I hate the beach. I hate the sand sticking to my skin. I hate the sunburn I know I am going to get. Most of all, I hate the wind. I have never enjoyed the beach, ever. Yet here I am, lying here in my bikini, sand stuck to my sunscreen covered ass, arms, back, you name it. Here I am miserable, watching him lounge about, ogling the young girls in their near-nakedness, grinning like a fool. After so many vacations together, after years of my requests to do something different, to see another part of the world, I have still never ventured farther than the usual Padre Island summertime sun/windburn.
I shift restlessly on my beach towel, trying with great difficulty to keep my hat in place to give my fair face some kind of protection. I am sweating. Not the good kind of sweat that comes with physical activity, but the horrible sticky sweat that comes from sitting in the sun. Finally I succumb to my misery. "I am going back to the room" I say.
He gives bare acknowledgment in the form of a grunt, keeping his eyes glued to the barely-18-year-old rubbing tanning oil into her taut flesh. I roll my eyes and leave.
Back in the room, I peel my suit off and slip into a cool shower. I don't have the heart to look at my face. Judging by the sting, it's probably the color of a perfectly cooked Maine lobster. Standing under the spray, I begin the tedious task of removing every grain of sand from my body. I think about him as I touch my burning skin. I run my hands over my breasts. I have always loved my breasts. They are large and heavy, pale nipples, sensitive to the touch. He prefers young and pert, a girl's breasts. I have the breasts of a woman. I think of him sweating and grunting behind me last night and grimace.