Life's a beach...

And then you die. Meanwhile, self-pleasuring should not be relegated to the merely sexual, although I do feel that the ocean is one big metaphor for orgasm, but then that might just be me... what with the siren blood coursing through my veins... I remember the solitary satisfaction years ago in a Miramar summer, early December, before the tourists had descended unrelentingly upon our little beach-side village. Swimming out alone in the chilly Atlantic and racing against the waves, pushing up in pure joy, against the breaking waves, letting them throw me in an upward thrust towards the sky before falling back into the foam, or leaning back, my feet to the sky, letting the curl of the wave catch me from behind (I have always loved the head-over-heels feeling), only to flip me back to an upright position. Today it was too cold to spend more than a half-hour in the blue bath, but it was sooooo worth it.

So, as usual, I have to amuse myself some way, right? And what are Fridays for if not exploring...









And I even remembered to slather myself in sunblock. All would have been perfect, but I stepped on an unpleasantly sharp piece of beach debris, slicing the bottom of my foot. Ah well, pleasure pain principle I suppose.