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,
