Duck a la sausâge
We went swimming today - Krister, my brother and I, seeing as how the water was above freezing temperature.
The one patch of beach by the lake was so packed with people that you couldn't see any sand. Just the sun bouncing off baby prams, foiled wrapped lunches and whole families' worth of white asses.
No matter. We found our own little patch of Swedish beach a.k.a grass and gravel and dove in from there. Some of us wore bathing suits, some of us insisted on doing the back stroke naked. It was the repeated mumbling of wanting to bathe naked that scared the family that had been there when we came to the other side of the lake; it was the great moon of a Krister leaping out of the water to catch a duck that prompted one of the younger members of the family now across the lake to scream. His "GAAAH NAKED NAKED!" was surprisingly coherent thanks to an otherwise calm lake. The mental scarring was for naught however, there were no ducks caught. Perhaps it was the heat of the moment, the army of endorphines set free with the loosening of underwear, or just something special about that day - but it seems to have slipped Krister's mind that despite their sedimentary lifestyle bobbing for small fish and the occasional shart, ducks can fly quite swimmingly. Ba-dam-bam!
Meanwhile, I gave my new bikini a test run. I haven't had a bikini for the past few years seeing as how I always manage to buy a top a size too small. And given that there's no returns on clothing that has been soiled by the gaping hole of nastiness that is breast, each summer has seen me and one or both of my nipples. My favorite being stepping out of the water to find that one has chosen to pop out over the bra, one under. Like an old married couple fighting over the best route to the early bird special. While looking like the cheap flaccid sausages they're struggling to get to.
This one seems to be holding up quite well though. In fact I look quite nice. The kind of nice where people don't ask you if you come with eggs and bacon too. The kind of nice where people don't band together to try to roll you back in the sea, or shoot you because it might be kinder (or because they feel a burning need to make soap NOW.)
The downside, I suppose, is that it makes me feel naked. I mean, basically a bikini is a bra and underwear with prettier patterns and a better drying rate. Because of the prettier patterns, no-one bats an eye that you're walking around flaunting your badly trimmed foliage. You can be as wet down there as you want, and yet nobody's trying to mount you. With a bathing suit you don't have that problem, since there's usually only two sorts of people that wear swimsuits these days. Everyone just automatically assumes that you're a very young grandmother of 10 or a 10 year old with Progeria. It's as if when you hit twenty the only socially accepted swim wear is a two-piece, and the only reasonable reward is rejection.
Maybe Krister had the right idea. When you're naked, you don't have any secrets or delusions of grandeur, especially not in fifteen-degree "warm" water. Nobody can claim that you're wearing too much or too little. They're just trying to avert their eyes from the gleam of the great wet white ass as it is bobbing around in hope of, and in wait for that one elusive duck.
The one patch of beach by the lake was so packed with people that you couldn't see any sand. Just the sun bouncing off baby prams, foiled wrapped lunches and whole families' worth of white asses.
No matter. We found our own little patch of Swedish beach a.k.a grass and gravel and dove in from there. Some of us wore bathing suits, some of us insisted on doing the back stroke naked. It was the repeated mumbling of wanting to bathe naked that scared the family that had been there when we came to the other side of the lake; it was the great moon of a Krister leaping out of the water to catch a duck that prompted one of the younger members of the family now across the lake to scream. His "GAAAH NAKED NAKED!" was surprisingly coherent thanks to an otherwise calm lake. The mental scarring was for naught however, there were no ducks caught. Perhaps it was the heat of the moment, the army of endorphines set free with the loosening of underwear, or just something special about that day - but it seems to have slipped Krister's mind that despite their sedimentary lifestyle bobbing for small fish and the occasional shart, ducks can fly quite swimmingly. Ba-dam-bam!
Meanwhile, I gave my new bikini a test run. I haven't had a bikini for the past few years seeing as how I always manage to buy a top a size too small. And given that there's no returns on clothing that has been soiled by the gaping hole of nastiness that is breast, each summer has seen me and one or both of my nipples. My favorite being stepping out of the water to find that one has chosen to pop out over the bra, one under. Like an old married couple fighting over the best route to the early bird special. While looking like the cheap flaccid sausages they're struggling to get to.
This one seems to be holding up quite well though. In fact I look quite nice. The kind of nice where people don't ask you if you come with eggs and bacon too. The kind of nice where people don't band together to try to roll you back in the sea, or shoot you because it might be kinder (or because they feel a burning need to make soap NOW.)
The downside, I suppose, is that it makes me feel naked. I mean, basically a bikini is a bra and underwear with prettier patterns and a better drying rate. Because of the prettier patterns, no-one bats an eye that you're walking around flaunting your badly trimmed foliage. You can be as wet down there as you want, and yet nobody's trying to mount you. With a bathing suit you don't have that problem, since there's usually only two sorts of people that wear swimsuits these days. Everyone just automatically assumes that you're a very young grandmother of 10 or a 10 year old with Progeria. It's as if when you hit twenty the only socially accepted swim wear is a two-piece, and the only reasonable reward is rejection.
Maybe Krister had the right idea. When you're naked, you don't have any secrets or delusions of grandeur, especially not in fifteen-degree "warm" water. Nobody can claim that you're wearing too much or too little. They're just trying to avert their eyes from the gleam of the great wet white ass as it is bobbing around in hope of, and in wait for that one elusive duck.
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