Spring Break

Shock and awe. Juli Astonford, Ph.D., felt them both as a cold rain pounded the flagstone surrounding her swimming pool. Juli gazed out the window and heaved a heavy sigh. April could be a cruel month, breeding lilacs from the dead earth. Juli's sigh caused the silken fabric of her blouse to swell and cling as it molded to the shape of her firm breasts.

Dr. Astonford, or "Juli" as her friends called her, walked back to her desk, her spike heels tapping on the oak floor. Who was it who had found associations between sex and rainy weather? Was it Freud? Her brow crinkled in concern beneath her blonde hair, hair that was drawn back into almost a librarian's bun, much like a Robert Palmer backup singer.

Simply irresistible? Yes, Juli was that. Her own, stunningly frank, analysis of her sexual maturation began with the omnipotent cry of the Internet creators. Yet she was also somewhat of a paradox. Juli was a regular gal, yet her fit, lithe body craved daily sensual pleasures.

Juli's B.A. was in Spanish and she had waited tables to get through college. So the pedantry that was part and parcel of her current job as a psychologist was a bit of a counterpoint to her proletarian roots. Yes, she knew that Mayer, Joule, Kelvin, and Helmholtz had worked on the theory of conservation of energy. Yes, she knew that Joseph Campbell and Adelle Davis had been an item. Yet she was, as stated above, a regular gal. She could spend $200 on a vibrator web site in a New York minute.

Sex toy sites? Just that morning, Juli had found a Canadian toy site called "Come as You Are." Her blue eyes twinkled with amusement as she read the name of the site. And then her eyes, still blue, glittered with desire as she pondered the inventory of toys. Toys for this area, toys for that area, she found it all so delightfully pragmatic. Tease enough of the right areas and the result would be a starlight journey to ecstasy.

The afternoon was dark. There were no slanting rays of sunlight to caress her golden skin. Not that day. Juli thought about sprinkling some feta on a bean dish. But now, right now, Juli needed something else. Did she dare to eat a peach? No, the peach might splash on her demi-bra and v-string.

Juli shook off the worries of the day, and, worn from the incessant demands made upon her deeply nurturing nature by crazy people, contemplated taking a vacation. She was long overdue. As she reached behind her back to release her perfect breasts from the confining demi-bra, she thought about topless sunbathing on a Tahitian beach. Her skin, now reflecting the pearly opalescent hue of a sea shell (not to be confused with a synthetically fabricated "she-shell") could soon be a golden bronze, she thought. Instead of listening to rain drumming on the roof and dripping off the eaves, she could luxuriate in the sound of the pounding surf. Instead of the annoying buzz of her collection of sex toys, she could listen (or not) to the exotic accent of a lissome native hunk as she soaked up the sun. Or maybe not, Juli sighed as she thought of the mountains of paperwork she'd have to do beforehand if she were to take off. It hardly seemed worth it.

She wandered naked into her bedroom, looking for a box of Calgon. If she could not sail the high seas, at least she could treat herself to a Tahitian Treat bath. But the sheer curtains, blowing in the cool win from outside, reminded her again of a tropical bungalow with mosquito netting cascading in drifts over a teak bedstead. She knew she'd seen the image somewhere. Juli pulled open the bedside drawer, moved aside the first five vibrators there, along with the Newsweek issue featuring close-ups of Donald Rumsfeld. Still naked but determined to strike while the iron was hot, Juli picked up the phone and dialed her travel agent. Though a vacation seemed about as probable as Robert Palmer recruiting a bunch of high school librarians for his next video, she was determined to make the call.

As the number rang, Juli glanced down and noticed that her nipples were beginning to swell. Always a promising sign, she thought. But then the voice mail messages commenced. Press one if you wish to hear this message in Greek. Push two if you have red hair. It was maddening. Yet finally, at long last, Juli was connected to Lance Baedeker, her travel agent. Lance, who had more safari jackets than "Gunga Dan" Rather. Lance, with more blonde highlights in his hair than Robert Redford in "Out of Africa."

Listening to Lance speak in such glowing terms about tropical islands, Juli felt her own skin begin to glow. Perhaps it was in anticipation of being caressed by the golden rays of the sun? Perhaps it was because her eyes had strayed to the five vibrators in the open drawer? Who can say? But Juli was mistress of her domain. She permitted herself but one orgasm per day. On holidays and weekends, she allowed herself more, but she had iron discipline. And Juli had already had her morning orgasm. Oh, the memories, pressed between the pages of her mind.

By the dawn's early light, while doing more arm exercises than Angela Bassett, Juli had been watching TV. As she listened, entranced by the inherent sensuality of Bill Hemmer's voice, she wondered yet again if his hair could possibly be real. But soon Paula Zahn's voice replaced Hemmer's. And then, as Juli entered her shower and the soothing voice of General Brooks came on, Juli reflected, not for the first time, on the obvious sensuality of listening to the news. After shaving her legs and listening to the reassuring tones of Gen. Brooks, Juli elected to shave her intimate skin into the shape of the Iraqi flag. It was then that Juli availed herself of her Frisson Parapluie and had her morning orgasm.

Such were Juli's thoughts as she listened to Lance, her travel agent. But she shook off memories of her earlier orgasm, suppressed the recollections of her fit body writhing in unspeakable ecstasy, and returned to the serious business at hand. With the stern demeanor others knew so well, Juli demanded to know what kinds of sunbathing thongs were de rigueur in Tahiti. Taken aback by such a hard-hitting, Russert-like query, Lance promised to undertake intensive research and get back to her with the details.

Quickly hanging up before Lance could launch into his habitual rendition of "Julie, Julie, Julie, Do Ya Love Me?", Juli resorted to the Internet to preview promising beaches herself. Almost immediately, she came upon a list of the world's top ten nude beaches. Ruling our her usual haunts of Mexico and Florida (too close, too prosaic, too Gulfish, so to speak), she began to explore Samurai Beach in Australia. Hummm--coral reefs, vast tracts of sand, exotic accents--it met all her criteria, and it was far enough away that she could remain anonymous. Not an easy task after the recent publication of her book, Our Screen Names, Ourselves, an acerbically witty yet sensitive work that had led to her being hailed by the American Psychiatric Association as a cybernetic Simone de Beauvoir.

Mentally, Juli began to pack, tossing back her Bardotesque tresses. Fortunately, for a nude beach, she could travel fairly light and thongs were space-efficient, leaving more room for the vibrators. The lace and pearl thong, yes; the bandeau bikini, yes; the beaded pineapple bikini--no, it reminded her too much of Spongebob Squarepants. A few crocheted slipdresses, a sarong or three, sunglasses and hat, and that would do it, she thought. She began to run down the vibrator options, liking the synchronicity of the She-Shell and the Blue Dolphin vibe, but eventually settling on just the Purple Titan to match the bikini. In the suitcase of her mind, she hastily threw in a gartini, a copy of Barbara Tuchman's The March of Folly, and she was ready for two weeks of hedonistic gratification. She wondered if one more celebratory tryst with the bedside drawer would be out of line.

She looked at the Purple Titan, recalling with a blush that it was turbo-powered. With its firm tip and textured shaft, vibrating and rotating, it required three C batteries (not included). And it matched her deep purple PVC thong. The thong was durable, easy to care for, and it gave her lovers a new view of her (whatever that ad copy meant). Looking at the titanic toy did not mean that Juli was no longer mistress of her domain. She glanced at her gold Omega wristwatch, and admired her own self-discipline. And she recalled that Pierce Brosnan had worn an Omega as James Bond.

But thinking of Brosnan hadn't helped. She saw that it was 11 am. Perhaps, even on a Thursday, she should have a second for medicinal purposes? Even worse, Juli was now thinking of Pierce and Rene Russo, both topless, both in sarongs, both in the islands, both in the tepid remake "The Thomas Crown Affair." Juli began to waver. Perhaps a second journey to ecstasy wasn't out of line? She asked herself, not for the first time in life, what would Olivia Newton-John do? She had no idea. Then she asked herself what Bill Clinton would do. Now there was a no-brainer. She also recalled that Simone de Beavoir had written a book entitled The Second Sex. Surely Simone had been endorsing a minimum of two orgasms per day?

Juli pondered a possible link between multiple personalities and multiple orgasms and regretted not having had a more traumatic childhood. She considered the appeal of allocating an orgasm for each personality. It only seemed fitting, and if she were anything like Sally Field in Sybil....well, that would hardly leave time for her demanding career, so it was just as well. Feeling like a paragon of restraint, she resolutely closed the drawer and clicked "Book Package Now" on her computer screen. As the cold November-like rain came down harder outside, she thought of the Guns 'n Roses song of the same name. The image of Axel Rose was offensive beyond belief and she pushed it out of her mind with steely resolve.

It hardly seemed a week later that Juli strolled au naturel out onto the beach, a cool tropical drink in her hand. Her tan lines had faded as fast as a memory of Sheen Easton lyrics, and she had picked a perfect time to visit Samurai as well--the Nude Olympics had just started. Juli had watched the Nude Torch Relay that morning, in particular, a sun-bronzed god who bore a resemblance to a taller, svelter, more elegant, more articulate Russell Crowe. Watching the torch relay reminded her that she had packed her Trojan Torch sex toy, and she had excused herself from the regular activities on the beach.

Back in her cottage, she began to hum the song "Good Vibrations" as she unpacked the toy. She closed her eyes and embarked on a pleasant fantasy of skinny-dipping in the warm, moonlit waters of the Coral Sea with the nameless torch-bearer. Moments later, replete with pleasure, she decided to postpone her eel-fishing expedition and enter the Nude Surfing competition the next day. With any luck at all, the torch-bearer would play Moondoggy to her Gidget, only in a more cosmopolitan, sensuous, less grating way.

Juli had always felt that some enchanted morning she would meet a stranger across a crowded surfing beach. And, thus far, it had come to pass. A few discreet inquiries had revealed that the torch-bearer was none other than Dennis Hottie-Finch, the renowned British anthropologist and consuetude scholar. The groves of academe had been impressed by his discovery of primitive thongs in the Serengeti Plains. Admittedly, there had been mistakes along the way. Like Hottie-Finch's paper touting the discovery of early nipple-clamps which turned out to be ordinary wooden clothes pins from the 1950s. All things considered, though, Hottie-Finch's career had been as strong as his jawline.

As Juli sipped her morning coffee at the outdoor buffet, she was startled to hear a voice say "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." Although Juli was amply attired for breakfast in a bikini top and a sarong, she smiled at the traditional nude resort remark and then froze as she realized it was Hottie-Finch himself looking for a breakfast table. She smiled and invited him to join her. She could tell, from his insulated canvas sweatshirt, that he had recently arrived from a far colder climate. But he doffed that and soon fit right in wearing an Oxford t-shirt and cotton safari shorts with approximately 32 pockets.

Dennis gazed upon her tan visage. The blonde mane, the sunglasses propped up. And, yes, the bikini top. And the sarong, yes the sarong. Was that a Gordian knot? In any case, he conceded, she had weapons of mass seduction. He removed his canvas boonie cap and wiped a noble brow (his own) with a sweaty forearm, squinting into the 118-degree heat of a beach so pristine it looked as though it had been lightly browned and dusted with confectioner's sugar, truly a beignet of a beach.

As for Juli, it seemed as though all the heat and light of the beach surged from Dennis' blonde highlights. With an airy confidence she had to work at, she invited him to watch her compete in the surf that afternoon. She was both excited and tremulous when he agreed with a raffish smile. She finished the breakfast with light conversation, avoiding any mention of nipple clamps and/or clothespins, or in fact, any laundry talk at all, quite easily.

Later, balancing on her surfboard and completely in her comfort zone, Julie adroitly steered into the curling lip of a wave. She flipped this way and that, shooting about like Daryl Hannah in Splash, taking perfect 10's from all the judges, who may not even have been distracted from her surfing skills by her Venutian proportions and golden tan. After all, they saw this sort of stuff every day. But as she pulled her surfboard out at the water's edge, she caught a glimpse of Dennis' face, and he was gazing at her with wild surmise, much as Balboa, not Cortez, sighting the Pacific. But who counted on Keats for geography?

Hand in hand, they strolled down the beach, coming to a secluded lagoon, where, Juli hoped, there were no lurking salt-water crocs. She had watched enough Crocodile Hunter to know how to handle the monsters; still, she'd rather test her mettle on less life-threatening entertainment. Suddenly, there came a single crack of thunder, and skies opened in a warm tropical downpour. Listening to the rhythm of the falling rain, and feeling lulled by its pattering on the leaves overhead, she snuggled close to Dennis, who turned his face to her and enveloped her in a probing kiss so tempestuous and torrid he could have had her clothes off in a nanosecond, except, wait--she was already nude.

She loved a rainy night. But this was an afternoon. No matter. The rain was incessant, and it wouldn't stop either. He watched as droplets of rain struck her shoulders, her turgid nipples, and he wondered at the inherent futility of attempting to kiss away those raindrops. Her eyes turned inquiringly toward the cliff, and the shelter of overhanging rock. His eyes assented. And both wondered, again silently, why they were eye-talking. Perhaps because the world had been too much with them? Yes, if time were not a moving thing, and they could make it stay, this hour of love they might share would always be, there would be no coming day to shine its morning light, make them realize their night was over.