My friends (Tony, Chris and Doug) and I packed for a lovely trip to a quaint beach called Sandy Hook, nuzzled within the glorious Jersey Shore. We prided ourselves on our preparedness, waking up on a Saturday morning, lugging sun screens, water bottles and iPods to the ferry in lower Manhattan. We further extolled our ingenuity for planning optimal points for nude viewing as well as the return ferry schedule. We were all set. When we arrived to our Jersey destination, we had to trek to the beach, which was about a fifteen-minute walk away. Here is where our planning began to fail us. Sandy Hook has mutant mosquitoes. I don't know if it's a Jersey thing or what, but these bugs were the size of teacup poodles and flew around like kamikaze pilots. I was oppressed by the heat and humidity, along with the weight of my beach supplies, so dealing with these insects really ticked me off. I began to bitch and moan. A lot. My party shortly invoked a bit of teamwork, each swatting the other as we witnessed a mosquito land on a thigh or shoulder. We successfully looked like a gang of gays with Tourette's singing Lady Gaga to absolve the pain, but we failed at escaping many, many bites.
I arrived to the wash house on the beach ten minutes later, looking like a Leper stepping out of a sauna and/or gay disco…gay discos are really just saunas with less clothing and more body glitter and Boy Butter. I'm quite allergic to regular-sized mosquitoes, so these monstrous fiends left large hives covering parts of my leg, arms and boney shoulder blades. We stumbled into the wash house rest room to change into our bathing suits and freshen up. I assessed my body, surveying the reddening skin, hoping against hope that the Jersey Shore sea waters were mixed with topical Benadryl. Once I washed my hands, I headed back outside followed by two teenage boys with huge smiles on their faces. Yet, they were the type of smile a dog wears after he's humped a leg or fire hydrant for a solid twelve minutes. You know, that mixture of exhaustion, frustration and a "haha-look-at-what-I-can-do" grin. I didn't think anything of it at the moment, as I was preoccupied by the hefty patrons of this beach greasing up and stripping down to tan their back fat. But, when Doug and Tony joined me, they immediately asked if we'd all heard the couple having sex in the stalls.
Tony: Did you hear it? Two guys were having sex in the stalls.
Doug: Yep, I heard and was like dubs-tee-eff.
Me: How did I miss this, and why didn’t you pull me away from my urinal to get better audio?
Tony: At first I thought this guy was grunting, having a difficult chat with the commode and his breakfast, but then I heard what sounded like slapping…like a hand on the ass. Then the slapping and grunting increased followed by a second set of grunting, and then I heard an "oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhhhhh."
Me: Which stall?
I proceeded back into the facilities and checked underneath each stall. All were empty. I came back out, disappointed, as Doug pointed out the two boys I saw earlier and said they were the ones that he heard. I was confused. They were wearing board shorts for Christ's sake.
My astonishment for the remainder of the afternoon never faltered for three other reasons. First, nude parents brought their children to this beach. Call me crazy, but seeing a four-year-old naked girl in pig tails next to a hairy, disrobed man in his forties, surrounded by other nekkid adults made me want to vomit, and not because I’m bulimic. As my friends and I questioned this legality and tabulated how much those children would spend in adult therapy, black penises also peppered the sand. We've all seen porn, had threesomes and children with and heard the myths about black men. Most that I've seen are pretty average, but we saw one donkey dick that has undoubtedly skewed those metrics to prove the big, black penis hypothesis. While I cannot say it was the size of a baby's arm (even while flaccid) or like a Clydesdale's member, I can say it could have been confused as an on-ramp to the highway. I saluted him as he walked past, and he returned the favor, tipping the hat covering the head of his penis.
While that's a sizable reason number two of astonishment, our odd last sight to behold proved equally mesmerizing. Lurking between several legs of portly hippies and flushed little, Italian men were the elusive micropenis. Rarely seen out of its natural habitats, China and a hamster cage, this entity survives on discretion and solo masturbation. Naturally, I pointed them out to my friends.
Me: I've never seen so many micropenises in my life.
Tony: What the hell is a micopenis?
Me: Oh, it's a certified medical condition where the erect penis is smaller than three inches. I always thought it was an urban legend. Apparently, Jersey guidos have the market on it.
Me: And…they look like my mosquito hives. Pink and ashamed.
I guess the saltwater did, in fact, have a reasonable quantity of Benadryl in its chemistry, and I got micropenised thirty times over by fucking flying parasites.