Liberation of letch

Big tits. Small tits. Saggy tits. Pert tits. Bouncy tits. Pneumatic tits. Implanted tits. Young tits. Old tits.

If you want a visual smörgåsbord of tits, come to the beaches of le Côte d’Azur. Admittedly that wasn’t a slogan I remember seeing when we booked the holiday, but it might as well have been. [Ed: A smörgåsbord is perhaps. a little too Scandinavian a metaphor, considering the location, but hopefully you get the point, Tolerant Reader.] 

And there was just as joyous an array of firm, wobbly, wrinkled and toned arses, thighs and stomachs.

Skin tones, although predominantly that of well stewed tea, ran the spectrum of espresso to double cream (with a few freshly boiled lobsters).

And what was entirely wonderful was the sense of libertarianism. It felt like no one felt like they were being judged. I only wished I could truly join the party, but sadly this was a family visit to the beach, and I was pretty sure nudists would be judged. (Not that I didn’t manage to whip my shorts off for 5min after swimming 50m out into the middle of the lagoon, before putting them back on and heading ashore. Oh how I miss the freedom of skinny dipping!)

However, the true zenith of the beach was, of course, the tits, and despite what Huff and Elle might have you believe, there was no shortage of them toasting to a golden shade in the French sun.

Obviously it’s not the done thing to gawp at almost naked bodies on the beach whilst you rub one out. But the thing that surprised me most was my lack of desire so to do. Sure, it was difficult not to cast an extremely appreciative eye over the sand, dappled with flesh [Ed: With the aid of dark sunglasses disguising off-axis stares into the distance, AM has quite a talent for observing unobserved.] but there was no oceanic wave of lust. More a desire to take in all the spectacles of The Louvre … including all the Renaissance and Pre-Raphaelite tits.

But why?

All I can think if is context. Whip out a porn mag and you’ll want to whip out your cock. That’s what is expected. It’s the raison d’être. Having your tits and pussy printed on the page is like printing a permission slip: Yes, you’re welcome to shoot your load over me. But on the beach, somehow it’s entirely different. There’s an unspoken contract: Sure you’ve got your tits out, and they really are quite lovely tits, but we’re all just here for the sun so I don’t care about your tits and have no interest in jerking off over them.

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