From Sally Higginson, Deerfield Patch

Venus on the half-shell. Ursula Andress in a bikini and holster. Daniel Craig in those iconic blue trunks. Colin Firth as Darcy, dripping pond scum from his linen shirt.

It really doesn’t matter.

The concept that a fantasy can rise from the sea and enter our collective consciousness is as old as mythology and as new as the latest Bond film. Show me a shore and I’ll show you a show.

Before I get to the good stuff, of course, I need to set the stage. In life as in porn, you have to have the backstory. After all, no one will ring the bell if you haven’t ordered the pizza.

Let’s start by my admission that I’m jealous of myself. I say that as I type from the Cayman Islands. No, I am not visiting Mitt’s bank accounts. That’s last week’s news, and it would not be sporting of me to bring it up. The country is moving forward, after all, and even if John McCain didn’t get that memo, I did.

No, I’m here on the island with a gaggle of gals because my mother is from Tulsa. Over 50 years ago she married a guy from Chicago, and she’s been cold in the marrow of her bones ever since. Sometime between the nuptials and now, my parents figured out that, like others in their lucky flock, they needed to migrate to make it through the winters. For a gal from Oklahoma, the hanging-chad state wasn’t warm enough. She needed to make landfall south of Cuba.

The point is, I’m here at their condo in Grand Cayman with my sister and some friends. Yada, yada, yada, yes: Life is, in truth, a beach.

But I promised pornography, so let me continue. Imagine this: six vixens, supine and oiled, lying on their chaise lounges and soaking up the warmth of the Caribbean sun.

Now veer to the left, and that’s where we were, six Midwestern women, shielded from the sun thanks to the combined effects of 55 SPF sunscreen, Miracle Suits that were falling just short of their promise, and a grass-roofed hut. Our collective dermatologists would have been proud.

I’m getting to the porn part, I promise.

Imagine: the sun hadn’t set, but hung low in the sky, creating a shimmering haze of iridescent gold that glinted and sparkled across the serene horizon, hanging like a golden orb about to dip into a pool of ink.  It was the time of day when the warmth of the sun still lingered on the skin, and the breeze of the coming evening hadn’t yet asserted its dominion over the heat-laden sky.

In other words, it was about 4-ish. There we were, chatting and laughing and actively not reading, when up from the shoreline walked a tall, dark stranger, approaching us with purpose. It was impossible not to take note of his burnished shoulders and dark, tossled hair. Up, up from the beach he came, walking with purpose, approaching our cluster with a ready smile and a suggestive air.

“Beach may-sodge?” he inquired.

We glanced at each other, not altogether sure what was being asked of us. His accent was intoxicating.

“Beach may-sodge?” he repeated, this time kneeling at the foot of my chaise and slowly reaching for the sole of my foot.

“Is he offering me a foot massage?” I asked aloud, shocked that this stranger from the shore was offering to touch my size elevens.

“Yes. Beach fute may-sodge.  Twenty minutes, $20.” The smile he offered was so dazzling it almost cancelled out the image of his shoulder tattoos.

“Yes please,” I said before any sound thinking friend could talk me out of it.

“I am Sebastian. From Argentina. Lie back and relax.”

Here I must pause for a frank interruption of sanity. If you are reading, dear daughters and nieces, do as I say, not as I did. Do not recline when a man with a foreign accent urges you to. Do not offer your feet in surrender. Beware the powers of strong pressure applied to the arch of a foot, the round of a heel, or the curve of a toe.

Keep in the fore of your brain the classic dialogue between Jules and Vincent as they banter back and forth in Pulp Fiction and ask each other, “Would you give a guy a foot massage?”  Put another way, sometimes a cigar is not a cigar.

But this was the Caribbean. And this was the haunting hour. And this was, he promised, just a may-sodge.

So I let Sebastion have his way with my feet. On the beach. In front of my sister and our friends. Not to get all James Joyce about it, but if you ask me was it good, I’d have to answer, “yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

When it was over, and I opened my eyes, there was Sebastian, smiling. He was waiting for his money and I confess, it made me feel a little bit dirty, and not in a good way.

Handing him the cash, the remorse set in. I decided to take a swim, knowing the salt water would make me feel cleaner. As I headed to the water I looked over my shoulder and noted that Sebastian was negotiating with my sister and our friend Sue, determining who would be next.

And so I say, beware the seduction of one arising from the foamy brine of the sea. Temptation, in the end, will always win.
Luckily, this time the may-sodge was just a may-sodge.

Photos Credit Jacob Nelson

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http://deerfield.patch.com/articles/middle-aged-beach-porn-or-just-a-may-sodge-aea5be8c#photo-12194813