Impact 17: of the Biini

For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.

Thanks to ButteredCrumpet for Filthy French assistance.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of The Bikini

"It's toooo smalllll!" I whine, afraid to look at myself in the mirror.

After Claire rejected my one-piece out of hand, she had me try on a half dozen bikinis of hers - each one smaller than the last. And of course

this

is the one that finally satisfies her, the tiniest one of all.

"Claire pleeeease," I beg. "My boobs are too big! And my ass..."

"No," Claire says behind me, with a finality that makes my heart sink. "It's perfect. The color is lovely... "

She is holding my hair out of the way in her open palm - almost like she's presenting it. She guides me by the hair to turn, so my back is to the mirror, but her focus is fixed on the thick red tress filling her hand, examining it. She seems to lose her train of thought. For an instant I hope against hope that she's changing her mind, that she is picturing the scene I am: lecherous men staring, shocked little boys, other women turning away in disgust, mothers hiding their children's eyes.

I am literally holding my breath. I force myself to exhale, letting out a great juddering sigh.

"I love how heavy your hair is," she says absently, ignoring my obvious discomfort. "Something about its weight really turns me on..."

Deflated, I glance over my shoulder and look at my reflection, at her hand holding my hair, at her other hand, it's fingers admiring the tiny string bikini's little bows, playing with them. In contrast to how leaden my stomach feels, her fingers look light and carefree - like children moving past my waist, dancing on the swell of my hip.

She has tied the bows that hold the bottoms together low on my hips. The triangular front just covers my mons; the crack of my ass peeks out over the wide low triangle of the back. My cheeks hang out the bottom, two great globes that stretch the flimsy bikini so taut it's hard to imagine how it will stay on when I walk much less swim.

"The color is

too

perfect!" she cries, looking almost ecstatic. How can we be looking at the same ass and be seeing two such different things?

But she is right, it's a lovely green graphite that looks nice against my pale complexion... if only the cut wasn't indecent.

"Claire, please," I beg, "let me wear my one piece."

"The red doesn't look good with your hair," she says firmly. Seeing the direction of my gaze, the miserable expression on my face, she asks, "Does my ass look big, Sarah?"

"What? No... I-"

"Look here my Young Sarah!" she says, turning so we are hip to hip, cheek to cheek, both our backs to the mirror.

She is in a beautiful white bikini that makes her look sleek and impossibly elegant. We are both on the tall side, for women, but Claire is an inch or two taller than me. And although we can easily share shoes and most clothes, our bodies are so different. She has the sleek figure of a supermodel, with muscular limbs and beautifully square shoulders. My hips are no bigger than hers, but my rib cage and shoulders are much narrower, my arms and legs are thinner, less shapely and defined. My skinniness makes my big boobs look gigantic; my big butt looks comically large. I'm sure the graphite bikini looks amazing on her, on me it looks outmatched, like the tiny hats clowns wear.

"My ass is the same size as yours," she says, taking me away from self loathing. "Maybe even a little bigger."

"It's not!"

We are both looking over our shoulders, waists twisting and asses side-by-side, the sides of our breasts pressed together. Claire puts her arms around me and squeezes me to her and swishes her hips back and forth, forcing me to do the same. I laugh at our swinging butts despite myself.

"Look how pretty!"

And she's right of course, I do feel pretty looking at us together like this. Next to her butt, my butt doesn't look gross.

"They are a matched pair," she insists, reaching under the overhang of my butt cheek to cup it. My butt looks good in her hand, her fingers are fine and thin, tapering to beautifully manicured tips. She keeps her nails relatively short and rounded. She moves her hand to her own ass and cups a cheek.

"Look!" She says, swishing our hips again, "they are the same!"

And she's right of course I'm reminded of looking at the blurry Polaroids of naked wrestling girls with Claire's

frienemy.

"She's very pretty," Gaby had told me, looking at a picture of the beautiful young photographer and another girl, both of them covered in a thin slurry of wet mud, wrestling on the forest floor, their round asses pushing up at the camera like overripe fruit.

'Claire and I look better than those girls,' I tell myself, but I'm not convinced, my body aches with doubt. And besides, we aren't going to be an anonymous photograph in a hipster Williamsburg gallery, we're going to a

public

beach.

I try to take comfort from how good she looks, how good we look together. She's right after all, her ass is no bigger than mine, her bottoms are

almost

as small as the ones I'm wearing, and she looks wonderful. Still, the sides of my breasts are exposed.

"But my body isn't like yours?" I tell her, looking at my breasts. "I look obscene!"

"You must see yourself through my eyes," she commands, reaching around from behind me to cup my boob. "You must feel proud to be seen the way I feel proud to show you off!"

For a time we stay like that, both of us looking at my breast, at her hand holding me, her fingers moving over the bikini. We watch my nipple getting hard, how it stretches the fabric even further. It feels good, but what if that happens at the beach?

'When

that happens at the beach,' I think glumly, as she pulls away, to examine me. Claire is tugging at the little suit, admiring it. I wish she were stripping me, that we could go back to bed. Instead she turns away, and starts packing things into our bags.

Standing alone in the mirror again, I feel pasty and naked.

"You are so terribly beautiful Sarah," Claire says without looking up. "I am so proud to show you off - truly," she insists.

"I burn so easy," I beg.

"I'll make sure you don't," she promises.

I try to think of other excuses, 'What if it slips off? What if...'

CLAP!

"OWWWcha!" I cry in surprise.

Claire has spun and standing just far away from me to give her room to swat my ass again.

CLAP!

"OW-WAhhh!"

This time she has struck the other cheek.

"Now stop pouting," she commands. "We are out of time!"

"I suppose I should be thankful you don't go in for g-strings..." I mumble, rubbing my butt.

This makes Claire laugh, and kissing me on the nose, she hands me a pair of her shorts.

"If we are late I'm going to tell Kip it's your fault!"

"How is it my fault?!" I pout, but do as she says.

It's entirely my fault.

Even though I'd woken up early, jumping out of bed to make us espressos, making

sure

we had all the time in the world. I had insisted on doing too much.

"I want us to look good for Kip," I finally admitted, as she blew out my hair - yelling over the hairdryer. She had said I was being a brat, that we were going to the beach, that our hair would get wet right away anyway - but I'd insisted.

"I get it," she said, turning off the hair dryer and crouching to hug me from behind. "He's your 'work husband'. I want to impress him too, and I'm happy for him to see how I take care of you."

I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that that wasn't it, but it totally was - or at least that was part of it.

"It's important," I admitted, and felt in my heart how true that was. I desperately wanted Kip to like her, to like us. And then she had insisted I wear a two piece, and I had rejected everyone until she decided on the little green graphite one.

'I should have agreed to the black one,' I think miserably. 'At least the top wasn't two little triangles."

I look at myself in the mirror. The shorts she's given me to wear are high waisted, which is nice, but they are VERY short. Hardly covering my ass seems to be a theme. She gives me a gossamer cotton blouse to wear, tying the tails at my waist, rather than buttoning it up.

"I look like a slut," I murmur, as she places a big pair of orange and cream sunglasses on my nose.

"My slut," she says possessively, kissing me on the lips this time.

"Your lover," I counter, the word making my belly warm.

"My girlfriend," she smiles, and I'm undone.

"Anything you want," I agree, feeling calm and, for a moment, even a little excited about the bathing suit.

'I will make her proud,' I promise myself.

Kip lives in a brick pre-war building in NoHo. His apartment is DIRECTLY above the Starbucks on Astor Place. Insisting we bring coffee was a power move, but he was driving, so who am I to complain?

I knew Kip would want an iced green tea, no sweetener, and texted him for the Bobs' orders: ice coffees, one black, one with "LOTS" of half and half.

You're late. Meet us outside the garage.

His text comes in while we are waiting for our drinks. It is three minutes after nine. For all intents and purposes we are on time.

Still, whatever calm I'd attained before leaving Claire's has abandoned me - the excitement evaporated almost instantly. I'm being snippy and cranky, but Claire sees right through it. She can tell how nervous I am. She kisses me, careful not to mess up my lipstick or hers.

"Stop fretting," she scolds me, plucking at my clothes and hair. "It's going to be fine."

I know she's right, and even as I wonder why I'm making so much of this, I realize I already know. Part of it is that Kip was the first person I told... really told, and now I'm introducing them. But the other part is Kip's pessimism, that because neither of us has ever been with a woman before, we might not last. Part of me wants to prove him wrong, make him eat his words - which is silly. It's not like Kip is against us. Somehow that realization relaxes me a little, but I can't explain any of that to Claire.

"I just really want him to like

us,"

is all I say.

"It is important," she agreed. Pleased to see her words relax me a little, she kisses me. "I get it," she whispers. "I promise."

"OH FUCK OFF KIPPEN!" Claire yells.

Kip and the Bobs are waiting by the entrance of the garage in his '67 Mary Kay, pink Cadillac Coupe Deville convertible. The top is down, and the guys have their shirts open and look beautiful.

Kip is thrilled with Claire's gobsmacked reaction.

"Did she not tell you about the Pink Beast?" he asks Claire, lowering his aviators to the end of his nose and cocking his head. He's playing it cool, like it's no big deal, but I can tell how happy he is with himself. He's about to explode.

"I wanted to surprise her," I tell him.

"I CANNOT believe it!!" Claire screams. In her excitement Claire drops our beach bags - which are overloaded with towels and magazines and sunblock and after-sun and moisturizer and water...

Luckily I'm the one holding the tray of coffees, and the bag of croissants.

"Kip!! It's TOO BEAUTIFUL!" she screams, throwing her hands in the air.

Kip can't contain himself any longer. He launches himself out of the driver's seat without opening his door and rushes Claire, who embraces him.

"If you're

really

good to Sarah Beth, I'll let you drive it someday."

"Really?"

"Probably not... but who knows? Now let us look at you!"

Claire spins for Kip. She and I are both wearing big beautiful sun hats in addition to sunglasses. She is wrapped in a sarong and looks like a movie star. I feel like her Lolita.

"Too perfect!" He laughs. "I can't tell you what a relief it was when Sarah finally told me about you. She's been so fucking skittish I was convinced she was pregnant!"

"You were not!" I protest.

"I totally was! You were a mess!"

"Kip!"

He introduces us to the Bobs as "Sarah and my

sister wife,

Claire" - which, once he explains what that is, Claire loves.

I made the mistake of telling Kip that I am the "wife" in my relationship with Claire, which he thinks is adorable, and will probably never let me live it down. I am afraid for a moment that he's going to out me and tell her, but besides making the sister wife joke he doesn't allude to it.

I am thrilled to finally meet the Bobs meanwhile.

Bobby and Robert are both in tight short-shorts and flip flops and short shirtsleeves. They are gym-body fabulous in their beach gear. And while they are clearly hungover and visibly in need of their caffeine, which I am happy to give them, they want to make a fuss over Claire and me first - our hair and lipstick and outfits.

Claire mispronounces Bobs as "Boobs" and Bobby as "Booby".

"We have

Robèrts," she explains, pronouncing the name with a thick French accent. "But we don't have Boobs in France," she tells us dryly. I think she's putting us on a little, mispronouncing on purpose, but it doesn't matter because the Bobs love it.

"The irony is, I've never actually been a Bob," Robert admits. "My mother hated it and made sure I was raised as a Robert.

Stranger still, it turns out Robert isn't Bobby's given name.

"Bobby is on my birth certificate," he tells us. "I'm from El Paso," he says, as if that explains everything. "My daddy and granddaddy are both Bobby too."

"Booby the Third," Claire agrees with a nod.

"I can't stand it, I love you so much!" Bobby cries, hugging her. "Promise you will always call me Booby."

That the Bobs are as tall and strong looking as Kip helps me relax a little bit about the whole bikini situation. At least I don't have to worry about Claire and I getting harassed with these three around. Still I can't help picturing the shocked mothers.

I try to tell myself I'm being silly again, that it's going to be a fun day, that everything will be fine...and I almost believe it.

Despite the knot in my stomach, the drive is fun. Kip and Robert in the front seat playing music loud. Claire and Bobby on either side of me in the giganticly wide back seat. All of us laughing and yelling over the music and the wind, which is blowing our hair around. All the work I made Claire do is undone the instant we get on the expressway. She and I see each other as we are unloading our things and burst out laughing. We look like mad women.

I help Claire pull her hair into a ponytail, and then she does the same for me - "so we won't scare the babies," she jokes.

But thankfully, there are NO babies.

The beach is nothing like what I'd expected.

"Welcome to Fire Island," Kip laughs, when he sees me gaping at two men walking past us in thong speedos.

"I didn't even know that was a thing," I tell him.

"Not a good look," Claire whispers to me even as Kip and the Bobs look on appreciatively. I share a laugh with her, but the truth is I am hugely relieved to see those guys with their asses hanging out.

I have been picturing men and boys leering at me, imagining judgemental women giving me disapproving looks, of shocking innocent little girls.

But there is no possibility of any of that here. This stretch of Fire Island is almost all gay men. Claire and I aren't the only women, but we are part of a small minority.

And while women are in a minority, there are more than enough of us to see that NONE of them are disapproving mothers. The bathing suits Claire chose for us aren't at the conservative end of the spectrum. But from what I can see, we're not going to raise any eyebrows here. In fact, we aren't anywhere near the most scantily clad girls on the beach.

"This is not to my tastes, but I like it better on them," Claire says, bringing my attention to a pair of women we pass on the sand. They are sunning themselves on their towels, laying on their bellies, and for a shocking moment they look naked. It's only after that initial shock I see that they have undone the straps of their tops and are wearing g-strings, that are little more than the ties on my bikini.

On principle, I agree with Claire. I don't find thongs, much less g-strings, attractive - or comfortable. I have a couple thongs I bought at Danny's urging, but haven't worn either since I split with William. I hadn't noticed Claire never wore them until I went through her underwear drawer and didn't find a single pair.

'...but she goes commando,' I think, still looking at women's bare asses. Seeing them flaunting their bodies is thrilling.

Which is all to say I don't blush or try to cover myself as Claire and I strip down to our bikinis and follow her down to the water. She is beautiful and unashamed. I want her to see that I am proud.

And besides a "damn girl" - which is decidedly friendly and good natured - we draw almost no attention from the men on the beach.

"I think you just like putting sunblock on her," Kip says dryly.

"She burns very easily," Claire explains. "But you're not wrong!" she laughs.

She is reapplying lotion to my sides and back for the third time. Any time I go in the water, or even just turn over on my towel she is there with more lotion.

"She wasn't even in for that long!" Bobby points out playfully.

"I won't risk her burning Booby!" Claire says happily as she smooths the fifty SPF over my shoulders and neck, her hands drifting down my front and over the tops of my breasts. "And because she insisted on such a tiny tiny bikini..." she sighs.

"ACK! I did no such thing!"

Claire and the guys are laughing at me, at my wide eyed outrage. But the truth is, after all my worrying, protests and whining, I'm enjoying the itsy bitsy, teeny weeny bikini.

In fact, I'm certain I've never enjoyed myself at the beach the way I am now - forgetting myself, but also, even when I am aware, I find I am enjoying the appreciative looks I'm getting. I feel proud and bold in a way I never have before. It helps that Claire can't keep her eyes or hands off me. She makes me feel sexy... in a good way. I'm not afraid or ashamed - it's like when I know Helen is watching us, or when we were being watched by the Asian girls at the dance party. I know I'm being watched, but I'm not ashamed.

'I'm not even worried about burning,' I think wryly, as Claire comes around to face me and begins reapplying lotion to my arms.

"I cannot get over how beautiful you look," Claire murmurs, as she smears a gob of lotion over my belly, before kneeling to do my legs. She's worshiping me in front of the whole beach.

"Give me your foot," she tells me with a tap at my leg, cleaning off any loose sand while I hold myself steady on her shoulders.

"You don't have to do that. I can do it myself," I protest quietly. But this only makes her smile up at me. My nipples are threatening to tear through the little bikini top.

Only after making sure she hasn't missed any spots on my thighs and waist, she finally lets me join her on the towel. We lay side by side on our bellies. I open my book and she picks one of the magazines, but we are mostly exchanging whispered sweet nothings and playing footsie.

"Oh my God, you two are too much," Kip declares as he jumps up. "Can't stand it!" he yells as he jogs towards the Bobs, who are playing catch down by the water.

Kip and the Bobs are some of the most beautiful men on the beach.

The Bobs are both in speedos, along with almost every other man on the beach - the guys in g-strings are almost as small a minority as women. Kip is possibly wearing the only pair of trunks on the beach. He's in yellow Ken doll-authentic trunks, but they are so short they are either vintage or womans'. He has a surprisingly hairy chest that, like his eyebrows, is dark and thick.