In the way that Paul Gauguin's paintings of Polynesia are sultry and sensuous, almost radiating a sexuality that emerges from the very landscape itself, I find sunbathing on a tropical beach a sultry and sensuous act in and of itself. Perhaps it is because I live in a northern clime, and while my winter weather is moderated by the coastal connection to the Pacific Ocean, we still spend about 4 to 5 months of the year bundled up in layers of clothing against the cold. The contrast, then, which emerges when I find myself wearing three triangles of barely there cloth - in the case of my bikini - loosely connected by a flimsy set of strings prone to coming undone without any warning, starts the sensual liberation.
A lotion, scented with coconut oil and aloe, lingeringly massaged into skin that leaves a literal and figurative glow, eroticizing my skin. The sun's rays which lightly trace the rounded contours of my breasts feel like the lips of a long missed lover teasing my nipples erect. The heat, lingering warmly, parts my thighs and nudges my ass cheeks into a relaxed and receptive softness. My back muscles comfortably arch with the lazy cat-like quiver of an all over awareness of this female body I inhabit. Even "back in the day" when, as a young 18 year old, I traveled to the tropics with my family and another family I knew so well that they were like a "second" set of parents and siblings, I can remember the irresistible eroticism of the place that caused me to lose more than my inhibitions.
He, lying beside me on the tropical beach on his back, had on a tight bathing suit, outlining the delicious bulge that was his package. Our families had been friends since before we were born and we spent so much time growing up together that we knew each other's vulnerabilities and strengths and could trust each other with our very lives. We could, and did, talk to each other about everything and anything. We knew what made each other laugh, and what made each other cry. And, while our friendship had previously emerged from childhood into young adulthood unscathed by anything that would move it beyond a strong "brother and sister like" bond, puberty had definitely shifted our perspective on who we each were. Hence, I noticed, that clear outline of M's "junk" in his bathing suit, made me look at this dear friend with a new eye; an intrigued eye, and eye that suddenly wanted to be more intimately acquainted with an already intimate friend.
At 18, our families deemed us old enough to find a spot further down the beach from the family hotel - he was born two months before I was - and we left our parents and siblings around the pool while we sought out a more remote location. But, at least at first, although I knew for sure where my impulse would take us, I shushed myself inwardly; a friendship such as mine with M should have nothing that would threaten its continuation, althouououough, the strength of such a friendship was, wasn't it, that we could share everything with each other? Nothing would destroy it, could it? We had grown up together, we could grow together, couldn't we, into adult people with adult bodies and adult desires. I either sighed or giggled a bit, I cannot remember which, but he turned his head to look at me.
"What?" he asked. A shy smile, no, more of a grin was on my face.
"Ummm," and I nodded toward his crotch, "you aren't leaving much to the imagination."
And then, I am sure, I did giggle a little, perhaps because I had taken one small step toward breaching that gap between platonic friendship and sexual intimacy. He glanced downward at his crotch and then blushed slightly. He looked away from me, down the beach slightly, and then after a moment's hesitation, he rolled on his side so that he was facing me.
