spreading. The idea had been to save our experimental stash for Key West, the intended turnaround point of our expedition—but “Qué será será ,” as the Doris Day hit song will have it four years later.
Half a century and more after the spring break here Flashbanged “by George I. Newett”—while Cyclone Nargis devastates Myanmar, and Senators Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama still go at it in the Democratic primaries for nomination as either the first female or the first African-American U.S. president—any college kids reckless enough to try skinny-dipping off the crowded beaches of bustling southwest Florida while both half stoned and half drunk would likely find themselves nailed pronto with an assortment of more or less serious charges, from Indecent Exposure to Possession of Controlled Substances. But in late March 1952, with only a scattered handful of blankets and beach umbrellas near the elevated Naples Pier and nearly
nobody in sight just a couple hundred yards down-beach, where this frolicking foursome had staked out, “Better get our butts wet again while we can,” declared Narrator at about four that afternoon: “Looks to me like we’ve got weather coming.” For indeed, although the afternoon sun remained bright and warm as it descended over the Gulf—toward Mexico!—a dark cloudmass appeared to be moving their way from the south.
Says Ned Prosper, “I’ll second that,” and rising unsteadily, draws Ginny Hyman to her feet. Once up, however, she shakes free of him, looks conspiratorially down at Marsha Green, and says, “Butts and boobs wet, yes; bathing suits, no. You with me, Marsh?”
“You bet.” And to the very considerable surprise of their male companions, by some apparent prior agreement the two girls peel off and toss onto the blanket their swimsuit tops, then wiggle out of the bottoms (neither item particularly scanty by later standards: The “bikini,” though invented in France in the mid-1940s and named for the South Pacific test-site of U.S. atomic bombs, won’t become popular stateside until after Brigitte Bardot’s 1957 film And God Created Woman and Brian Hyland’s 1960 pop song “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”— by when mere A-bombs will have been supplanted by H-), and stagger laughing and naked together hand in hand into the all but surfless water.
“Well, now: Wow!” marvels Narrator at the sight of their equally fetching forms, one of whose dainties are of course well
known to him, the other’s more interesting because here displayed for the first time. “What an eyeful!”
“Never mind the eyeful; let’s go grab us a handful,” Ned proposes. “Gather some rosebuds while we fucking may.”
Not at all certain what if anything is afoot, but much relishing the novel experiences of being “high” on “grass” and bathing naked à quatre , Narrator dutifully shucks his swim trunks as Ned has done, and with him makes his wobbly way waterward, sneaking a glance en route to confirm that his flaccid, foreskinned penis does not compare unfavorably in size to the present state of his companion’s (the generation of American WASP males just then being born—the “Doctor Spock babyboom boys”—will be the first to be routinely circumcised for hygienic reasons, as the sons of Ned Prosper and George Newett would have been if the former had lived to sire children and the latter been fertile). Already chin-deep in the chilly water, the near-hysterical girls splash each other and their approaching beaux until we four are one tumbling tangle of wet limbs and dripping hair, laughing and groping, hugging and squealing and scolding. Against which fine firm butt-cleft does that afore-cited foreskin feel itself briefly pressed? Who briefly but literally has Narrator by the balls? And who cares?
Only the first visible lightning and audible thunder bring us ashore, still holding one another for sport and support as we stumble merrily
Half a century and more after the spring break here Flashbanged “by George I. Newett”—while Cyclone Nargis devastates Myanmar, and Senators Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama still go at it in the Democratic primaries for nomination as either the first female or the first African-American U.S. president—any college kids reckless enough to try skinny-dipping off the crowded beaches of bustling southwest Florida while both half stoned and half drunk would likely find themselves nailed pronto with an assortment of more or less serious charges, from Indecent Exposure to Possession of Controlled Substances. But in late March 1952, with only a scattered handful of blankets and beach umbrellas near the elevated Naples Pier and nearly
nobody in sight just a couple hundred yards down-beach, where this frolicking foursome had staked out, “Better get our butts wet again while we can,” declared Narrator at about four that afternoon: “Looks to me like we’ve got weather coming.” For indeed, although the afternoon sun remained bright and warm as it descended over the Gulf—toward Mexico!—a dark cloudmass appeared to be moving their way from the south.
Says Ned Prosper, “I’ll second that,” and rising unsteadily, draws Ginny Hyman to her feet. Once up, however, she shakes free of him, looks conspiratorially down at Marsha Green, and says, “Butts and boobs wet, yes; bathing suits, no. You with me, Marsh?”
“You bet.” And to the very considerable surprise of their male companions, by some apparent prior agreement the two girls peel off and toss onto the blanket their swimsuit tops, then wiggle out of the bottoms (neither item particularly scanty by later standards: The “bikini,” though invented in France in the mid-1940s and named for the South Pacific test-site of U.S. atomic bombs, won’t become popular stateside until after Brigitte Bardot’s 1957 film And God Created Woman and Brian Hyland’s 1960 pop song “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”— by when mere A-bombs will have been supplanted by H-), and stagger laughing and naked together hand in hand into the all but surfless water.
“Well, now: Wow!” marvels Narrator at the sight of their equally fetching forms, one of whose dainties are of course well
known to him, the other’s more interesting because here displayed for the first time. “What an eyeful!”
“Never mind the eyeful; let’s go grab us a handful,” Ned proposes. “Gather some rosebuds while we fucking may.”
Not at all certain what if anything is afoot, but much relishing the novel experiences of being “high” on “grass” and bathing naked à quatre , Narrator dutifully shucks his swim trunks as Ned has done, and with him makes his wobbly way waterward, sneaking a glance en route to confirm that his flaccid, foreskinned penis does not compare unfavorably in size to the present state of his companion’s (the generation of American WASP males just then being born—the “Doctor Spock babyboom boys”—will be the first to be routinely circumcised for hygienic reasons, as the sons of Ned Prosper and George Newett would have been if the former had lived to sire children and the latter been fertile). Already chin-deep in the chilly water, the near-hysterical girls splash each other and their approaching beaux until we four are one tumbling tangle of wet limbs and dripping hair, laughing and groping, hugging and squealing and scolding. Against which fine firm butt-cleft does that afore-cited foreskin feel itself briefly pressed? Who briefly but literally has Narrator by the balls? And who cares?
Only the first visible lightning and audible thunder bring us ashore, still holding one another for sport and support as we stumble merrily
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