Ah summer! Lazy days, no school, no need for a summer job, good friends, a white sandy beach, blue water, several water nymphs in multi-colored bikinis among the friends. What more could one ask?

Actually, I don't have to ask – one of those water nymphs is my girlfriend. The one with the red striped bikini. Maybe something more permanent than a girlfriend? For that maybe I do have to ask, but so far I haven't found the nerve. Neither has she.

What she did ask – very early this morning – was that we get the gang and go to the beach. That was fine with me, I had no plans and hadn't expected her to be available so I said "Sure!"

"She said "I'll be there in five minutes."

To which I replied "WHAT?!"

"Move your tush, darling. The water is waiting."

The water may have been waiting, but I was still in bed. I sleep naked, so that gave me a slight advantage toward meeting her deadline. Flinging back the covers I bolted to the bathroom, relieved my bladder, power brushed the teeth in my sleep-fuzzed mouth, flung clothes around with abandon until I found my speedo, pulled it on, unearthed a pair of flip-flops, grabbed a towel, stuffed it and my wallet and keys into a backpack and flew down the stairs. She pulled into the drive just as I locked the door and waved cheerily from her convertible.

"Hop in, darling, time's a wastin'!"

I hopped, and while she didn't actually burn rubber leaving the driveway she did severely test the traction of her tires. We managed to stay on the road so the test must have been successful. By this time you may have formed the opinion that my girlfriend Rhonda is a bit impulsive and rather forceful.

That opinion would be entirely correct.

"What time is it?" I asked her once I had gotten my breath back.

In answer she pushed a button on her steering wheel. The music paused and a contralto voice intoned "It is now eight fifty seven in the morning." The music resumed and Rhonda just smiled at me.

"In that case, I said, "we can run through the Micky D's and I can get some breakfast, since I was so peremptorily flung from my bed of slumbers this morning."

"Well, la-te-dah! Aren't we the highfalutin' speachifier this morning." She turned her head and stuck her tongue out at me.

"Do me a favor, my own true love. Keep your eyes on the road. Wait until you have arrested the motion of your vehicle before you stick your tongue out at me. That way I can do something about it without either of us getting arrested."

"Wimp!"

"Vixen!"

"Glad to know you think I'm a fox."

"I'm only after your tail."

"Not on the beach, mister."

"But beach bunnies have such cute tails."

"Asses, such as my boyfriend, also have tails."

"You're welcome to a donkey ride any time."

"You're a pretty nice size, but donkey class you ain't"

"I have lots of class, thoroughbred class – not donkey."

"What would happen if I took my eyes off the road and looked at your speedo right now?"

"We might end up in the hospital together?"

"Do they have double beds?"

"I'd rather not find out."

"Don't miss the McDonalds, OK?"

I was glad I was wearing a seatbelt. Fortunately she slowed below Mach 2 to go through the drive-through. Not-so-fortunately she hit the afterburners as we pulled out; and a certain percentage of my Coke became intimately acquainted with my naked chest. Good thing they have lots of napkins in those bags as I wiped it off, leaving a sugary residue. I helped myself liberally to the water in her water bottle – the one she carries religiously everywhere – and was eventually sugar-free.

"One of these days you're going to have a cop near enough to pull you over if you keep driving like that."

"A traffic cop? In this hick town? Give me a break!" she exclaimed as she blew through the intersection about four milliseconds before the light turned red. For one of the smartest girls in the senior class she can be remarkable dumb about some things.

"Ya know… what with climate change and all that the beach will not be disappearing any time soon. I love you, but you drive me crazy sometimes with your driving. We can take a couple of extra minutes to get there safely."

"Wimp!"

"Save the driving crazy for the next time we're alone in a bed."

"Or the back seat?"

"Fine by me, as long as you're not trying to drive the car while you ride me."

"Good thing you're short enough to lay on the seat. If you were a basketball star it would be difficult to copulate in the car."

"Copulate? That wasn't the kind of cop I was just thinking of."

"I wonder if the officer would have a big billy club?"

"It's his radar gun I'm more concerned with."

"Good thing you don't need radar to hit the target."

"Especially when the target is moving."

"If we're screwing in the back seat then I'm the one that's moving most of the time."

"And a delightful motion it is. Be that as it may, if you keep talking like this my speedo is going to start giving me some serious problems."

"You can always take it off."

"In this hick town? We would soon find out what the fine for lewd behavior is compared to speeding."

"Think ice cubes and polar vortexes… vortices? Whatever. We're almost there."

By the time we reached the parking lot I had myself under control.

Barely.

 

With Rhonda's driving we were the first at the beach, so we spread a couple of blankets and claimed a good spot. There were a dozen of so of us who hung out whenever we had the time. Rhonda and I were regulars, since we had both copped a full ride scholarship at college. Generous parents let us enjoy the summer without the need to find a job, but we did do a bit of volunteer work at the local food bank. Not hard to take, if you know what I mean.

The local beach was not terribly large, but the water was fine. Even though I hope I looked like a surfer dude - long blonde hair, golden tan, decent bod and - according to my girlfriend - a pair of fabulous legs. Somehow I couldn't picture a real Surfer Dude being thrilled to have fabulous legs.

Unfortunately, I was lacking three of the essentials for a genuine surfer dude. One – a surfboard; two – the surf, and three several inches of height. At only five-seven, what can I do? Think about my fabulous legs, I guess.

We lived a couple of thousand miles from the Pacific coast and our beach was on the river. Dad tells me that when he was my age only an idiot would touch the water in the river, but these days it has been cleaned up and is safe to swim in. Since it wasn't the Pacific, you didn't need a wetsuit to keep from freezing your toes (or other important appendages) off if you were in the water more than a few seconds. I know, I once spent about five seconds in the Pacific ocean and believe me, that is a lifetime supply.

Other folks dribbled in and soon there was a volleyball net set up, several waterless nymphs stretched out on beach blankets, several more water nymphs were in the water and general frolicking ensued. Me, I was assigned the onerous task of spreading suntan lotion on Rhonda's back after untying her bikini top. It's a tough job but someone has to do it to prevent the dreaded ghost strap lines from appearing.

Right – you believe that and I have a bridge for you. Your choice Brooklyn to the east or Golden Gate to the west.

As the sun always does, it continued rising until it was at its midday mark. With all the frolicking and exercise we started to notice it was time for lunch. I re-tied the bow on Rhonda's bikini and we collected our things, stowing them in the car, and migrated en mass toward the pizza parlor.

Now I don't want to give you the wrong idea, but the sight of a dozen scantily clad young people horsing around as they strolled down the sidewalk just might have caused mothers of small children and little old ladies to hastily cross the street. In these days of shock news it seems that any gathering of teen-to-twenty types automatically acquires the label of gang. I prefer to think of our group as a gathering of high-spirited youth. That sound so much better, doesn't it?

Upon reaching the door of the pizza place we came to an abrupt halt, for on that portal to pizza pleasure there hung a sign.

Seriously?

Heck, we knew that. We'd seen that sign every time we got a yen for pizza. The trouble is, on this particular day my endearingly anxious girlfriend (who had a pretension to a sergent-major at times) had ordered me out of bed with no delay. The only garment I possessed was my speedo. Towels don't count as garments, do they?

"Aw shit!" I said.

"Not on the street, buster. Wait to use the restroom inside."

"Read the sign, Sherlock."

"No shirt – no shoes… Aw shit!"

"Precisely. It's all Rhonda's fault. She made me get out of bed and in her car before I was awake."

"There may be a solution."

"A seven percent solution, perhaps?"

"A sartorial solution."

"Pray tell, oh font of wisdom."

"What is the one outstanding characteristic of any female at the beach that is common to all members of that group?"

"I thought they had two outstanding characteristics."

"Sexist"

"This outstanding characteristic, while common to the female, is not biologically based."

"What's with the twenty questions? My brain doesn't work when my stomach is empty."

"Only when it's empty?"

"Focus, please. What does each and every one of our beauteous companions have in their hands?"

"It sure ain't pizza!"

"Martin. You have a look of revelation upon your face."

"They all have some sort of big bag full of enough crap to be lost in the woods for a month without running out of supplies."

"Bingo! I'm sure that one of these ladies has a top of some sort that our brother Declan can use so that he may comply with the Dictum Of The Door."

"Didn't Lloyd Biggle use that title for one of his stories?"

"That was the The Rule of the Door.

"Who the heck is Lloyd Biggle?"

"One of my favorite SF authors."

"Oh, that crap."

"Philistine! Ignorant savage!"

"How is this argument getting us closer to pizza?"

"No literary criticism until we have ordered."

"So how do we get Declan past the Door?"

"Hey – that would make a great story title!"

"Enough!"

"So just how do I comply with the dress code?" I asked when I could get a word in edgewise.

"While you idiots have been jawing," Caroline answered, "I have been digging into my beach bag and have the solution."

"Do tell?"

"I, unlike some I could name," crowed Caroline, "came prepared. If Declan is willing to offend the Fashion Gods, I have a spare top available."

Now Caroline is a woman of the large economy size. Not, I hasten to add, overweight, but five foot ten and with a very curvy body that is quite appropriate to that height. In other words, if her top was stretchy enough it would cover my offending torso sufficiently to pass inspection by the local Health Department. Be that as it may, my unthinking response to her was "You have got to be shitting me!"

Much to my relief, no one took any pictures of me that day, despite every one of us having a cell phone with a camera. I don't know if it was shock, or maybe concern for their safety if such a picture got out, but the following picture shows a model wearing a top very similar to Caroline's offering.

Now seriously, was I or was I not justified in exclaiming 'You have got to be shitting me?'

As a matter of self-preservation, I will not attempt to reproduce the badinage that followed. I will content myself to repeat Rhonda's comment:

"Hot Damn! Caroline, I want one of those in my size. Where did you get it?"

While the girls exchanged shopping tips, I tried to fade into the background.

It didn't work.

The top fit me.

Furthermore, it had a built-in bra that made my pecs look like small breasts. Even farther furthermore, I kind of liked the feeling of the bra. Sort of like a warm hug.

Except my navel was showing.

So OK, my navel had been showing from the time I put on my speedo some hours ago, but suddenly it felt like I was almost naked. How the hell can you feel more naked by putting on more clothes?

I was getting hungry, so I gave the gang time to snigger before we went in. Delegating Rhonda to place our order, I migrated to one of the back tables. Fat lot of good it did. The rest of the gang chose a table right in front of the door, and then vociferously called me to join them.

Have you ever tried to eat pizza while wearing a girl's top and sitting directly in front of the main door to the pizzeria? I mean if you aren't a girl, anyway. I was embarrassed, but I was damned if I would give them the satisfaction of giving in. Even when I slopped pepperoni on the top and Rhonda sponged it off with a wet napkin.

Give me a break!

Actually, by the end of the meal I finally realized that no one in the place had noticed me. No stares, no pointing, no giggles. Somewhere about then it finally penetrated that my long surfer-dude hair wasn't all that different than that which June or Colleen or Rhonda sported. A look at the reflection in the window made me realize that that damned bra in the top made me look like I had breasts. Since the bottom half of me was concealed beneath the table I looked enough like a girl so nobody really noticed.

So much for my macho surfer-dude ambitions.

We had gotten to the ice cream stage of our meal when it all went sideways. Who should come walking in the door but my mother? She walked past the table and suddenly stopped, swung around and stared right at me.

"Declan?"

"Uh, hi Mom."

"Nice outfit. Is there something your father and I should know about?"

"Only NO SHIRT – NO SHOES – NO SERVICE."