"C'mon babe," Kevin said. "She's just doing cartwheels."
I glanced over to the blonde trying to show off, successfully by the size of the crowd gathering around her.
"Kev - look at her form. Those cartwheels belong on a horse and buggy."
"C'mon Heather! Show off those mad state champion skills, with a z."
She was a little younger, sure, otherwise the spitting image of me. Actually, maybe a little more top-heavy. Her boobs were bursting out a top designed for that purpose. Across the beach, guys were flocking, no doubt attracted to her bouncing... personality.
I cracked open another beer.
"I think I'll just enjoy the show."
"Sure, but then you might as well say it. Everyone's already thinking it."
"What now?"
"You've no longer got it."
"Whatever..."
"The torch has been passed. The Olympics are over..."
I gestured at the girl, whose hand went up to tuck one of her boobs back into its holster.
"Just in time for the 'O' lympics to begin."
I had been an alternate to London in 2012, which DID NOT make me an actual Olympian. It made me close, tantalizingly, achingly, willing to hire a Russian with a tire iron kind of close to an actual accomplishment in gymnastics.
Funny...
I had practiced since I was six. My parents took me to camps, private coaches, and every meet across Texas. I got a full-ride scholarship, a degree in physical therapy, and more medals and trophies than I could fit in a suitable cabinet.
And still, missing out on the Olympics more than a decade ago is all I can think about. I don't really even practice anymore. Of course, pushing forty, I no longer bend quite like Beckham. I don't miss the diets, though I added a few pounds immediately after retiring that I never lost. Looking back, I wish I could have appreciated things as they happened, instead of being laser focused on the grind.
The girl stuck her landing, tits jiggling as she milked the applause.
"Looks like she's headed to Paris in 24."
"Uh-huh..."
"I bet she does a split on one of those dicks later."
Fuck, he was always doing this, negging me. Needling me about how he expected sex with a gymnast to be more acrobatic, energetic, like he was hung like a pommel horse. I didn't need to stretch to spread my legs wide enough for his dick.
Average was being kind, not that I cared.
"This swimsuit doesn't fit well," I said, adjusting the drawstring to my bottoms. "I do anything big, and I'll likely lose it."
"Anything big? I bet you can't even backflip anymore."
"Fine..."
He wasn't going to shut up, decent as he could be, Kevin could fixate.
I adjusted the knot on each side of the rainbow colored bottoms. The bikini had a real eighties workout vibe, the kind of tapered v-shaped part that showed off the bottom of my butt a little classier than a thong. Another positive about gaining a little weight, my ass filled out. Not to the point where I could dance on a flashy car in a rap video, but enough that I didn't feel as self-conscious about my thicker arms.
I stood up and strode a few steps, taking one last drink.
"Hold my beer."
I barely looked at him.
Without really thinking, I rushed forward, making my first flip into a cartwheel, just to show that teenybopper how it's done. Long dormant reflexes took over, and my arms quickly pivoted to the best position in the sand. Again and again, I pushed back and up, my arms stretching up and out over my head until I completely forgot everything.
For a brief moment, I was back before college, before the pressure, back when gymnastics was all about fun. I could feel my body flying, the speed of each successive flip increasing until I was one fluid motion.
It felt good.
I kept going, two back-flips becoming four, each motion a blur until I noticed my bikini slipping. I couldn't stop, not even as I became certain that most of my crack was on display. My hands hit the water as one of the strings became completely untied, the fabric flapping in the wind, giving the entire beach a view of my barely covered bum.
