Tall And Tan And Young And Lovely

So, there we were at a nude beach. Whoopty-freakin'-doo.

I finally gave in to Frank on this, hoping that if he saw what it's really like, he'd get past it. Scratch one more ridiculous fantasy off his list.

I tried to get some benefit from being naked, out in the open. I started tanning where the sun's ultraviolet has never been allowed to attack me. I'd read up on how to limit the damage to really sensitive lady-places, and I sunscreened accordingly.

I also took notes, in case I had to shame Frank later. He knew. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to describe my husband's bad behavior on social media. It is from such implied threats, that arise my husband's good behavior.

This time, my posting would be text only. Even if I felt great about being at a nude beach, I didn't want to go to the trouble of blurring everything.

From his beach chair, next to mine, Frank's stolid, sunglassed expression did not change. He watched singles and couples, all butt-naked, strolling along the water line, sometimes bending over to pick up seashells.

He said to me, "After half an hour of ogling the local talent, I've decided that you're the best-looking woman here."

Aww, he's so sweeeet! Well, if I ignored how grumpy he sounded. Clearly he'd been hoping for female specimens way hotter than the one he married. The one named Livinia, who bicycles, and kickboxes, and never takes a second helping. That's more for my sake than his.

Yes, MY sake. To all the haters out there, I'm a selfish narcissist. Surely, I must be advancing a femdom agenda, exploiting the airborne and waterborne estrogen that is turning all male Americans into weak wimps. Did I cover everything? Dang, I've never gotten around to cheating on Frank. So I haven't Violated The Sanctity Of The Marital Bed. That must be because the other men sniffing around me are even worse than he is.

Frank turned his head my way, and half-smiled. "You should walk along the water line. Give people something worthwhile to watch."

"You could too," I said. "Show off your tentacle." Show is the operative term. Frank isn't a grower. What you see is what you'd get, if he cheated on me. Both the cock and the balls dangle impressively, even when he's completely limp. Fun to play with, sometimes. But his horniest blood flow doesn't add size, just rigidity.

"This audience does nothing for me," he said. "And I don't want to deal with gay guys."

Well, it's not like I was going to sit there all day. There'd be some kind of activity, probably swimming. But first, I could just walk around, and feel what it's like to do that with no fabric on me.

I've never been any good at jogging in slow motion, and my hair isn't long enough to fan out gloriously in the breeze. But in my wicked, narcissistic way, I schemed something else.

I saw a food truck parked, a ways down the beach. My shades are prescription, so I made out enough detail to see that it offered soft-serve ice cream.

I said to Frank, "Give me money."

"As always," he groused, digging into his backpack.

"If you want me to be live-action softcore porn, do what I tell you." I liked the sound of that. Very femdom.

With a few bills tucked into my wristband, off I strolled, towards the truck.

My shades prevented anyone from seeing my glances at the people I passed. I didn't try to hide my little smile. Yes, maybe all of the men agreed with Frank about who was the best-looking naked woman then in view. Once I had gone past, I couldn't see the guys as they watched, but I know that my tush and legs are really nice. (cf. Bicycling, kickboxing, denial of second helpings.)

I thought about samba-ing. I didn't do that, but in my head I played "The Girl From Ipanema." Also in my head were amusement, irony, and a grain of self-loathing.

About halfway to the truck was a rinse-off shower with connected drinking fountains. I already needed a drink, so I stopped.

As I was drinking, a woman with short gray hair and a fit, middle-aged body, stepped up to me and said, "I just want you to know, you've made my husband's day!"

I straightened up. "I hope I haven't ruined yours."

"Oh, definitely not!" she said brightly, with a happy laugh. "Nudity just reminds us what people really look like. And how impressive the exceptions are."

She held out her hand. "I'm Carol."

I took the hand. "Livinia."

I looked at the evenness of Carol's tan, and said, "I guess it's pretty obvious that I'm a first-timer."

She cocked an eyebrow, and her smile edged towards naughty. "That makes certain things stand out more. Don't worry, after the skin tone evens out, you'll still look great. Are you alone here?"

"Oh, no. My husband is over there." I pointed back where I'd come from.

"That's good," she said, looking that way. "People behave themselves here, but a woman shouldn't--"

Her eyes popped. Clearly she'd found the adonis with the tanned musculature and the fishbelly-white bifurcation. He had stood up, to keep me in view.

"Wow!" she said. "That's one nice side of beef."

"Yeah," I said, with as much satisfaction as regret. Getting married gave each of us sexual access to a fine, um, exception. As wrong life-choices go, that's a pretty good one.

"I hope this won't offend you," said Carol, "but I have to say...your kids will look spectacular."

This caught me at the wrong moment. I said, "Might not happen," and instantly wanted to retract it.

"Huh?" she said, looking puzzled.

I could have just waved it off. But this woman was a total stranger I might never encounter again, especially if I didn't reveal my social media feed. Sometimes, it gets to be too much, bottling everything in, so that friends, and relatives, and social media followers, don't know what's really going on. Sometimes I just have to say

something,

out loud, to

someone.

Quietly I said, "Frank and I might not be in it for the long term. There's good, and there's bad, and we're still working out which side of the scale is the heaviest. But we've agreed on one thing. We won't have kids unless we know we can stay together."

Carol's jolly expression vanished. "That is so smart! I wish--"

She looked away. Towards her husband? Away from him? I didn't know, and for the sake of everyone, I didn't want to.

She found a smile. "Anyway, have fun while you can!" Then, with a wave, she turned and departed.

I resumed my journey. After a couple steps, I remembered to sashay, instead of trudge. The sand at the water line was hard-packed enough to make that possible.

Even a small cone of soft-serve is pretty big. The guy behind the counter really enjoyed the sight of me, as I pulled a couple bills from the wristband pocket and then stowed away the change.

He grinned, well into a leer, as he handed over the cone.

I smirked, flipped him the bird, and turned so he wouldn't see any licking.

It was on the way back that I surely incited the closest thing to tumescence, among all the men baking on the beach. Frank included.

The sun was almost directly overhead. By arching my back a little, I thrust out my boobs, as far as they can thrust. That isn't too far, but they threw shade, literally, down my torso. As Carol had noted, these Certain Things got even more attention because of their lighter hue.

The breeze made my nips hard and pointy. The morning shave showed my meaty outer labia as they rubbed with each step.

But the clincher was the cone. And my slow, langourous licking of the swirly white bulk.

Mmmmm. Tasty.

If this trip had been any longer, I might have sunburned my tongue.

To judge from the shifting thighs and the grabbing of towels, I was making erections. Dozens of them. I was earning them.

In a lizard-brain way, I even

wanted

them!

I wasn't just the best-looking woman here. I had the looks that had made Frank pursue me. The looks that made him struggle to find women who were hotter.

As I told Carol, there's bad, as well as good.

I've seen the beach bukkake porn that Frank found. That could be me, surrounded by penises, doing whatever I wanted with them.

My pussy started getting juicy.

But most of my brain ignores what the lizard wants.

A slow deep breath got me back to my preferred self.

When I finished my traverse, I had worked the soft-serve down to the top of the cone. I extended my pearly-white incisors, and bit off a chunk of the cone.

Frank, seated again, laughed, and applauded.

The bastard! The not-without-irony-of-his-own bastard!

But I had, after all, delivered the performance I had envisioned. Frank wasn't fully erect, but he was thick.

I twirled down to sit in my chair, handed Frank the remains of my cone, and said, "You're welcome."

We didn't stay much longer. We went in for a swim, and he took the opportunity to grope my naked flesh. I allowed that, and even returned the favor. I wasn't

completely

unaffected by my licentious cavorting. One trip to a nude beach was more than enough for me, but I did have this nice side of beef.

I wasn't yet sure what I'd post to social media about this excursion. I always try to make my snarking about Frank seem good-natured, and he's never upset by it. But we both know that what I post is part of my weighing in the scales, about our future. Together or otherwise.

We put on our swimwear to return to the parking lot, and lugged all of our stuff in one trip. Frank popped the trunk of his ginormous SUV, and was about to dump his handfuls on the back deck. But I said, "No. Middle seat."

He frowned, puzzled. I grabbed him by the back of the neck, brought his mouth to my level, and kissed him deep. We tasted like soft-serve.

The Girl Who Isn't From Ipanema whispered, "Are you going to let the best-looking woman leave here unfucked?"

The chairs and other stuff got jammed into the middle seat. So did our swimwear. The back deck had enough room for cowgirl, with my not-yet-tanned tits pancaked on his sunburned chest, and his feet up against a window. We had never banged in his ride. I don't know if anyone noticed. All I know is, we didn't get arrested.

There's good. There's bad. We're still working it out.