I was desperate
for solitude
and inspiration
that gleefully happy
parents weekend.
I never invite mine,
one
whom I love,
is
usually busy,
the other,
I’d rather
just
forget.
So I ask my roommate
about this nude beach,
whole-heartedly yearning
for a quiet place to write.
She had babbled about it for months
so I figured it was worth the trip.
After parking,
the walk to the
promised land of relaxation
was merely
a lovely winding
trail.
Only—
climbing
to the sand by rope
had me a tinge nervous.
Literally
I have one
fear—
falling
that paralyzes me
at times.
I tend to be an over packer
and not the most graceful of
women (hence the previously stated fear.)
Scars litter much of my
skin’s surface.
It was a difficult task
to say the least—
with beach towels,
notebooks, keys and
a purse full of pounds
of change.
The idea of a secret beach
is taken too far by
the nudist clan—
making it a chore to even find
the coveted spot
for those of us
clothed-ones
that are curious of the site.
I lost a shoe
and my dignity on
the way down.
At least—
I thought I lost my
dignity,
until I had a look around.
Yes—
I applaud the particular
type of nudist
who feels
confident enough
to parade around like
a curly-haired poodle
in a dog contest,
hoping that everyone gets a
good look.
But forgive me
if my standards
are different than yours.
Chubby
short
raisined
dicks
will
never
be
attractive—
especially bouncing
too and fro
like a child trying
to not step on the cracks so
as not to “break his grandmother’s back.”
Gravity and the aging process
are truly enemies
to those who covet the sun
without any coverage
as if being in its presence
was like meeting royalty.
In no way am I looking forward to
the decline of my youth—
I think to myself
as I slather
tanning lotion on my
partially suited body.
Disgust appears over
my face—
If I keep tanning
will I look like that?
Both my parents
appear young for
their ages
so I
tell myself—
My genes will slow the process.
Sagging skin
resembling the waves
of the ocean 15 feet away,
rippling at the slightest
disturbance
and bellies protruding
that mirror a pregnant woman
in her second trimester,
are the displays of
the day.
Oh God,
don’t bring out the
frisbee,
the balls and paddle.
A girl can only
take so much
I thought to myself—
then I wondered
if my appearance
was screaming for
the 86 year-old man’s company—
Schlong, shapelessly droopy ass, and all.
Do not put your umbrella so near to me—
I willed him this message with my mind,
with no luck.
I just wanted some alone-time.
But I laugh,
all in good fun
I guess,
as I untie my bikini top—
which is quickly
tightened again
as fully-dressed
sweaty,
black-moustache-wearing
pitiful-excuses-for-men
scan the beach like they’re
FBI looking for a wanted criminal.
Pathetic the way some
keep themselves
entertained.
Back and forth
they walk in groups
like caged tigers
hoping for a glance
of fresh meat.
Then suddenly,
Hello Mermaid—
says a man to me
as he prances toward
the water.
I smile, nod
and exchange
a few polite pleasantries.
As a child
I always dreamed
I really was
a mermaid—
hair full of shells,
sparkling iridescent
mossy-green scaled fin,
a seahorse and dolphin
as my companions.
Hours I would spend
in my grandmother’s pool
bobbing around with my
legs imaginatively fused together—
only to get out of the water
for the promise
of my grandmother’s
homemade berry pie.
Most likely
he called me a mermaid
mocking my
still covered
body
wrapped in the
olive-green suit.
But to the six-year-old
in me,
he simply called me
what I knew
I always
was.
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Okay, this is one that tells a good story. Maybe that is why I like it. It created very crisp images that took me on a mental vacation. I enjoyed the trip from start to finish. It is quite a shock to realize that:
ReplyDelete"Chubby
short
raisined
dicks
will
never
be
attractive—"