Bikini Beach: The Shower
By Ellie Dauber  © 2013

A little stream of consciousness story of one man’s visit to Bikini Beach.

Bikini Beach: The Shower
By Ellie Dauber  © 2013

I don’t know why the hell I’m here.

My bitch of a wife, Meghan, insisted that I bring her here. She yapped, and she yapped, and she yapped, but I wouldn’t listen. Of course, once I got her to promise to put that mouth of hers; those big, luscious lips; and that talented, pierced — the piercing was my idea — tongue of hers to good use after we got done here, that’s when I agreed to it.

It’s not a bad place, either; lots of prime nookie on the hoof. I’ll have to come back here without her sometime, and check out some of the local talent.

Monday, next Monday, that’s when I’ll come back. Hell, with my lifetime pass, I can come back here anytime I damn well please. Meghan already told me her office was sending her to some damned training session in D.C. for the week. I can call in sick and let Charlie Proctor do the work for our team. That asshole of a boss won’t know the difference, and Charlie’s too much of a pussy to complain.

The hell with it; Meghan’s probably waiting for me already, and the doors won’t open unless I take a damned shower. Cute joke, fixing them with the door, I wonder how they did it.

Damn, that water feels good, just warm enough to soak out the aches, and the pulse feels like a massage. I wonder if I could sneak Meghan in here for a little fun sharing water.

Oaky, I got wet; that should be all I need to get the door open. Can’t keep my bitch waiting, especially in that new suit I got her, two post-it-sized pieces for the bra and a bottom that’s barely a g-string, that’s entertainment. And if she doesn’t like it — too bad; she’s my wife, and she’ll do what I tell her or else.

It’s funny; I didn’t think the shower knobs were so high up on the wall. And why the hell do I feel so dizzy? I — shit! My arms, what’s happening? Where’s all my muscle? They look like some girl’s arms. My hands, they’re smaller, too, with long, slender fingers and — nails! — there’s polish on my nails.

I-I’ve got tits! Big ones, bigger than Meghan’s, I think, and… my junk, it’s gone! I’ve got a pussy down there. Meghan, she did this to me. I’ll kill here. I’ll — oh, G-d, I feel so dizzy. I’ve got to sit down, got to catch my breath. I can’t think, can’t remember…

It’s over. Ron, that foul-mouthed, sexist, egotistical son of a… gun, is gone. No, not gone. He’s a memory, a memory of somebody else, somebody I’m not and — thanks to that glorious shower — I never was.

I can see Meghan, my best friend in the whole world, Meghan, coming into the locker room now. That girl, Anya, the one who sold me my pass, is with her. I love the way Anya’s hair looks. My hair’s about the same length. I wonder how it would look styled like hers.

As they approach me, smiles on their faces, I smile back and hurry to my feet. I was a guy — not necessarily a bad thing, but I abused the privilege. I was a lousy human being, a total waste of space, but I’m not like that anymore. Somehow, I know that all the worst of Ron is locked away inside me, and that I’m a much, much better person than he ever was or ever could be.

I was a rotten person when I sat down, but now I stand, corrected.