A Nice Fling is Hard to Find

The Afternoon of Saturday, July 14th

My boobs hurt. I am lying on my back, attempting to write in the air, because I cannot lie on my stomach.

Why, you might ask?

Oh, I’ll get there. First off, Happy Bastille Day. That means it’s France’s Fourth of July.

But back to why my boobs are killing me.

Since we had a free day in honor of the holiday today, Becca and I decided we were going to hit the quasi-beach to get some sun. Pierre and Mike were taking the boys and some of the more athletic girls to play soccer.

We hiked down to the beach. It was kind of weird since it’s in the middle of the city, but cool. We claimed our spot. We spread out our towels. I pulled off my shorts and t-shirt and then looked over at Becca.

Or shall I say, Becca’s boobs. Oh, yeah, there she was, lying on her back, topless, for the world to see.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked.

She gave me a devilish smile. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t talk to you when your things are on display.” Not that she was out of place. Ninety percent of the women out there were topless. And it wasn’t just the twenty-year-old locals. The tourists were topless. The GRANDMOTHERS were topless.

“Oh come on!” she said, laughing. “We’re in France. We must!”

“Er, we?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Yes, we. Come on, Linds.”

I was about to say no, but then I thought, well, why not? I wanted to be wild this trip, didn’t I? I want to take risks and push myself out of my comfort zone.

And how much would this annoy my mom?

“Just whip it off!” Becca ordered.

Now or never. I had a brief moment of cold feet (or cold boobs), so here’s what I did. I lay on my stomach, and then unclasped the back and slipped that sucker off. And then slowly turned around, my heart pounding. Then I squirted some suntan lotion in my palms, and did my best to smear it on my upper regions. But, come on, was I supposed to rub myself right there, like I was in Girls Gone Wild the Paris edition?

Becca started screaming and clapping, and there we were. Topless.

Honestly? It felt kind of cool. I mean it’s not like my boobs have ever been allowed to see the sun before.

So I tanned. And closed my eyes. And pretended the Seine was the ocean. I was pretty relaxed about the whole thing until IT happened.

“Allo mes filles!”

I opened one eye and then screamed.

Pierre. Back from soccer. Followed by a bunch of the other kids from the trip. Including Harold, Abby and Tommy. The latter who was, thankfully, covering his eyes.

I rushed to flip over onto my stomach and immediately grabbed my shirt for cover. My cheeks as well as other exposed parts of my body, were surely deep red.

I contemplated jumping on one of the passing tour boats.

“Are you covered yet?” Tommy asked, hands still over his eyes.

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said, and I could see he was smiling. “It’s my sister. Gross.”

“Oh, shut up,” Becca said, putting her top back on.

“All ze women are topless in France,” Pierre says. “It’s no good to be ashamed of your body.” Pierre was definitely not ashamed. Like most of his countrymen, and unlike any of the American teen tour boys in their roomy swimming trunks, he was wearing a suit that was only slightly bigger than a Speedo.

For the record, I am NOT ashamed of my body. Or my boobs. I am perfectly happy with my boobs. But that doesn’t mean I want my crush, my best friend’s brother, AND my best friend’s boyfriend to have free cable access to them. 

“I’m happy with my body,” Abby said in a singsong voice. And that’s when she untied the straps of her bikini top and tossed it to the ground.

Even I couldn’t help but stare. They. Were. Huge. And perfectly tanned. Apparently this wasn’t her first time setting those babies free in the sun.

Pierre’s jaw dropped.

I might have to give up on Pierre, and focus all my attention on Vlad. There is NO way I can compete.

Anyway, it’s a good thing I put on my top when I did. Why? Because a few minutes longer might have given me first-degree burns. As soon as we returned to the hostel and I stepped into the shower and let the water (the low- pressure-barely-there-water) dribbled onto my left boob, I shrieked in agony. And then noticed that it was bright red. Lobster red. As in, the worst sunburn of my life. Post shower of pain, I gingerly applied aloe vera.

Okay, now I have to get dressed for the parade. Yippee.

No, no, no. I will not let my burnt boobs get me down! I am in France! I will enjoy myself! I have plans with Vlad! There will be fireworks! Tonight is going to be the best night ever!