Too Many Cocks Spoil The Beach

20 Aug

“Man, some people have got some weird penises,” Rosie tells me matter-of-factly, turning to me with a frown. Fortunately I am fully clothed and this isn’t an observation being voiced with reference to my own reproductive organ. It’s 9:30 on a Saturday morning, the sun is beaming brightly in the sky, the temperature is already up in the mid 20’s and, less than five metres to our left, at eye level as we sit on the pebbles, is a middle aged man’s exposed genitalia. This Saturday morning is pretty far from standard and leaves me asking the question, How did we end up in such a predicament?

Let’s go back a bit…..

It is shortly before 6am on the same Saturday morning and the two of us have decided to call it a night and have left the darkness of the club and spilled out onto the beach. Neither of us are in any huge rush to go home and crash, although Rosie is getting to that state of mind a lot quicker than I am. I know well enough that I won’t be sleeping for at least another 15 or 16 hours, maybe more. I am joyous for any excuse to put off the inevitable. I don’t want to go home yet just to lie on top of my mattress tossing and turning all day in a state of intensified loneliness. Put off the comedown.

“What shall we do?” Rosie asks.

“Go for a walk. You up for that?”

“Yep. Is the Asda at the Marina open 24 hours?”

“Yep.”

“Then let’s go there. I really want a fruit salad.”

After a hard night spent hammering the chemicals in a club different people crave different things as the all round glow of contentment wears off and leaves you feeling a bit lost and confused. Your body is fatigued, you’ve used up every bit of energy you harboured, and you need some nutrients. Personally I am a chocolate milkshake man, but each to their own. Rosie is clearly a fruit salad kind of girl. That sounds like a euphemism. At least to my ear it does. Let me assure any doubters that it was not intended as such. Rosie is clearly a fruit salad kind of girl means that and that only! I digress. Anyway, so off we set, walking eastwards from the Palace Pier, with Brighton Marina about two miles up ahead. It’s the middle of August and I believe I am correct in saying it is the hottest day of the year. Even at this ungoshly hour – an ungoshly hour means very very early, ask any atheist we use this term all the time. No we don’t, I just made it up – the sun has taken the chill off of the pebbles and it has the makings of a gorgeous day. Not yet half way to the Marina we take a break.

There is not another body to be seen for a couple of miles in either direction. The beach belongs to us. There is no wind. There are no waves. The sea is bright blue. I feel content. My mood is bright. After a while, the first signs of human life are peacefully ignored as they stroll past us down to the water, surf boards under their arms. We drag ourselves up to the promenade.

“Hmmmmm, I’m so tired. I could so easily sleep right now. But I really want a fruit salad. I can’t decide, should we go that way {towards home} or should we go that way {towards Asda}? You decide,” Rosie says, umming and ahing. The decision makes itself.

“Let’s go and get that fruit salad!”

And so we do, wandering up and down the aisles of Asda resembling a couple of extras off the Shaun of the Dead set. Rosie gets her fruit – she is a fruit salad kind of girl after all. Stop it! What is that even supposed to mean in your juvenile mind? Just stop it, alright! – and we find ourselves in the large car-park, looking around trying to find the quickest way out of the Marina. Despite having been a Brightonian for years and years I am not overly familiar with the layout of the Marina. It is on the wrong side of the pier for me. Other than for one particular club, I seldom venture past the familiarity of the west side of the pier. Weird stuff happens on the east side. Especially just above the small stretch of beach just before the Marina where gay guys go to have sex with strangers in the whispering bushes. No I don’t know this from experience. I know that’s what you were thinking. It’s just one of them things that all locals know about in their own city, town or village. Anyway, we’re still standing in Asda’s car-park when we spot a tunnel that can only lead back onto the beach. As we stand, staring at it, pupils dilated, a chirpy man appears from within it and, on seeing our confused faces, says, “You can go right through there.” And so we do.

“Hold these, please,” asks Rosie, handing me her boots. “I want to walk in the water.”

We walk down to the shore and then with Rosie ankle deep in the sea and me walking just out of reach of the incoming surf, we slowly stroll westwards, back towards the pier and the side of the city that I call home. After a few minutes we make our way up the beach a little and plonk ourselves down on the pebbles for a rest and to enjoy the already hot sun. It is 7:30am and the only other people on the beach are a man out to our left, standing on the edge of a groin, fishing; and a couple of fellas, one a middle-aged Simon Cowell look-alike and the other a boy no older than 17 with bright pink hair. They lay their towels down about 15 yards to our right. The young boy lies down, the older bloke stands up and proceeds to take off his clothes. All of his clothes. He then just stands there, stretching his arms to the sky. Rosie is lying on my left and has her eyes closed.

“That bloke over there is stark bollock naked,” I tell her.
She sits up and looks over, just as the nude man is taking his place on his towel. Before she has even looked away the two gentleman are locked in a tight and passionate grope, sucking each other’s faces off and rolling around on the stones. It is not top of my list of things I want to witness whilst on a comedown. It is not top of my list of things I want to witness ever. I lie back and stare at the sky. Rosie also recloses her eyes and for a while at least we forget what is taking place to our right.

After a while there is the sound of someone walking along the stones towards us. I sit up and open my eyes, to see this middle aged man with what I can only describe as the face of a pervert. There is something in the mouth that gives it away. A smirk almost, like when you can tell that a child is about to do something naughty. The man saunters right past us, no more than a couple of yards in front of our toes, and stares at Rosie the entire time in a way that would make anyone feel uncomfortable. She doesn’t really notice too much, though, close to falling asleep as she is. The man continues his walk and makes a beeline for the two fellas that are still rolling around fiddling with each other’s bits.

“Look at that guy, I reckon he’s gonna try and see if he can join in with those two over there.”
Rosie sits up and we both look on, intrigued. The man walks right up to them to the point of standing over them, and then just watches for a bit. The two just ignore this voyeur and crack on regardless. The bloke then turns around and starts walking back towards us. As he gets nearer, he again stares at Rosie in a way that offends me, and so I choose to stare him out. Eventually he looks away but he doesn’t look ashamed. He looks confident. Cocky. You might even say proud. But of what? Annoyingly, he puts his towel down just a couple of yards to our left.

“Why did you just stare at that man like that?” Rosie asks.

“He started it! Didn’t you notice?”

“Nope, I wasn’t paying attention.”

As Rosie speaks I glance over her shoulder to see that the man is standing up and taking off his socks and trousers. He then pulls out what at first glance appears to be an oak tree that I guess he has liberated and intends to plant on the beach as a symbol of peace. And then I realise it is no tree.

“Fuck me, would you look at the size of that!” I say, a little too loudly. Rosie turns around to see what all the fuss is about. The man just stands there, facing us, with what now looks like Captain Caveman’s club hanging from between his legs.

“Wow, that actually is massive!” Rosie says, turning back to face me.

“Well that explains the smugness.”

The man then strolls down to just in front of us and begins parading up and down in much the same way that an Olympic sprinter stalks around near the starting blocks before a big race.

“Really?” Rosie snorts. “Is he really just going to walk up and down trying to tempt me in?”

“It would appear so. Why, is it working?”

“A little bit,” she then says with a smile. “Only joking! I’m a bit weirded out, actually.”

And then the realisation of where we actually are hits me. I turn my head to look up towards the promenade, and see that my view is block by the large mound of stones built up to stop people from looking onto the beach.

“Um, Rosie, I’m pretty sure we’re on the nudist beach. And this is Brighton, so it’s probably a bit different to other nudist beaches you might have seen, experienced or read about. I don’t think this is a place for naturists. As far as I’m aware this is a place for the local gay community to come and get their fill. Shall we move along a bit, to the normal beach?”

“No, it’s alright. I’m tired, we don’t have to look at them. Just look up to the sky or something,” comes the reply. She then lies back down, shuts her eyes and starts drifting off to sleep. The man with the third leg then walks back to his towel, puts his clothes on, smirks at me in a way that says, “Is someone a little bit jealous?” and leaves the beach. And to answer his silent question, No, no I am not. That thing would not fit inside a washing machine, let alone a woman.

Slowly but surely more men arrive, mostly alone, and take off their clothes. Rosie is asleep by now and I roll a cigarette. Shortly before dropping off she had commented that she felt a little bit weirded out by our surroundings and that she had never seen anything like it in her life. This is because Rosie comes from Birmingham, where both homosexuality and nudity are illegal and punishable by death under sharia law. Better judgement would dictate that I take that joke out. I lack better judgement.

Down at the water’s edge a couple of naked men are skipping about as if at a Boy’s Brigade Summer Camp. Frollicking. Yes, frollicking is the word I am looking for. There are two men just frollicking. I put the cigarette between my lips and light it, just as a little fluffy dog appears from nowhere and starts sniffing Rosie’s forehead.

“Charlie! Come on Charlie!” the dog’s owner shouts as he walks along by the water. Charlie has other ideas though. He is in no mood to be put back on his lead; not while there are sausages to be found. Charlie starts running towards Simon Cowell and his young lover; both of whom are now completely naked, with the pink haired boy riding the old man like Sea Biscuit. Charlie isn’t phased. He goes to investigate.

“Charlie! Come on Charlie!” the dog’s owner continues to shout. Charlie continues to ignore him. After having a little sniff at the pink haired boy’s crack, he runs down to the waterside and into the sea to have a little swim about with a naked man who doesn’t appear to like dogs too much. The man swims out so far to get away from Charlie that I imagine he’ll need to be fetched back by boat. Or by Charlie. ‘Fetch, boy!’

“Charlie! Come on Charlie!” the owner continues to shout. He has now walked far enough to be off of the nudist beach, but Charlie is going to make him come back and collect him. This is what Charlie calls fun. He is humiliating his owner. To be fair to Charlie, it is a comedy genius idea. Eventually Charlie and his red-faced owner disappear.

“Oh God! Look they’re actually doing it now,” Rosie announces, sounding genuinely shocked. I look over to the two that have been there the whole time, and sure enough they are now engaged in the rough stuff. I don’t know where to look at this point. Over the last few minutes the beach has gradually become fuller and fuller of naked homosexuals. I cannot help but think of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds; in how one minute there are just one or two of them, and then they just multiply quickly; the small group growing into a menacing gang whose members can be seen as far as the eye can see.

As Rosie sleeps, I sit, chain smoking and trying not to focus on anything. Naked men are everywhere, most of them just standing with their chests puffed out, exhibiting their cocks to everyone else on the beach; much in the same way that we stand triumphantly, bollock naked at the foot of the bed with our hands on our hips, grinning down on our woman before switching off the bedroom light. We do all do that, right?

A fat man walks towards us with a little backpack on his back. His footsteps wake Rosie who looks up to him and mutters under her breath, “Please don’t get naked. Please don’t get naked.” The man passes us, smiling and commenting on the lovely weather and moaning about the stones hurting his feet.

“I don’t think he’s one of them,” I tell Rosie. “I think he’s just a friendly and normal bloke here to enjoy the sun.”

The man walks on a bit further and sits down on a towel.

“Ah gross! The fat man’s naked!” Rosie exclaims. I have to sit up and look. It’s just instinct. When someone says, ‘The fat man’s naked!’ you cannot help but look. But he isn’t naked. “Haha! Made you look! Made you look! You like looking at naked men! You love looking at naked men!” Rosie is clearly enjoying herself more now that she is used to her surroundings.

She goes back to sleep and I continue to smoke, still kind of intrigued by all that is going on around me. I cannot help it. I know in my mind that at some point in the near future I will have to write this story down for the entertainment of others, and so I want to make sure that I don’t miss anything. Like the Mediterranean looking old man who sits himself down on a towel a few metres to my right. He is the same colour as an Oscar. Completely bronzed. Except for a very white area around his bits and bobs. A tan line. Evidently this is his first time naked on the beach, and as he rubs sun tan lotion into his nuts it makes me wonder what sort of morning he has had. Did he get up, eat his cereal, go to the washing line to pick up his Speedos, find them still wet and say to himself, “Fuck it, don’t need ’em! My balls could use a bit of colour.”

I decide not to bother Rosie with this observation and to let her sleep for a bit longer, as I take in the sight of a man returning to the pebbles from out at sea, his penis seemingly inside his body, with what looks like a belly button in its place. I give him a look that says, “Mate, if you’re gonna go swimming for 20 minutes in freezing cold water, it’s probably not the best idea to come out afterwards and give everyone an eyefull of full frontal. You’re not going to do yourself justice.” He wraps a towel around himself and wanders off. By now I’ve seen so many naked men that it has become normal to my eye. It doesn’t seem strange any more. Well, it doesn’t seem strange any more until the last of the day’s characters comes and parks himself up literally right next to us, on Rosie’s left. He looks like Gareth from the Office. He stares at me as he lies on his stomach, facing me, with his arse up in the air. It is a sight I really do not want to behold, so I lay on my back and allow Rosie’s sleeping body to block my view. I still sense that he is looking at me, but if I can’t see him then I don’t mind too much. After a few minutes of being ignored he stands up and i can’t help but glance to my left, where my eyes are greeted by, by…. Shit, what’s that thing called?

“Rosie, look at that bloke’s cock, just to your left. It looks like one of them things. You know? Those things that you plant. Fuck, what’s it called? I can’t remember the word. Begins with a B. Ba.. ba… No, I can’t remember the word.”

Rosie takes a quick look before turning to me and saying with full confidence, “That is a bulb.”

“Yes! A bulb!”

And that brings us to Rosie’s now famous statement: “Man, some people have got some weird penises.”

I reply, “Yea, but some women have got some weird fannies, too.”

“Like how? What are you on about?” Enquires Rosie.

I then, for reasons unbeknownst to me, dig myself into a hole, attempting to explain that for every money box there is a kebab. For every jelly bean there is a hazelnut. It is not a discussion I should really be having with a woman. In fact, it is not a discussion I should really be having with anybody. Ever.

“Shall we go? I’m thirsty,” Rosie says.

“Yea.”

We walk westwards, right along the water line, passing the men as they stand to attention like recruits on a parade ground. Just before we are back on familiar ground Rosie leaves me with one final thought: “Some of these men really shouldn’t be naked in public. I can understand if you’ve got something worth showing off; but some of these men really need to be told to keep their clothes on! A bit of tough love, you know?”

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4 Responses to “Too Many Cocks Spoil The Beach”

  1. Blogger Zz October 21, 2012 at 3:40 pm #

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    • Kris Mole October 21, 2012 at 6:18 pm #

      Yea I noticed that before, thanks man. Don’t know how to fix it. But I think that if you just click once on the main text of the post, it should revert to suitable sizing. I may be wrong. Cheers.

  2. Biker Chicks July 12, 2013 at 3:21 am #

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    • Kris Mole July 12, 2013 at 9:35 am #

      Hey, thanks for the heads up. I sometimes get the same problem, but find it fixes itself if I just click on the body of text. It usually then re-adjusts to fit the screen. I might be wrong though.

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