The other day, I went out for a walk and a baguette (because I’m just that fancy).
As I walked down the road, I found a little bench to sit on, next to a church. I took out a book and read for a bit, curiously taking pleasure in the rays of sunshine on my bare shoulders. Which was unusual since I’m normally so adverse to the sun, I actually shrivel and gasp I’M MEEEELTING upon first contact.
Well, not really. But I’m befreckled, as you know, so sun isn’t exactly my BFF4LYFE.
But it was nice to be outside, and walking. And during the second part of my walk, a thought occurred to me. A thought that was quite unusual.
I really, really fancied going to Greece.
No, genuinely, I fancied going to Greece, specifically. I couldn’t come up with any other sunshine-y country I’d like to be in.
The thought spun around in my mind and I was reminded of those shows you see on TV this time of year, usually about people behaving like utter prats on holiday in Ibiza (or any other of those destinations). It’s like a rite of passage, isn’t it? You hit a certain age, you politely ask the parentals if you could perhaps join your friends on holiday in Tenerife instead of going on your yearly camping trip to *name of location here*.
And you assure them that said trip will be incident-free. No, don’t be silly, mater, I will most certainly not come back with a broken leg/an STD/a tattoo of a heart with wings bearing the name Fabio/Fabio. I will be on my bestest behaviour, yes I will.
Sure enough, all of this transpires.
But it got me thinking about summer, sex, beaches and the lapping waves on the shore. As regular readers know, I recently contributed to Smut By The Sea Volume 2, with a story about rediscovering old love set in exotic… well, Brighton. The story kinda turned me on to the idea that the seaside is a fucking sexy location. Even if you’re in the grottiest of resorts, you may just find yourself turned on just by the sheer impact of the sea air on your system. The sunshine just making you happy.
I regret never having gone on one of those rite of passage holidays. Makes me wonder what it would have been like.
Actually, scratch that. In hindsight, I feel better not having done that. Not sure if I could have coped with all the alcohol. Or Fabio.