When Laura was younger--during and after college but before moving north for law school--sandbar parties were a ritual. Like many Latinas, her "friends" were often cousins or family acquaintances, clusters of young women who traveled in tight-knit packs. The more they banded together, the bolder they grew. They always donned skimpy string bikinis to flirt and tease boys. It was a game they played with confidence that led many of them to their first sexual experiences with college boys visiting from out of town for spring break. Laura still smiled at those memories: the way her heart raced when a strange boy's eyes lingered on her bikini top during spring breaks of long ago. Now in her fifties with children older than she'd been when she quit partying, she had never imagined revisiting such scenes until last summer.
Her closest friends, a married couple as inseparable as her own close family, had insisted. "You'll regret it if you don't," they teased, their boat bobbing at the marina like an invitation she couldn't refuse. They have an amazing boat and she rarely passed up an invitation to go out on the bay with them. They were right. The bay, after all, was where Laura felt most alive--its breeze whispering promises of youth and freedom.
The humid air hung thick with laughter as their boat glided into the sandbar party. Dozens of vessels were tied together like a floating carnival, their decks crowded with young revelers. Many of the others frolicking and splashing in Miami's crystal blue/green water. The coeds around her looked barely older than teenagers, their bikinis so skimpy they seemed to vanish beneath the shallow water of the sandbar. Laura's suit, a zebra print number with red lining that had once felt daring but now felt modest by comparison
By midday, the heat had drawn Laura into the water, where she'd lingered long enough to forget how time slipped away. She was enjoying some chitchat for a while almost forgetting she was decades older than most revelers. Now, drenched and sun-kissed, she climbed back aboard and found shade under the boat's center console. A mimosa in hand, she let the alcohol and warmth blur her edges just enough. That was when he appeared: a young man paddling by on a sailboard, grinning as he hailed her. "Hey there!" His voice carried a hint of mischief, or maybe liquor--or both.
Laura raised an eyebrow. He'd timed his greeting perfectly; she'd been out of the water only moments. Given the short time it took for him to greet her just after climbing aboard, Laura suspected she had attracted his attention earlier in the day. Close-up, he looked older than most of the undergrads here, though still decades younger than her. "Med school," he offered when asked what brought him to Miami. A University of Miami student, about to start residency--ambitious for someone so young.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked. Laura gestured to the deck, noting the sea of bodies nearby which gave her a sense of safety and security. His confidence was casual but not cocky, his posture loose yet controlled as he climbed aboard despite the alcohol in his system. As he was climbing on board Laura took the opportunity to tighten her bikini top to lift her middle-aged breasts a bit higher while he was distracted. Her mind began to race harkening back decades ago. Perhaps no one would notice if she played harmless games with a future doctor. She leaned forward subtly, in her freshly tightened bikini top until her movements caught his eye. Let him wonder, she thought, savoring the thrill. After all these years away from the sandbar, it was nice to feel the art of teasing she and her friends developed at this very spot all those decades ago. She still had a craving for affirmation, perhaps from a much younger man this time?
Being a successful attorney and business women she would never admit to a craving for affirmation from men that she developed early on. Growing up as a Latina in Miami any affirmation from men was what women of her generation strived for. It may have been as simple a gesture as serving a plate of food to an older male relative and getting praise for doing so was so affirming to her. Getting called a "good girl" was secretly something that to this day gives her goosebumps knowing that she has pleased a man. As she got older the affirmation she craves has morphed into a more sexual form. Today the desired affirmation is more about her looks related to sexual attractiveness. She has made staying in shape and keeping up with her looks a significant priority. She keeps to a plant based diet, works with a personal trainer and runs at least 15+ miles a week. She knows that trying to keep up with the fashion show that is Miami is a full time job at her age.
The conversation flowed easy enough--med school stress, summer plans. Laura found the young student to be very sweet in an almost innocent way. He was very polite and respectful but she did catch his eyes wandering to her newly adjusted cleavage. Laura's mind drifted back to the girl who'd once craved praise from uncles and her cousins. Now she hungered for a different sort of validation she developed later in life: the tilt of his head and his subtle glances in this sunlit moment, she felt startlingly vivid--almost young.
They talked further about his academics and life's aspirations, but his eyes still kept wandering down to her breasts. His most recent gaze lasted just a bit longer than the pervious and when he looked up at her he knew he had been caught staring. His face flushed a deep crimson. He apologized profusely and then blurted out that he thought her breasts were magnificent. She gave him a warm smile and said there was no need to apologize.
But still, the medical student's confession hung in the air like the scent of sunscreen and saltwater. Laura watched his ears redden as he stammered over her question--why exactly did he find her breasts "magnificent"? His gaze remained fixed on her tits, a combination of boyish nerves and unbridled earnestness. "The roundness," he finally said, voice trembling, "and the firmness... I can see the top of your tan line and an ever so slight sliver of dark areola peeking out of the fabric." He paused, swallowing hard. "I want to see them". He craved to see what's been haunting him all afternoon.
Laura arched a brow, amused and intrigued by his poetic desperation. She'd spent decades hearing men reduce her body to clichés--"toned," "perky"--but this was different. His fixation felt less like objectification and more like fascination, as if he were dissecting anatomy with his eyes alone.
