Wish You Were Here by Mike Gayle Page B

sun-loungers (left to right: Andy, me, Tom) and took in the view.
    There were literally hundred of girls on loungers. Girls of every shape, size, race, colour and, presumably, denomination. Some were tanned to perfection. Others lobster pink. It was as if a women-only container ship had run aground and carefully thrown up its precious cargo on the beach right in front of us.
    â€˜You can’t even see the sea,’ complained Tom as he pulled out his Rough Guide book from his rucksack and began reading.
    He was right too. You couldn’t see the actual sea at all from where we were because there were too many bodies around us. But there was a sea in front of us – a sea of flesh, long legs, tantalising upper thighs, tattooed backs, toned midriffs, lower buttocks peeking out through g-string bikini bottoms, side breast and (yes) even the occasional full breast with nipple. And though technically it should have been a glorious sight to behold I couldn’t help but feel intimidated. It was as if every single one of the young women who surrounded us was fully aware of the power and allure of the feminine form. And uncharacteristically I longed to see these women clothed, if only because it would have provided a moment’s respite from the feeling that I was never going to stand a chance with any of them.

    The three of us had been keeping ourselves to ourselves, quietly reading on the beach for over an hour when suddenly a group of yobs barely old enough to buy alcohol legally in England began play-fighting in front of us in a bid to impress a group of girls sitting across from us.
    â€˜This is like a school field trip from hell,’ said Tom slamming down his Rough Guide .
    â€˜I know what you mean,’ I replied peering at them over the top of my sunglasses as one of the yobs dropped his shorts and mooned his friends. ‘I keep looking at them and thinking: “Where’s your responsible adult? Who’s actually in charge of you lot? Surely at some point someone’s going to round them all up and take them back to whichever borstal or secure unit they’ve escaped from.”’
    â€˜But it’s not just these yobs that are winding me up,’ replied Tom, warming to his theme, ‘have you seen that lot over there?’ Tom discreetly gestured to a group of guys, roughly in their twenties, who were all defined upper body muscles, tattoos and perfect tans. They were flirting with a group of girls who, with their perfect hair, bodies and flawless skin, appeared to be their female counterparts.
    â€˜That bloke there has got a washboard stomach,’ I said squinting in the group’s direction. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual six-pack that wasn’t on the cover of some sort of fitness mag.’
    â€˜But do you know what’s worse?’ added Tom. ‘Look around us and what do you notice that makes us the odd ones out here?’
    I did as Tom instructed but as far as I could tell there were so many things that made us the odd ones out that it was difficult to choose just one. ‘Is it the fact that we’re the only blokes on the beach who look like off-duty geography teachers?’
    â€˜Nearly,’ replied Tom. ‘It’s actually that we’re the only people here wearing T-shirts.’
    I looked all around. Tom was right. Most of the girls were in bikinis and every guy was topless. ‘Do you think we should de-robe so we blend in a bit?’
    â€˜You can if you like,’ replied Tom. ‘But I’m keeping my T-shirt firmly on. I thought I wasn’t in bad shape until I saw this lot. But this bunch of body fascists will probably call the police on us.’ Tom paused and adopted a high-pitched Monty Pythonesque voice: ‘Hello, is that the police? I’d like to report three lumpy thirty-five-year-old men on the beach lying around making the place look untidy.’
    Tom and I laughed and then fell