It’s the Fourth of July weekend; I’m sitting under an umbrella with a light breeze keeping me cool, and I’m watching an astonishing number of people walk by wearing various renditions of Old Glory. I confess, however, the two-piece versions do a better job of getting my attention. Some of them are, well, riveting.
Still and all, the distaff half of the species isn’t the only segment thus accoutered. Red, white and blue—stars, stripes, zippers, bows and the occasional tassel abound. It’s very uhm– patriotic.
And who knew such beachwear could be had in such a wide array of sizes? Oy. I know for a fact I saw the exact same suit on two different bodies, though the effect could not have been more extreme. The larger of the two would have looked just as sublime as the smaller one provided the wearer had spread the wrapper over a slightly taller frame. Nine or ten feet would be enough, and would likely have cast a great deal less shade.
The guys, too, are making fashion statements, though one might interpret them in a manner unlike that intended by the model. I refer, of course, to the Speedo versions. This microwear seems to attract a distinct sort of customer. They might not be perfect physical specimens, but they’re almost universally stare-worthy, for one reason or another. One such bather just sauntered by, and I couldn’t help but notice the patriotic fabric was only large enough to support a single, silver dollar-sized star located dead center astern. Some kind of statement, I reckon.
Speaking of stars, I saw a couple more located strategically on a young gal’s top–one star on each side, reminiscent of the legendary Lola LaBonza’s costume when she worked the Boom Boom Room on the strip in Atlantic City. Or maybe it was DeMoines. I forget. Her. Not the stars. I think they might have been glued on. Anyway, the effect was, in a word, profound. God invented gravity for a reason, bless his heart, which explains things like planetary orbits. Lola, as I recall, simulated dualing star systems—okay, not whole systems, just two stars—but she made ’em rotate in opposite directions. But I digress, Lola never hit the beach where I could see her. At least, not on this trip.
Back on the guy’s side, another <cough> attraction is the thong. I’m pretty sure these things should not be worn by guys. It’s just—pardon my squeamishness—icky. A few gals can pull off the thong thing to astounding effect. It helps if they’re significantly younger than fifty, and have the kind of body for which Helen of Troy would kill. Just sayin’.
Of course, all this comes from the perspective of a middle-aged male troll under the influence of several exotic (read: adult) beverages. Understand, I almost always keep my shirt on—mostly as a public service. I realize this in no way qualifies me to comment on the physical perfection, or lack thereof, exhibited by other folks at the beach.
But, geez, it’s sooooo hard not to.
So, what the hell.