Flavor of the Week: Personal Flotation Devices

Straight men have an innate desire to look at naked women. There's nothing wrong with it, it's just how we are. Even if the woman is someone we wouldn't want to get near, we need to look. Naked ladies are great and that's that.

My girlfriend Bobbie and drive out to the beach at Jacob Riis Park in Queens often as possible in the summer. It's an escape from the stuffy, breezeless, heatstroke-inducing climate that settles over summertime New York. Why sweat in your apartment when you can lie in the breeze, read, drink beer and swim in the cool Atlantic?

And if you head out Jacob Riis, once you away from the more family-friendly, life-guard-protected areas, you’re sure spot some breasts. Our first trip this summer was Memorial Day with a group of friends—another couple and a single guy—and although it’s legal for women go topless in New York, none of us had ever actually seen it happen.

The three of us guys were awe-struck. there were boobs right in front of us. Real boobs. Cue Homer Simpson-esque drooling. I snapped a picture of the first pair of tits saw. Who knew when this would happen again?

It’s great to look at breasts, but I know girlfriend finds it bothersome. Bobbie was cool, it’s not like she yelled at me for looking, but there was an obvious level of irritation. If the shoe was on the other foot and we were at a beach surrounded dudes with their cocks out, I’d feel uncomfortable to say the least. I don't want her looking at other guys’ cocks. Now you may say that cocks and tits are apples and oranges, but that’s simply not the case. When you’re alone with someone of the opposite sex, if the breasts come out, the cock usually follows.

I have found that, at the beach, openly discussing boobs is better than taking secret glances. “Hey Bobbie, check out those knockers! They’re so [insert adjective here]!” is a better way to handle things than to be caught staring. She knows how men are, how I am, and she knows that if boobs are there, I will look. We have running conversations about the breasts at the beach and give women nicknames like  “Juggo” or “Fat Nips.” there’s an obvious elephant in the room, or on the beach, and it’s easier to pay the elephant mind.

A few weeks later we were back on the beach, and I bequeathed upon one of our fellow beachgoers the moniker Breast Buds. A few blankets away from us lay a topless woman in her mid-twenties with abysmally small tits. They reminded me of 5th grade, when I saw my first real life breasts thanks to Nicole, an early bloomer who sat next to me in school. When Nicole wore shortsleeved shirts, I snuck a look up her sleeves every chance I could. Even though she had next to nothing there, the 10-year-old me was ecstatic just to peek.

Bobbie said I was an asshole for the nickname. Sure it was mean, but there was something about the girl that made her snarl on her face. She had a little hipster-guy harem with her, each with regulation tattoos and facial hair. their purpose seemed to be to sit and stare while she drank PBR.

Minutes after I named Breast Buds, she took the boobies at the beach thing to a new level. While on her stomach, she took her bikini bottom off. From where we sat, there wasn’t much of a show, but the little boy and his parents on the blanket adjacent had access to an eyeful of snatch.

Now, of course I was going to stare at the naked woman. It didn’t matter that I found her physically unattractive—I’m not necessarily a boob man, but I like something to grab onto—she was naked so I was going to look. the easiest way to do so was to talk shit.

I derided her, brought into question her sanity— there is definitely something wrong with someone who will strip naked in front of strangers and kids— mentioned the possibility of daddy issues and mocked her attention seeking behavior; words like “skank” and “slut” flowed easily. And Bobbie, in her disgust, said, “I wish someone would just go over there and jerk off. It would serve her right.”

I replied, laughing, “Hey, I’ll do it. I’ll come on her tits if I can find them.” Bobbie said I took it too far.

Bobbie and I have been back to the beach a number of times since, and I look at the breasts, and she looks too, and we drink beers and talk and joke. But the best pair of breasts at Jacob Riis Park are the ones only I get to see every day anyway. Not only are they perfect—more than a handful, but not too much—they’re attached to the woman I love. And I wouldn’t trade in Bobbie’s boobies for all the breasts on the beach, or anywhere else.