In my day-to-day life, I am the facilitator in my home. I am the person who makes things happen. I get my child to school. I do the grocery shopping. I plan the vacations, the date nights and the get together with friends. I "Mommy blog" my heart out. I cook the meals, wash the clothes, scoop the dog shit from the yard, paint the fence and build and maintain the gardens. I volunteer for local charity organizations. I organize my fellow parents in our community. My list of responsibilities goes on and on. I do quality work without complaint — and I do it all pro bono. This means I'm in high demand and my days are scheduled out to the minute. I am also usually the first person up and the last person asleep.
So, it doesn't seem like a leap to me that after a while, I'd want something that was just mine. Something outside of the home I've worked hard for and love, but still refer to as my cage. I want to be in charge of my own destiny, wake up when my body wakes up and not do anything for anyone else. It's why every once in a while I plan a trip, just for me, to some exciting North American location.
When I started taking me-only vacations, it was usually a girls' spa weekend somewhere with a close friend. Sometimes it was me alone in a city like New York or Los Angeles. But lately, each summer, I return to the same summer time location on the off chance that I'll be able to get together with Lover.
Our usual meet up place is an extremely accessible coastal city with lots of beaches and privacy. No one we know lives there, but it is close enough to a major city that is convenient with Lover's work travel.
My life changes during our time there. I sleep in. I read books. I walk around our cottage naked. He cooks for me. We make love. I watch TV that's not animated. There's nothing to clean. There's no one to look after. No one makes any real demands on my time, and I can pretty much do whatever I want. It is, after all, vacation.
Lover is an amazing man. He's brilliant and observant. He's an artist that isn't partial to sentimentality. He likes to tell me when I'm acting like too much of a girl. He also likes to impart pieces of knowledge about life and does his best not to be patronizing. Since he's a decade and a half older than I am, I do my best not to take offense at his sometimes biased suggestions. I never comment on his life, mostly because he never asks. But I always feel like I'm asking him questions about my life and its meaning.
Lover enjoys my amusing quirks, but even more so, he loves pushing my buttons. He likes watching me come out of my shell and do things that I, in my every day life, would never, ever consider doing.
This was one of those mornings. I woke up, not to the expected snobby coffee and pastries (an added bonus to vacationing with someone who's French), but to a small note safety pinned to my panties. It read: "Ma petite chat, I've gone to the nude beach. See you there."
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" I shout while unpinning the note. This is part of our relationship. He tells me to do something, and as long as it's within reason, I am expected to fulfill his request. He knows that because I'm so in charge of my every day life, I like to be a little submissive from time to time, and only with him.
But up until this point my exhibitionist tendencies have been solely kept to the Internet. I would refer to them as baby steps. Mostly because at home, I can control the lighting and the photo taking, but having a beach full of people see my every stretch mark, every roll of flab and every poorly trimmed pubic hair made me extraordinarily self-conscious.
The idea of a nude beach is supposed to be natural and freeing, like breastfeeding. It's not sexual to see a woman's naked breast in action-- it's just her feeding her baby. Nude beaches were the same, supposedly. People enjoying the sun on their bodies in the bathing suits that nature provided. It's supposed to be non-sexual, even with people exhibiting their sexual parts.
So why did the Puritan in me think that the beach was going to be riddled with masturbators and beautiful female porn stars who perform sex acts for them?
I sighed and got into the shower. I washed and conditioned my long, blonde hair. I shaved everywhere possible (twice, just to be sure). I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I was in that shower a really, really long time. So long that I knew I was in trouble when the cottage phone rang. I turned off the water and listened to the message, "Get your ass down here and stop stalling." It was Lover, and not surprisingly, he was impatient.
"Fuck."
I wore a pair of cutoffs and a tank top. My mesh swim bag hung over my shoulder. It contained: a large towel, a book to read, bottled water, some fruit and sunblock. I wore my bathing suit underneath my clothes, which I knew I'd be in trouble for. When I had all of my stuff together, I climbed onto my bike and road to the beach a mile and a half down the way.
I followed the clearly marked signs leading me to the secluded Clothing Optional Beach. When I got to the bike rack, it was close to 10:30 a.m. It was a Friday, so there weren't too many weekend people there, yet, but I did notice that most of the beach was made up of either attractive, young men in their 20's or extremely overweight men in their 40's.
"They must be waiting for the porn stars," I mumbled clipping the U-Bar around my bike. I looked around the beach for a while before I saw that Lover had a primo spot. He was far up the beach half under a large tree, which was losing its shade as the sun rose higher. It also was far enough way from other beach goers, so that we weren't on top of anyone.
I walked toward the water and got my feet wet. It was late summer, and the water was starting to chill. It might be feel better as the sun gets hotter, I thought.
When I reached Lover, he was lying on his back on a large, blue striped beach towel reading, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance."
"How nice of you to join me," he said. "I almost thought you weren't going to show." I don't think he looked up from his book, but with his sunglasses on, I couldn't tell.
"Are you annoyed?" I asked as I threw my bag on the sand and laid out my towel next to his.
"Not yet," he answered very nonchalantly.
I pulled off my cut offs and my tank top, shoved them into my bag and laid down on my stomach with my Carl Hiaasen book in hand. I knew he was staring at my very conservative red tankini with disappointment.
"Ah-hem," he said.
"What?"
"Lose the suit."
"Clothing OPTIONAL, Lover," I said smiling.
He grumbled. "You have to give me something. Did you notice it's all men here? I got hit on twice."
"Only twice?" I teased finally understanding his mood. I looked around. My god, they were all gay. Good for them, I thought. "You know, there was a time in your life when you would have welcomed their attention," I reminded him.
Lover opened his mouth and half closed his eyes conceding the point. "Regardless of my past liaisons, ma biche, please give me something besides the water to look at."
I sighed, put my book down and sat up. "Are you watching me or reading your book?"
He took off the sunglasses and squinted in the bright sun. I put my fingers underneath the long top and pulled it over my head. My bare back was facing the rest of the beach, but Lover was staring at my chest. "We should put lotion on those right away. It's not an area we want to get burned."
I shook my head a little, amused with his giddiness, and passed him the lotion. "Here, you do the honors," I said lying down on my back.
Having a partner apply sunblock can go one of two ways. Either it's nonchalant and fast and goopy because he's not paying attention or it's cruel foreplay. With Lover, it's always the latter. He squirted the lotion in little dabs around my breasts. By the time he was done, my breasts looked like flowers.
