One man’s biscuit is another man’s gooey cake
BRAD AND CHAD SAT ON THE BEACH lathering themselves with SPF 100 sunscreen, drinking El Pisciare Beer by the can from their cooler, and listening to their playlists on their iPhones. When Gen-Zers passed, they’d tip their sunglasses and raise their thumbs in solidarity. When older couples passed, they’d look away and take another sip from their beers, as though middle and older age was a contagious disease.
When children rushed by, screaming and swinging their sand pails, Brad and Chad pulled their knees to their chests and wrapped their legs with their arms as though afraid to catch leprosy. Although, being Gen-Z, they had never heard of leprosy, and they didn’t fear COVID, so perhaps they simply feared some children’s virus that would return them to pre-puberty.
A twenty something with a macramé bikini strutted past with a twenty-something male at her side. He carried the beach umbrella, and the cooler, and the beach chairs. She carried a beach bag. Brad chugged half his can and pointed in their direction. “Look at that body. The definition. The shape of the calves. I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
When children rushed by, screaming and swinging their sand pails, Brad and Chad pulled their knees to their chests and wrapped their legs with their arms as though afraid to catch leprosy.
A few minutes later, a teen in a thong bikini and tank top that barely reached below her nipples accompanied a fellow in his late twenties wearing a speedo and fish net shirt. “Can you believe your eyes? Pinup material. I’d cover my wall with goo.”
A woman in her mid-twenties, with natural D-Cup breasts that fell from every side of her bandeau top and jiggling with each step, walked ahead of a late-twenties man who looked like he worked out daily. Her cheeks swallowed the material of her bikini pants and jiggled in time with her boobs.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Phillip T. Stephens to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.