2 (bikini kill)

When I was at a hostel in Madrid, I met this nice bro, Adam, in the bathroom. He was fixing his faux hawk and asked me what I was doing in Spain. I told him my story and he suggested I join him and his friends at the hostel bar, so I did. We walked downstairs and he introduced me around. His group was pretty normal, a bunch of young American white guys celebrating their recent graduation by backpacking around Europe. I asked them if they were going to more places in Spain and they said that they were going to try and hit Ibiza.

"Gotta see one of these topless Spanish beaches," Adam said exuberantly. "Am I right?" I told him he was.

But I didn't mean it. I had been to one of said beaches six years prior and my brother and I spent the whole trip doing our best to not see any boobs. We thought the whole business was rather indecent and much preferred our style of swimsuit: Black jammers (like bike shorts) that reached the knee with black Under Armour style shirts tucked into them, mine was long-sleeved, his was short-. We looked like a couple of ninjas on vacation.

And true, he and I were a little extreme. I generally don't wear a shirt anymore when I swim and as much as I like the idea of wearing black and white horizontally striped coverall swimwear like moustached dudes did in the 1920's, I know that's not a style that's going to come back. But topless beaches?

Now we zoom back to the present, my first Spanish beach trip of the year. Me and the family are driving up and over the mountains in the bulky, white VW van circa 1965. There's room for both the kids to lay down in the trunk area, which leaves a full bench seat to Viky, a luggage area where you would expect another bench in front of her, and me and Christian upfront. I'm on the left 'cause I don't drive stick, so it's my job to thank the car and pat the dashboard every time it makes it over a hill without stalling and rolling back down to the bottom. As we crest over the highest point of our journey, the beach comes into view. It's nestled into a valley, no resorts in sight, reachable only by driving up and over the mountains. And where I expect to see a straight shot of white sand, the landscape is speckled with big grey rocks, some 25 feet high, where people set up their towels and coolers.

So after another 20 minutes of zigzagging our way down into the valley we reach the beach. We put up our two big umbrellas, throw down our bags and Adrian urges me towards the surf. I know that somewhere around here there will some nudity, so my periscope's up (no, not that periscope.) I'm looking around as we jog to the water. And lo and behold, the first topless honey appears. She's about fifty-five, and although a nice-looking woman, isn't really doing it for me. She looks as though she may have once had a rather presentable body, but now has pretty much stopped caring. Which brings me to my first point, that the vast majority of women who choose to reveal their assets seem to do so because the value of said assets is negligible. To continue a bad analogy, they've realized that since the crash of each one's individual stock market, share values have dropped.

Which I understand. Women's power over men comes from keeping things hidden, not from giving it away. That's why celebrities tend to model for Playboy only after they've fell out of the limelight. However a nude girl looks in a guy's imagination is always going to be better than she looks in real life. So it's in the best interest of young ladies to keep that info under wraps.

So, back on the beach, I'm not really into it. I figure I got better things to do at that point anyway and I run into the ocean where Adrian and I try and body surf for an hour or so. But on the way out I can't help but notice there are a few 20-somethings tanning in the sand. And dismissing the fact that I think laying out is about as smart as microwaving yourself, I think "Hey, alright!" These ladies are looking fine and I'm not going to pretend I didn't notice. Of course, they're attractive in a way that conjures images of a pop-up ad saying "Spanish Girls Want To Chat With You", but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Points for nudity.

I think that puts the score about even until I notice the kids. To start, there are some little babies playing naked in the sand. No big, which isn't all that unusual anywhere. But then I also notice that there are some kids running around who are clearly above the "you must be this young to be a naked baby" mark. I'm talking about 6-year-olds playing tag in the buff.

This seriously freaks me out. But much more the girls than the boys. Maybe it's the fact that my mom stuck me and my two younger brothers together in the shower for so many years that I could probably draw more accurate nude portraits of them than is really healthy, but I'm not bothered by these tiny tikes swinging their little boy junk around. Have a good time, fellas. But these little girls make me feel like I'm a voyeur just for having eyes, like I'm seeing something I am definitely not supposed to see. And no, I'm not one, but they look so weird that I've got this dual fascination/disgust thing going on. I mean, these kids are clearly missing something. They look like action figures. Or aliens. Or as Bill Cosby said, like "someone forgot to put the stem on the apple."

So now we're in the definite negative on the beaches. But I've never been one to make a rash decision, so when I get a chance to go to another beach, I decide to include in it my study. This time we hit a smaller, more discreet beach. It's got less sand and more rocks, but it's cozy. You have to hike a little ways from the road to reach it, but that adds to it's allure.

The scenery starts off by neutralizing itself: A foxy chica sunning herself with her boyfriend is a plus, but the 3-year-old girl making sand castles is a minus. This little girl bothers me less than my previous encounter. Maybe I'm adapting to this strange Spanish lifestyle. Or maturing enough to not flip out when there are naked kids around. At any rate, I feel comfortable enough to set down my clipboard and go for a swim in the freezing waters. I don't stay out to long, naturally, and end up dozing off while warming up on my towel.

I guess the water took more out of me than I thought, because when I awake there's another group of people on the beach. They're sitting behind us, two or three couples in their fifties. One of the women has provided me with cause to include her in my study. She's a definite minus. I'm chatting with Adrian (who, for obvious reasons, does not know about this study) and keep accidentally getting an eyeful of this lady. He asks me what's wrong, why do I keep twitching. I shrug off the question and ask him if he wants to go walk around on the big rocks on the other side of the beach. He says no, so I go off alone, in need of some distraction.

I go out to some rocks that are half-covered in water now that the tides coming in. I put my feet down and everyone once in a while a wave will pass over them. The water's still icy, but it feels good. I whistle, but can't hear it because of the waves. I smile and enjoy the sight and sounds of the water. When I feel myself getting cold, I get up and hop across a few rocks toward the beach. I go back a different way, around the far side of a large rock.

It's there that I catch sight of another sunbather. I see the undersides of her barefeet, her bronzed calves, her buttcheeks. Yep, buttcheeks. This chick is going for the gusto, totally nude, lying facedown on her towel. I modestly look away and start to trek back the way I came, but something makes me look again. And that's when I realize it: That's a dude's butt. I'm 10 feet away from a strange naked Spanish man who has no hair on his legs.


Things That Make Me Feel Pervy:

-Having to handle a 12-year-old girls cartoon themed undergarments when I fold the laundry.

-Having to handle her mother's thongs for the same reason, though the creepiness manifolds when I encounter both items in the same load of laundry.

-Looking at the plastic pump bottle of "Germisdin: Feminine Hygiene Cream" which sits next to the soap dispenser in the bathroom.

-Clown Porn.

1 (hot sauce)

WARNING: My parents and sisters prolly shouldn't read this 'cause it's, erm, vulgar.

Spaghetti for dinner. Christian offers me some red pepper stuff from a small jar. I'm a little confused by their appearance, but he walks me through the process. You take one of these tiny pepper babies, rub it until it splits open, and there inside you find pepper flakes like you see in the shakers at Pizza Hut. Which is weird, because I always thought those flakes at The Hut were dried versions of something else. I didn't know they naturally looked like that.

So I put some on my pasta and start chowing down. But apparently the flakes are more potent in their natural environment, because my mouth is really on fire. I'm solo drinking a liter of milk to try and quell the madness, but it's not going too well. Christian thinks all of this is very funny. He tells me to be sure not to touch my eyes now, because they will turn into fiery orbs and burn my brain. He says to be careful of whatever I touch, especially when doing things like going to the bathroom, 'cause there's room to get into a lot of hot water in that department.

I start to smile, but my nose starts running and I have to grab a tissue before I sneeze. I make it in time, but then I half to blow my nose for a good thirty seconds straight because my sinuses have decided that snot is my body's best defense against this new evil. I use thirty napkins to staunch the torrent. Finally a lull, and I, not to be deterred, return to my pasta.

By the time I finish my heaping plate, my nose has started to burn. I guess the napkins weren't thick enough to protect my nostrils from the acidic residue, or maybe I plugged a finger or two up there in the maelstrom. In any case, I am getting quite uncomfortable. I make a beeline for the upstairs bathroom and shut myself in. I blow my nose before any of the mucus drips into my mustache. A few more elephantine expulsions and I start to feel better. I realize that all that milk is going straight through me, so I take a leak. I wash my hands thoroughly and then do my best to flush out my nostrils which have are starting to really hurt again. It kinda feels like I have a volcano for a nose. I dry my nose off and look around for something medical-esque. I find a bottle of what appears to be moisturizer. The labels written mostly in Greek but it does say "Body Milk Gardenia" somewhere in there. I guess that means moisturizer, I've never actually heard of body milk. Maybe it's breast milk?

I daub some of this mystery cream on the interior of my nostrils. It feels good. I breath a sigh of relief. And then the tingling commences, followed swiftly by an attack twice as bad as before. I give up on trying to fix it and go back downstairs, trying to breath through my mouth and daubing at the corners of my eyes.

I sit down on the couch and play backgammon with Meli for a bit before me and the fam go to a tango concert in town. She's beating me two to one, but only because my nose hurts so bad. Then I feel a familiar tingling and realize I better quit playing. I rush to the bathroom and lock the door.

I don't know why there was a prolonged delay, but I now realize that while upstairs, I had entirely disregarded Christian's jovial warning about using the bathroom without properly cleaning my hands. And now my dick's on fire.

I fill the sink up with soapy water and frantically start scrubbing. I'm struck by the irony of there being a bidet one floor up which I've always thought was weird to have in a house. I drain the sink, rinse and dry off to no avail. I feel like my pants are filled with taco sauce. Not that I really know what that would feel like. I try and think of something I can do to save myself from the agony. I can't think of anything.

"Nicolas? Are you ready to go?" Christian asks from outside the door.

I throw water on my face then tenderly arrange my, er, stuff and walk out of the bathroom. Smiling with eyes too wide, I turn to Christian. "Sure!" I creak. "Let's go!"

Walking through the garden to the street, I think about claiming some lame (but less embarrassing) malady and staying home for the night. But I don't think it will be much better if I'm home alone with nothing to think about but my burning manhood. I feel a sort of kinship with syphilis patients and their eventual insanity. I decide to tough it out and strut bow-legged toward the Santiago sunset.

I survive the half hour it takes for the pain to subside. A little bit after, we reach the square where the concert is taking place. I sit down with my back against a low stone wall with Christian and Vicky on my right side and some girl I don't know on my left. I'm glad I chose to come out tonight because the group turns out to be really great. There's a violinist, a bassist, a pianist and an accordionist. I don't really know tango music, but the quartet sounds like the soundtrack to Waking Life, which I like. I expect to start floating into the air at any moment. That doesn't happen, but perhaps to match the mounting tension of the music, my nose and unmentionables come back with a crescendo of their own.

I'm really wishing I had some Gold Bond to empty into my shorts when I see that the girl on my left is applying some lip balm. I instinctively turn to face her. I'm about to open my mouth and ask to borrow it, but fortunately consider the logistics involved: Me, using my grade-school Spanish to ask a strange girl if I can borrow her chapstick (don't know that word) because I accidentally have applied red pepper residue (nope, don't know that either) to my nose and penis (definitely don't know that one, though I'm sure I could gesture.)

She turns to look at me and I quickly shut my mouth (which has been open for a good fifteen seconds) and turn back to overenthusiastically applaud the group, who has just finished their last song. Bravo.