beach onto the concrete and wander into the shop. I listen more as I pick out a glass bottle. Pulling out some Lira out from my pocket, I approach the counter, such as it is.

I get the first proper look at her face and I'm suddenly struck by lightning.

How is she here? How is she in real life?

It takes me a second to find my tongue. "Can I help?"

"I don't suppose you speak Italian?" she says.

"Travel only," I say. "But this situation looks like it's straight from Linguaphone stage one."

"I'm trying to see if they have any stronger factor. This is only ten."

Another quick glance around the 'shop' and it's pretty obvious that they're going to have what they have and no conversation at any fluency level is going to change that. Still, "What number are you after?"

"As high as possible," she says.

I talk to the owner. The key is to make them slow right down and pay attention to their body language, something this Italian has in spades. Then you hardly need the language. I point at the number on the bottle and count down from thirty in increments. I then listen and watch.

"They don't have any," I tell her. "But I think he's suggesting there's a village some fraction of a kilometer away with a chemists."

"A what, sorry?"

"A pharmacy, I guess you'd say. I think I've understood about half the directions. Are you biking, driving...?"

"I've got a rental bike."

Perfection. "So do I."

"You don't say." Too late I remember I'm in my cycling gear. I've even got my helmet on.

"Well in that case, we could look together. I've got enough of the gist to figure it out and it seems to be on my route anyway."

"Oh, that'd be great," she says. "But haven't you just arrived? You don't want to spend some time on the beach?"

"No, I just came down for a look," I tell her. "It's my first full day here. I'm trying to get from Amalfi to Positano and back as a first jaunt out."

We stand there as I take that look together. The pebble beach is fantastic. A secluded little cove, two walls of solid cliff rising up. I had to walk down the equivalent of six storeys just to get down here. It's September, just off the tourist season and possibly better cycling weather than beach weather, but it's still very pleasant. It's quite tempting just to stay here.

Or, you know, wherever she happens to be.

"Excuse me," I say. "Do I know you?"

I'm pretty sure it's her. But it hardly matters, I'd be perfectly fine meeting someone who looks exactly like her. Except, if it's not her, I'm not sure if she's going to be offended or flattered by who I'm mistaking her for. I should be careful.

"I don't know. Do you? Are we staying at the same hotel?" she asks. "I'm at the Grand. Maybe you've seen me there?"

"The Porto," I reply with a shrug. I hope she's not up enough on the area to know that her digs seriously outclass mine.

"Actually, I'll take that sun cream," I tell her. "They've been more helpful than they could have been and I do need some." She hands it to me and I pay.

As we find our way back up stone steps, I continue the conversation. "So, you're not looking to get a tan?"

"It's safest not to. I can always put on colour if required. It's harder to take it off."

"What is that?" I ask. "Something from a Cosmo advice column?"

"Oh, no," she says. "It's...nothing."

It's not nothing, though. It's a crack I can pry at if I'm very gentle.

"What do you do? If you don't mind me asking."

"Oh, well..." she says. There's a moment's hesitation. "I'm a model, if you can believe that."

"I can believe that very easily. The truth is, when I asked if I knew you, it was kind of more than your face that I recognized."

Those breasts, those hips, those legs - she has a one-in-a-million figure.

She stops walking and bunches her hands into fists. "Oh, God," she cries. "Even in Europe..."

"It's okay," I say. "Look, I didn't mean to make things uncomfortable. It's just I was pretty sure you were who I thought you were."

"Well, I am."

"Okay," I say. "That's settled then. I'm very pleased to meet you."

We've now reached the top. I go and unlock my bike and she wheels hers over. I point west. "Shouldn't be far along here."

She doesn't mount straight away though. "So, you're a fan then?" she says in a somewhat accusatory voice.

"Oh, no, nothing like that," I say. "Well, wait...maybe? Would being a fan be good?"

"I'd rather you weren't, to be honest," she says. "I mean, I'm sure lots of the guys are perfectly normal, but the fans who seek you out, they tend to be, well, a bit over-enthusiastic, shall we say? They give the other fans a bad name and make us girls wary."

"Well if it's any consolation, I've never even brought a copy of American Casanova."

"That's good. There's nothing like trying to make new friends knowing the other person has already jerked off over your picture." Her hand flies to her mouth. "Sorry, was that a bit much?"

"If it'll put your mind at ease..." I consider my words carefully. "Look, all it was is that I took the car to the garage the other day to add a catalytic converter and it took several times longer than they originally estimated. I waited in their back room and there you were on the wall and we ended up spending quite a long time in each other's company. And, to be clear, it was a bit too public to...well, as you said...even if I'd wanted to."

"Okay," she says. "I can live with that. I suppose the good gentlemen of the automotive service industry do pay a good proportion of my rent."

"Actually, to be honest, when I said I knew who you are, all I'm really certain of is the 'Miss.' I'm not even sure of the month. April?"

"May - Jessica Newson," she offers a hand and I shake it.

"William Maple," I reply.

"William, eh? Bill or Will?" she asks.

"Will will do," I reply.

"I may, you definitely will," she says pointing to herself and then me. It takes me a second to get the word play and then I botch the laugh.

She gets on, starts away down the hill and I follow. We find the village and then immediately the chemists. It takes all of two seconds to get her the sunscreen. As we walk back to the bikes, I'm worried that that will be it.

"You're a useful man to have around, Will," she says. "Most of the locals round here speak English, but every so often...Do you speak many languages?"

"It's kind of a hobby," I say. "Whenever I go somewhere, I try and pick up enough to get by. And Italian is fairly easy compared to Russian or Chinese."

"You must be really clever. You travel a lot?"

"We've been to a lot of cities. Madrid, Rome, Vienna, even Dubrovnik before the war broke out."

"We?" she asks.

I wince. "My girlfriend and me. That is ex-girlfriend. I'm just coming out of a bad break-up. We used to do a lot of city breaks around Europe. This is my first one on my own. I'm currently trying to forget her."

"Whoopsie," Jessica says.

"Actually, up until now, you've been doing a bang-up job of taking my mind off her."

"Yeah," she replies. "People always tell me I'm good at making them forget their significant others. Funny that."

"So," I say, trying to sound casual. "You've rented the bike. Are you heading back to the beach or are you going to push on? We could always convoy up -- you know, just for convenience."

"That'd be nice," she says.

We set off again and we're quickly through the village and back out onto the cliffside road. It's a journey that's going to have a lot of ups and downs and I haven't done as much biking recently as I used to do earlier in my twenties. Still, neither of us is aiming to win the Tour de France and we stop every few hundred meters to take pictures as the curve of the mountains opens up some new vantage point. It's idyllic.

About half an hour after we officially join forces, Jessica suddenly turns her bike round and goes back about fifty meters. I stop to wait for her, but she gestures for me to come over. She points almost vertically down over the handrail.

"There's a beach down there," she says. She's right - another secluded cove. I glance around. There is a small stone gate and a path leading off from it. When we walk our bikes over, we find there is also a sign.

Spiaggia Nudista

.

Not a difficult guess given the context, but helpfully they've added an English translation as well,

Nudist Beach

. There's a whole bunch of rules and regulations in both languages below, the main one being 'no clothes' obviously.

"Looks fun," says Jessica. "I'm game if you are."

"Really" I reply. "You'd be okay taking off all your clothes in public?"

It takes a moment and Jessica's face for me to realize the monumental stupidity of what I've just said.

"You know, you really are adorably clueless," she tells me.

We make our way down the stone steps. An old lady is selling tickets from a little hut and there are some basic facilities behind her. As I mentally convert into pounds I remember what they say about Amalfi not being exactly cheap, and I'm nominally travelling on a shoestring. Obviously, though I'm going to splash out on what promises to be a premium experience.

We part into our respective changing rooms. I come out well before she does and am left hanging around with only sandals and my bag on me. As I wait a middle-aged couple, all sags, guts, and wrinkles, comes up from the beach. They give me a nod and a brief Italian greeting before heading in. I smile weakly.

And then there she is.

I've seen it all before, of course, but the 3D version is incomparable to the 2D. She comes out, stands right in front of me, and strikes a pose. It's a minimal pose, a turn of her heel, a cock of her head, and a hand on her waist, but it's a pose nevertheless. It's like she's come out of the changing rooms at a shop that sells birthday suits and I'm expected to give an opinion about whether it all fits. I soak her all in - ass to hips to breasts working in a golden ratio. I can't help but notice her large nipples and wide dark areola and the little landing strip of hair leading to a discreet, but definitely present, mound.

And while she was sexy before, now she is just sex personified.

I immediately swing the bag in front of my waist.

"Hi," I say nervously.

She cocks her head. "Hi there. I was invited to a party on a nudist beach. The only problem is I have literally nothing to wear."

Even with a jaunty smile, she's no less sexual than she was a second ago. My bag tilts at a slight, but unmistakable angle.

"Actually, I kind of have my problem," I say.

"Is it a big problem?" she asks.

"Not necessarily huge, but getting bigger all the time," I reply. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure this is going to work."

"Oh dear," she says. "I was worried about this."

"You were?"

"Most definitely. And while it's very flattering, yes, it is a problem. You'll have to take care of it."

"How?"

"By taking care of it."

"You don't mean...by wanking," I say incredulously.

"Oh, wow," she said. "A British person just said 'wank'. That is just the cutest thing ever."

"If the beach isn't keen on erections, I'm pretty sure they're not going to be too hot on masturbation either," I say. This conversation is both hot and humiliating. The first rule of manhood is that everyone wanks, but never no man should ever admit to wanking.

"Well, not out here, silly," she says. "Go back into the changing rooms, go into one of the stalls, and do what you gotta do. Swiftly and discretely."

"Okay, okay," I say. If it's going to be the difference between the greatest day of my life and the flat-out worst, rule one turns out to be surprisingly easy to break.

As I'm opening the door to the gentleman's changing room, she calls out, "Hey!".

I turn and she cups her breasts just for a second. She swivels away from me and runs one hand down from her waist over her buttocks and to just the top of her thigh.

"Inspiration," she explains. As if I had somehow lacked for it just now.

I have to wait in the stall for the older man to finish getting dressed. Then, for my shame, I wank with silent determination into the public loo, getting onto my knees at the end and aiming down onto the porcelain. I then thoroughly clean around the rim with the paper and shower very quickly. I've no towel, but thankfully they've provided hair dryers. I do my best with what I've got. I head out and now, even though she is still a goddess, my crotch is behaving itself. I've probably bought myself a good twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I know you said you preferred friendships that start without the guy pleasuring himself..."

"It's okay," she says. "That's all it is, just a preference. It's not a deal-breaker or anything."

The beach down below is similar to the first beach except even more isolated. There is also a splattering of nude people, older mostly with the occasional younger couple. Jessica naturally gets a lot of attention and we stroll onto the pebbles.

"Put your arm around me," she says.

"What?" I reply.

"It's just easier if we show signs of being a couple. Fewer stares and fewer unwanted approaches," she said. "Trust me."

I put my arm around her shoulder. She moves it around her torso.

She's just a woman. You wouldn't think the touch of her flesh would be fundamentally different from any other lass. But, no, it's electric. She nestles a head on my shoulder as we progress.

We reach the middle of the cove. There are some free loungers and I indicate them. "Swimming or resting?" I ask.

"Both, but resting first," she says. She puts down her towel and lies face down on it.

I get the stronger of the two bottles of sun-tan lotion out of my bag. "Would you like me to do your back?" I ask.

"I was hoping you'd do my front as well."

She's well aware of the effect she has on men and she loves it, I realize. It's a sort of shameless innocence. I take full advantage of the offer. I start with the shoulders, work my way down her back, and only hesitantly attack her bottom once there's a thick layer over everything else. She is perfectly proportioned, as I rub the liquid in, there's a great balance of firmness and wobble to her posterior.

Then with a "Thanks," she flips onto her front.

I can't pretend her breasts aren't there, even as I work on her legs and torso. The slight tilt of the sunbed means her breasts are hanging down slightly, but also firm enough that the nipples are pointing up.

"They're real," she says. "You can tell by the gap here." She runs a hand down the center of her chest.

"That's...good to know," I say cautiously.

"They're also burning up," she says. "You need to get that lotion on them now."

I do and as I rub, I consider what she said about them being real. I'm no expert, but I take note of the shape and the movement and I conclude that she's telling the truth. I try to enjoy them without making it obvious that I'm enjoying them.

I mean, she's got two damn hands, this is clearly a come-on, but also maybe a test that I can display at least a modicum of chivalry. I massage the cream into them in a firm, no-nonsense manner.

"Right, time to do you," she announces.

Lying on my back, the sun is in my eyes and I alternate between opening and closing my eyes. Her breasts take on an almost independent existence. I'm aware of her, an attractive, funny, charming girl who I most assuredly want to get to know better and I'm aware of them, the two of the most magnificent orbs I've ever encountered.

At the moment, I'm having difficulty seeing the girl for the boobs.

And when she reaches down and starts to oil around my crotch, I almost lose it. "Ooh, my," I groan.

She giggles but looks around. Some other people heard that. "Ssh," she says and goes back. Her touch is firm and no-nonsense as well. After about thirty seconds, my most intimate area is protected from the sun.

We lie back in our respective beds.

"This is nice," I say eventually.

"Isn't it?" she replies. I offer her a sip of my Coke and she takes one.

"So, you're here on your own?" I ask.

"Yeah, I just wanted to get out of the States for a while. That centerfold was intense. It's not like

everyone

recognizes you and it's not like everyone who recognizes you comes and talks to you. It's just, everywhere you go, you're wondering what people are thinking about you. If they've cottoned on. Besides I finally had enough saved up and I've always wanted to travel."

"I'll be a bit more direct," I say. "You're clearly not a girl who is going to have too much trouble attracting suitors. You don't have anyone special in your life at the moment?"

"The problem with being...me, at least the me who lives in the world I'm currently in, is that the only men who think they have even the slightest chance are the most massive self-deluded assholes. And that gets old quickly, trust me."

"Men who think they have even the slightest chance..." I echo. "Now there's an interesting thread to pull on."

"Let's just enjoy the sun," she tells me with a sigh.

"Right you are."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun is nice enough, but instead of enjoying it, I strategize with my eyes closed.

The basic plan is obvious. Lie here. Swim, in the fullness of time. Ask her to dinner before she gets away. Kill any other male who steps within a ten-foot radius of her.

The peace is broken by the sound of laughter and movement. I open my eyes, shade them from the sun, and look around. In one corner, just by the cliff wall, there is a volleyball net. Two girls are spiking a ball to each other over it.

Jessica has sat up as well. "You want to play?" she asks.

We're at a nudist beach. My understanding is that volleyball is a common, nay, essential part of the nudist experience. Still, I don't want to appear that keen to get involved in a sporting foursome. "I will if you will."

She gets up in answer. While we're heading over I'm thinking that I'm going to need to translate and wishing I hadn't skipped the 'sports' lesson on the plane. As it turns out, Jessica just points to the two of us, "Jessica. Will," and offers her hands out for the ball.

The nearest of the two girls points to herself and says, "Ranella," before tossing the ball to Jessica. She then points to her companion and says, "Teresa," before ducking under the net to buddy up with her friend.

Momentarily I'm disappointed that I'm with Jessica not against her -- i.e. not looking directly at her bouncing breasts as she serves and jumps, but standing behind her is pretty good as well.

Actually, standing in front of Ranella isn't half bad either. If Jessica is an all-American girl, Ranella is all-Italian: dark hair and sultry eyes. She looks like she belongs in an opera - one of the ones where the heroine stabs someone at the end rather than dying of consumption. She's taller even than Jessica and more lithe and her breasts, while nowhere near being anything to complain about, don't have the same fullness and perfection, but are two perfectly round little apples. A case could certainly be made that she's no less beautiful than Jessica, just fulfilling a different archetype.