Chest inflated and head held high, he swaggered across the sand. Clearly this was his skin’s first escape from the tombs — it was still a saggy covering of pasty, white flesh. I only assume that the Speedo covering that portion of his back where his butt should have been also covered his dangly-bits in front. I can’t say for sure as his gut hung low, wobbling excitedly before the tops of his thighs. He was accompanied by a pair of voluptuous girls, poking their nipples curiously from their matching holes in the rug on his chest. And his demeanor proclaimed loudly that the magic mirror on his wall had convinced him he was the studliest one of all — God’s true gift to womankind.
Today is the big day — my safari among the tribe of nudie booties on the clothing optional beach. While I’m very comfortable with my unconventional body and all the imperfections that house the woman who is me, I’m nonetheless apprehensive about letting it all hang out before judging eyes not mine.
I don’t know very many women who can stand before a full-length mirror and name fewer than a dozen flaws — real or imagined — with their bodies. Men, on the other hand, you fail to see even the most glaring of your imperfections — design flaws for which we clearly give no demerits when choosing you. Don’t fool yourselves, darlings, we do look. And we so ache for the deeply rippled valleys of perfect six-packs, well-developed biceps that fill our grasping hands and butts between whose cheeks you can crack walnuts — attributes of masculine pulchritude an overwhelming majority of you lack. However, if we chose only from among those of you who display even one of the characteristics that set our nethers atwitter, I could make a fortune in inflatable doll futures. Let me rephrase that for you (sorry, I forgot I’m talking to men). Put very simply, you would be more thankful you have saliva and opposable thumbs.
Guys, we understand that you’re very visual creatures and that nature demands you look. But — as usual — you take it too far. You idolize Olive Oyl’s anorexic progeny. And women (even more depressingly, young girls) starve themselves — sometimes going so far as to eat the things they love and puke them back up again — to meet your unreasonable and unrealistic standard. Women with a healthier body weight — with that biologically normal covering of fat that distinguishes our softer bodies from your harder, firmer (well, at least you’re supposed to be) ones — you criticize. And curvaceous, more voluptuous beauties — women at whose feet kings once worshipped — you completely ignore.
Somewhere out there right now millions of young girls are growing up hating themselves because they’re not the spindles you want them to be. And that’s a damned shame.
Okay — enough. I’d found my spot on the nudie beach — a single chaise in the shade of a short, broad (hmm … kinda like me) palm tree. I placed my pen and notepad, my Kindle and my drink on the side table, then I carefully spread the resort’s big blue and white striped towel over the cushions. I took a long look at the bodies — short, tall, fit, fat, red, brown and black — dotting the sand. I inhaled deeply and smiled as I grabbed the edge of my bright pink cover-up and pulled it off over my head …
… revealing my matching swimsuit underneath.
Oh, wait a minute! Silly wabbit, you didn’t honestly think I was going to bare it all now, did you? LOL!!