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I thought I could feel the individual rays of sun on my chest, heating my skin and hopefully contributing to the tan I was working on that summer. Even through my eyelids the Greek sun shone a bright white. Sweat dripped down my temples. While I’d been at the beach for an hour and a half already, I’d only been tanning for 20 of those minutes, and I knew I had maybe 5 more, hopefully 10, before I had to jump in the Mediterranean to cool off. I waited, thinking about my trip to Greece so far, taking stock in an attempt to prolong my time in the sun.
It was my first time in Greece, despite being half-Greek by blood if not quite culture, and I’d already been there for 3 weeks. I came with my father, a man who I’d never really known until my early-20s, which was why it wasn’t until now, in my late-20s, that I was actually making it back to “the fatherland.” Unfortunately, I was finding out that my father and I didn’t have much in common. Though a nice guy, our interests clearly didn’t line up all that well. As a result I was finding myself increasingly prone to strike out on my own, either to walk around whatever city, town, or village we were in, or to visit beaches, museums, or archeological and historical sites. For his part, he spent the time in the various apartments or hotels we stayed in working on his laptop. When not doing that, he would visit the handful of relatives in whichever village we were in, almost all of them over 70 and unable to speak any English.
I always went with him to visit the closer relatives, but after the first few weeks, I increasingly tried to avoid the more distant ones since the pattern was always the same: we arrive at their house and are offered something to drink; they speak to me in Greek; they are disappointed that I don’t speak Greek; they tell my father that I have to learn how to speak Greek; they talk to my father and occasionally address me with some generic question about what I do with my life and in particular why I’m not married; they repeat that I have to learn Greek; they repeat it again 15 minutes later; 30 minutes later; when we leave. My father was getting more out of the visits than I did, not only because he speaks Greek and can thus communicate with them, but because as his only son, I am like a trophy that shows to his relatives that he is a “real Greek man.”
I couldn’t tell whether 5 or 10 minutes had passed, but I knew that if I didn’t jump in the water immediately, I’d start to burn. Opening my eyes I sat up. The blue-green water of the surf beckoned me. I’d been told that the waters of Ikaria, the small island near the coast of Turkey I was currently staying on, were the cleanest in Greece. I stood and quickly, so as not to burn the soles of my feet, walked the 10 meters of sand and rock to get to the water. The sea was deliciously cool against my hot skin and before long I was up to my neck. I took a quick breath in and dunked my head. Turning around and letting myself float in the surf, I surveyed the beach. It was small and empty, my red towel in the middle and a small white boat on the left edge the only signs of humanity to mar the sand. The beach was at the end of a small valley about 30 minutes outside of the village I was staying in, and a handful of white houses dotted the slopes of the hills of the valley. A thick green line of trees and vegetation ran along the back of the beach, bookended by large rock cliffs. Only a small path through the trees offered a way back to the road. I enjoyed the peace, allowing myself to float lazily on my back.
Perhaps 15 minutes had passed, perhaps 15 more, when I heard voices. I opened my eyes to see a group of 7 people file out of the opening to the path: three women, three children, and one man. They were clearly Greek. Not only because this island, let alone the village, were far from the tourist traps of Mykonos and Santorini, but because I could also make out snippets of Greek floating across sand and water. They looked and acted Greek as well. The mothers, at least I assumed they were the mothers of the three kids, immediately began unpacking beach mats, towels, and inflatable safety arm-bands for the children. The children, all of which seemed to be girls between the ages of 6 and 8, ran circles around the adults. Rather than helping with the kids or the set-up, the man took off his shirt and slipped a snorkel over his balding head before jumping into the water. Very Greek.
Once the arm-bands were inflated, the young girls shed their clothes and ran to the edge of the water. Two wore child-sized two-piece suites and one only bottoms. They waited for the three women to join them. I tried to watch the women inconspicuously, not only because staring was rude, but because I didn’t want them to mistake my looks at them for pedophilic looks at the topless child. When they’d arrived, I’d assumed that the women were the parents of the three kids, but now that I looked closer I wasn’t sure. Two of the women looked to be in their late 30s or early 40s, their clothing was looser than what I’d grown accustomed to seeing the younger women of Greece wearing, and their bodies had an unmistakable kurtköy escort softness to them that I associated with motherhood. Their hairstyles seemed mature rather than hip. The third woman looked younger. She wore a long patterned skirt and a tight maroon tank-top. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled back into a pony-tail. More than these though, her toned body suggested she was more likely in here 20s. I wondered if maybe she wasn’t the daughter of one of the other women.
The differences in the women’s bodies became clearer as they stripped down to the swimsuits and joined the girls, helping them into the surf. The two “older” women wore conservative two-piece bathing suites that covered but did not hide the softness of their bodies. Both had very large breasts that made my own back hurt in sympathy. Their thighs were thick and their behinds well padded. The bottoms of their dark colored suites stretched tight across wide hips, and soft bellies spilled gently above the waistbands. They were about 50 meters away, which was just far enough that I could only make out the overall features of their faces. They looked plain, not particularly attractive, but not unattractive. In short, they looked every bit like mothers. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wishing that Greece were more like its European neighbors where the women went topless at the beach. Seeing them, I could understand the statues of round women I’d seen in the museums. There was something unmistakably erotic about these motherly bodies that echoed in the fertility statues of the ancient cultures in the area. The heavy, full breasts; the thick thighs ending in a soft wide bottom on one side, and the lush opening to a fertile womb on the other; the generous belly that could nurture a man’s seed. Of course motherhood was erotic, and mothers like these sexy. Alas, Greeks were a conservative folk, their historical connections to the Orthodox Church proving more inhibiting than the Spaniard’s connection to Catholicism. There would be no ample breasts bared to my view on this beach.
I was suddenly aware that, in thinking of these women, and particularly their breasts, I’d sprouted quite a proud erection that poked above the water like the mast of a boat, my swimsuit stretched across it like a sail. From where they stood in the surf it was unlikely the women could see me, which was not a comment about the size of my manhood, but about the distance between them and where I floated. The snorkeling man, however, was now swimming closer, so I allowed my body to sink in the water just enough to hide my erection, but not so much that it would be clearly visible underwater: he was wearing goggles after all.
I looked at the third woman, though now that I was no longer floating on my back, I had to work a little harder to stay afloat, and my attention was thus slightly divided. Her suit was white, or perhaps cream. It was certainly not skimpy, but neither did it appear as conservative as the suits of the other two women. The lines of the suite were clean against her olive skin. While her body lacked the softness of the other two women’s, she was still curvy. Her breasts and behind seemed half the size of the other women’s, but both were still full and round. Her body gave the overall impression of being firm and toned, the body of a woman that exercises regularly in addition to being blessed with a high metabolism. Like the others, she was too far away for me to clearly see her face, but even from this distance her features looked finer than the other two women’s, and I thought she would be best described as pretty. Seeing her in her bathing suite, I decided it was more likely that she was the early-20s daughter of one of the other women, maybe from a first marriage. That wasn’t uncommon in Greece. I had one cousin that had married a man and had three kids with him by the time she was 25, the age she was when he disappeared one afternoon while out fishing. After 7 years she’d legally declared him dead, divorced him, and remarried, having 2 more kids with the new husband by 36 so that there was a 17-year age difference between the oldest and youngest. But just as I’d decided against maternity and for sorority, one of the young girls ran up and the way the woman adjusted the girls swimsuit and arm-bands seemed maternal enough to give me doubts.
As they began swimming with the girls, I decided to stop ogling the three women and concentrate on letting my erection subside so that I could get back to tanning. I’d sufficiently cooled off and wanted to give myself some time to dry before heading back to the apartment my father and I had rented in the nearby village. Back on the beach I grabbed one of the two large water bottles from my backpack and rinsed some of the salty seawater from my body. I downed the rest of the bottle to rehydrate. Once on my towel, I lay on my stomach and grabbed the book I’d been reading earlier from my backpack. I read for 15 or 20 minutes before deciding to switch to my back; the book and sun were making me sleepy and I had to be more careful about burning now that some of the sunscreen had undoubtedly washed off malatya escort in the sea.
As I turned over, I glanced in the direction of the others on the beach. The man was no longer snorkeling, and was now sitting and talking with one of the older women. She looked to be pulling some snacks out of her bag to give to the kids, who now walking at the water’s edge collecting shells and rocks. The other older woman was herding the children, and the younger woman lay on her stomach tanning her back. She lay with her head away from me and her feet pointed almost directly at where I lay. The skin of her back shone in the sun, likely with sweat, but also sunscreen or tanning oil. Now that I was on the beach, we were only 30 meters away. Because of the way she lay, I could see the younger woman’s behind much more clearly. The white fabric stretched tightly across the firm half-globe of each cheek, disappearing slightly between them in the beginning of a wedgie, making their shape that much clearer. The bottom third of each cheek was left exposed, tantalizing me, suggesting the sight and not just the shape of what lay underneath the suit. I took this in quickly as I turned over, attempting not to let my eyes linger on the women too long.
Lying on my back I could no longer read, so I closed my eyes, bunched up the legs of my swimsuit up to expose more of my legs, and let the sun begin to bake me again. As I tanned, my mind wandered a bit, floating inevitably back to the last image I’d seen before closing my eyes. I gazed at it like a picture, my mind picking up on details that hadn’t registered at first glance: the skin of her back shinning in the sun, unbroken by the strap of a bathing suit that she’d no doubt untied to avoid tan lines; the little fold of sweet bare flesh where her legs ended and her butt began. I savored these details in my mind. I could feel my penis begin to stir in the wet fabric of my swimsuit, and quickly tried to divert my attention. I thought about the panigiri, the village festival, I’d be going to later that night. I tried to imagine what that would look like. I’d heard a lot about them, with their Greek folk dancing and roast goat. This worked for a little while, my daydreams about the festival giving way to more abstract thoughts as I slipped in and out of consciousness, dozing lightly as I tanned. My mind must have returned to the sexual, perhaps it was the thought of young nubile village girls dancing, their hips and breasts swaying to the music, lips shinny with the grease of roast goat, and cheeks flushed from dancing and the local sweet wine. The image was fleeting, and it may just have been sleep itself.
Whichever, it was, I slowly became aware that in my dozing, I’d once again become erect. The thought was fuzzy and insubstantial, but as it solidified, I realized that I was on my back and thus more visible. I thought I felt eyes on me, so slowly, as if to seem nonchalant or at least not gain any attention that was not already on me, I turned away from the others on the beach and on to my stomach. As I positioned my head, I fluttered my eyes open just long enough to see what looked like one of the older women facing my way and leaning down to whisper something to the younger woman, who, while still on her stomach, also appeared to be facing me. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected they were talking about me, that they had seen my erection. While not extraordinarily endowed, in fact, I am quite happily average in length if a bit above in girth, my proximity to them made it unlikely that they would have missed the tent I was pitching in my swimsuit had they let their eyes linger on me for more than a passing second. My ears felt hot, whether from the sun or their whispers I couldn’t tell.
I felt flushed and a bit embarrassed, but my erection refused to subside. In turning onto my stomach, my penis had been trapped between the towel and me, the weight of my body pressed my penis into my stomach insistently; my penis wouldn’t let me forget its hardness, which of course perpetuated it. I tried to think about other things. I thought about the ancient palace of Knossos I’d visited the week before. About the old tourists and older tour guides I’d shared the site with that afternoon. But that led to remembering the very attractive French woman I’d seen taking photos around the site with her similarly attractive, albeit generic, boyfriend. They both looked to be in their early-20s. Her dark blond hair had been in a ponytail held back with a clip and a few stray hairs seemed to constantly fall into her face, causing her to periodically brush them aside as she snapped photos. She was wearing a pair of shorts that showcased her smooth and shapely legs to about mid-thigh, and a somewhat baggy t-shirt with a nice neckline and a series of cutouts and ties in the back that exposed her smooth back and the strap of a black bra. Our paths had crossed several times and on one occasion, I’d been a level up from her and, looking down as she leaned forward to take a photo of a reconstructed mural, had accidentally seen down the neck of her shirt. Her smallish breasts had not quite filled kayseri escort up the black bra and I’d clearly seen one of her nipples standing out pink against the dark fabric.
Later that night as I took a shower at the hotel where my father and I were staying in Crete, I’d masturbated for the first time since being in Greece. I’d thought about the French girl. I imagined stumbling across her among the ruins, incongruously empty save for us and her boyfriend, with whom she was making love. I imagined watching them from behind, somehow unseen. Their naked bodies shone sweaty in the hot midday sun. She lay on her back atop a slab of rock that had likely been part of a wall in an ancient house. Her beautifully tapered legs were spread wide, her knees up. He stood between them, thrusting into her. Sweat beaded on his well-muscled back and dripped down his spin. I could see the cheeks of his sculpted ass clench with each thrust. His arms gripped her hips, and I could see he was pulling her toward him, the muscles in his arms and upper back rippling in time with their rutting. Her full mouth was locked in an O of pleasure, her heavy lidded eyes fixed on her boyfriend. Those same wisps of blond danced across her face. Her breasts, small and round like peaches, bounced pleasantly as their bodies. I’d imagined watching this as I leaned my back against the wall of the shower, supporting myself as I stroked my hard cock. In my fantasy, I’d become aware of the sounds they were making: his grunts, her moans, the wet slap of the sweat-drenched bodies coming together. I’d watched as she arched her back in orgasm, a wail careening out of her mouth between the white tips of her teeth and the red of her delicious lips. With a last violent thrust, he pushed himself deep inside her and came. They paused, their bodies united, and then with a graphic slurp, he withdrew from her and turned to face me. I could see a rope of come lewdly connecting the tip of his large, still pulsing cock with the glistening dark hole of her flushed pussy. They looked at me as if to ask if I’d like to join and at that moment I’d come, my cock squirting seaman halfway across the bathroom. Even in the shower my ejaculation had been audible. Two weeks without release having built the pressure in my balls to a surprising degree so that I could actually hear a spurting noise as the come rocketed out of the small slit at the head of my cock.
I stole myself back to the reality of the beach. Clearly this was not helping me lose my erection. If anything, my erection felt more insistent, harder. I began to worry that if I kept it up, I might end up with a wet-daydream. I knew I could probably wash the seaman from my shorts in the water without being noticed, but I still didn’t relish taking the risk. I tried to refocus. I thought about the postcards I wanted to write my friends and fam back home. I’d already written 7, but I had 6 more sitting back at the apartment and had thought of another 5 people I might want to write to if I could find their addresses. Soon I was thinking about the souvenirs I would bring back for folks as well. I knew I’d be bringing back a couple bottles of Greek alcohol for my friends, perhaps a backgammon board for my brother, and I’d thought about bringing back olive oil for my roommate, but that seemed almost too Greek, cliché even. My mom had asked for a statue, but I wasn’t sure what kind. I was pretty sure she didn’t want one of the cheesy replicas of the statues the Greeks had made of the gods or heroes of Greek mythology. Those were a bit tacky and way to touristy for her. She already had one fertility goddess statue that I thought was from the Middle East, so maybe the Greek equivalent of that would be good. I’d seen a few of those in the museums.
My mind began to wander over the different statues I’d seen in Greece, thinking about what might be good. My thoughts slowly became less structured, more fragmented. Images. I continued to sink deeper until, without quite realizing it, my stream of consciousness slips its banks and flows towards the two older women I’d seen on the beach, the way they remind me of those statues. Barely half awake, I fantasize about them as those goddesses. Their faces, not fully visible from where I’d been in the water, became even less resolved until they resemble the vague shapes of the statues. They have eyes, mouths, noses, but they are somehow not distinguishable. They are generic or maybe Platonic, the ideals of each, they can only be seen as shadows of themselves, as the essences of every woman’s face. They are there and not there.
Their clothes begin to dissolve, baring their substantial breasts capped with large, dark nipples and exaggerated areolas the size of saucers. They hang heavy and pendulous now that they are freed from the confines of their swimsuits. Their thick sturdy thighs and their wide padded hips make a series of creases in their flesh, a trio of lines that draw the eyes to where they meet, the dark, lush nexus of their womanhood, the openings to their life-nurturing wombs. Though covered with thick curly black hairs, the features of their vulvas are clearly visible. They are flushed, engorged. Their labia are puffy and parted so that I can not only make out the moist openings of their vaginas, but the throbbing nubs of their clitorises peaking from beneath their protective hoods.
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