To Speedo Or To G-String - 2015

Yesterday my old-time drinking buddy Dave left for the South of France. The Dreamliner carried him from JFK to Casablanca to Nice, where he was met by his friends living in a villa above the Cote d'Azur. His plane had been delayed after the TSA found organic hair spray in an old wrinklie woman's purse and he called from the airport to kvetch about Homeland Security.

"I agreed, but imagine if they had found your Riviera Speedo."

"I don't have a Speedo." Dave had a good body for a fifty year-old man.

"No Speedo?" I wished I could wear one, except these days my body is better suited to a chador for the beach. "Brave man, you're going for the g-string."

During the Grand Vacannes every European man regardless of his figure goes to the beach in the skimpiest bathing suit possible, but Dave was an American. Even more so a New Yorker.

"No g-string."

"No g-string?" Dave managed the wardrobe for a very popular network TV show. A cop show. Cops dont wear g- strings even undercover.

"Are you going au natural?"

"No, you idiot. I'm wearing trunks the same as everyone."

"Same as everyone?"

Dave was gay.

"We're not the same as everyone."

"We?"

"You know gays, queers et al."

"You're not gay and don't start thinking about coming out. The last thing this world needs is another Bruce Jenner."

"Her name is Caitlin."

"Well, I'm sure he doesn't wear a Speedo anymore. Gotta go. The old lady has been cleared for the flight."

"Bon Voyage." I loved the South of France and shouted to a click, "Bring me back espadrilles."

I laid back in bed and googled 'ladyboy' porn. I might not be 'gay', but I ain't straight neither.

Happy Gay Pride Day.

ps Dave brought back espadrilles. Years went by before I got them. I wore them today on Ditch Plains. No Speedo.

I LOVE BRIGITTE: a collection of short stories by Peter Nolan Smith

The Cote d’Azur stretching along the Mediterranean from Ventimiglia to St. Tropez has been populated since before the Bronze Age, but the French actress Brigitte Bardot renewed interest in the Riviera with her debut appearance as a sultry teenager in the 1956 film ET DIEU…CREA LA FEMME.

That summer the blonde sensation adorned every magazine cover in the USA and her body screamed out French from movie posters.

I dreamed of Brigitte Bardot and St. Tropez for months.

I was four years old.

I still dream of her.

Sometimes in my sleep.

The White Wedding.

Some things never change.

To read I LOVE BRIGITTE: a collection of short stories by Peter Nolan Smith

Please go to the following URL https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01IL91UIM

Speedos pour Le Cote d'Azur

I love the South of France.

Women go topless and no one really gawks at them.

The food is sublime and the Mediterranean changes color throughout the day and night.

Pure paradise, except during 'le Grand Depart', when tens of millions of French and Germans and Scandinavians and Brits pile into their cars for a vacation of the eternal Cote d'Azur. Most are drawn to the beaches and every day men slip into their Speedos and even skimpier bathing gear.

Speedos by Fabo.

A cod piece.

My friend Dave was in Antibes. My longtime friend called to gloat and I asked, "Are you wearing Speedos?"

"Why would I wear Speedos?" ughed Dave. He was the managed the costume department for a successful TV show.

"For some action."

The South of France was renown for one-night stands and even-shorter liaisons.

No Speedos."

"Suit yourself, but even Pablo Picasso wore Speedos."

The dead painter had a museum in Antibes.

"Yeah, right." Dave chortled a laugh and hung up. He could afford to be happy on the Cote d'Azur, while I sat on the roof of the Fort Greene Observatory. At least I know one thing.

Pablo Picasso wore speedos.

And I'm not beyond going au natural in Goa.

Speedos pour Le Cote d'Azur

I love the South of France.

Women go topless and no one really gawks at them.

The food is sublime and the Mediterranean changes color throughout the day and night.

Pure paradise, except during 'le Grand Depart', when tens of millions of French and Germans and Scandanavians and Brits pile into their cars for a vacation of the eternal Cote d'Azur. Most are drawn to the beaches and every day men slip into their Speedos and even skimpier bathing gear.

Speedos by Fabo.

A cod piece.

My friend Dave was in Antibes. My longtime friend called to gloat and I asked, "Are you wearing Speedos?"

"Why would I wear Speedos?" ughed Dave.

"For some action."

The South of France was renown for one-night stands and even-shorter liaisons.

No Speedos."

"Suit yourself, but even Pablo Picasso wore Speedos."

The dead painter had a museum in Antibes.

"Yeah, right." Dave chortled a laugh and hung up. He could afford to be happy on the Cote d'Azur, while I sat on the roof of the Fort Greene Observatory. At least I know one thing.

Pablo Picasso wore speedos.

And I'm not beyond going au natural in Goa.