Optimist or deluded fantacist?

[This is the 2nd in a short series of posts written whiqlst on holiday, but having got to rhe point of publishing, hy heart isn’t in it. But seeing as the reasons behind that, including my own self destructive nature, perhaps this us the most pertinent. so publish and be damned.]

Two weeks holiday. We were to spend a fortnight in the same bed and my Wife would have around 30 opportunities to see me naked for the first time in months.
So …
I shaved off what little pubic hair I had so the sight of my morning wood would be even more eye catching.
I looked forward to my Wife getting Her tits out for the sun. Perhaps the orange bra was indeed a bikini?
I silently rehearsed accidentally dropping a tantalisingly small reference to historic beach nudism with exes.
And I packed a lightweight novel I hoped would be surprisingly salacious and that might provoke even a modicum of conversation.
[Ed: You don’t need to say it, Dear Reader – it’s plain to all AM has some serious issues.]

Roughly half of these things happened.
And not the desired half.

Yes, We shared the same bed for two weeks. But …
The precedent of many years was largely adhered to, and I was both in bed and asleep before She came to bed and I persistently woke before Her and had been reading and drinking tea for an hour or three before She rose for breakfast. So no opportunity for flagrant exhibitionism there.
The sole expose of my completely bald cock was on returning from the beach one day, as the family took it in turns to use the single shower in our rented apartment. I was last in the queue, after my Wife. As She exited the bathroom I was waiting in the bedroom, already undressed and with just the merest hint of a semi. (It’s a well known fact that the distention of a flaccid todger is directly proportional to ambient temperature, so it was only natural mine would be just a little engorged in the Mediterranean heat.) [Ed: Or that’s AM’s story and He’s doubtless sticking to it.] As We passed, pausing briefly to converse, it was painfully apparent that my Wife, wrapped in a towel, averted Her eyes.

Yes, we all went to the beach and there were more topless bathers than you could shake a dick stick at. But …
It turned out the pre-teen perception of what might constitute a bra may be a little off the mark. Nor could it have been classed as a bikini. And it wasn’t really orange. And the only time it was worn was the one day the rest of the family went to the beach without me. On every other occasion, an old, blue, near Victorian swimsuit was the order of dress. (On the very last day of the holiday, as a decidedly Rubenesque woman bounced topless towards the sea, My Wife did comment that perhaps She could have got away with a bikini.)

And when I had the opportunity to accidentally drop a tantalisingly small reference to historic beach nudism with exes … I dropped the ball. [Ed: It’s difficult to know what would be a finer example of “all talk and no trunks.”]

As for the book, yes, I had picked something completely out of genre from an author best known for tales that, whilst almost as twisted, are infinitely less salacious. But …
Despite reading it unprecedentedly quickly (I’m not a fast reader), not a single comment was made.

It’s all very well planning such occurrences, but there’s a thin line between optimism and fantasy if you never even try to get out of the rehearsal room.

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