Topless Trauma in Miami

I'm fiddling with my bikini straps on Miami's South Beach, wondering what's the best way to remove my top. Should I whip it off triumphantly in one fell swoop when I'm still standing up and unfolding my beach towel? Do I wait until I'm bending down to lower the visibility of my breasts? Or do I employ the stealth method of lying on my stomach for 10 minutes, discreetly undoing my top, and rolling over? It was my third day in Miami and I finally felt ready to go topless?for the first time in my life. Why the wait? My body was so white when I arrived that if I took everything off, the added effect of white breasts would be too blinding. I was also nervous. It's one thing to get naked in front of a lover, and quite another to parade in public sans the support of a bra. Sure, one of the best aspects of breasts is their movement and swing, but I don't care. I'd rather have mine locked into place when I move.

What ultimately won out was ego and fashion. When I saw that most of the women were flat-chested and cattily comparing breast sizes with sly, furtive glances, I felt a surge of competitiveness and pride, like Yah! I want to enter the ring and show off my breasts. Every boyfriend I've had has told me my breasts are beautiful, and now that I had a basis of comparison, I realized they weren't lying?mine are quite nice, thank you very much. I also have a hatred of tan lines, and figured that I would get arrested if I tried to do this anywhere else, even in the name of fashion.

Before Miami, I had only been to one topless beach in my life?Santorini, while on a family vacation. I was with 10 of my relatives, and while we are a bunch of happy, freewheeling Greeks, I just couldn't get topless in front of my cousins and uncles. That would be too weird in an Angelina Jolie kind of way. So I kept my top on and looked enviously at everyone else's beautifully bronzed, tan-line-free bodies.

Now, finally, in Miami I had my chance. Before taking the plunge, I investigated the unspoken rules. Rule number one is that breast size doesn't matter. For any woman who has ever felt weird or insecure about her body and wondered, "Am I normal?" I cannot recommend enough a trip to Miami. Every type of breast is on display, from huge triple-Ds and upturned breasts (most commonly seen on the French) to wildly unsymmetrical ones. There are also nipples of every color and size, from bee stings to cookies, and I even spotted a pair of inverted ones (yeouch!) And by the way, nipples do darken in the sun, so don't forget the sunscreen.

Most women who were tanning en plein air stayed put on their towels. A few ventured into the ocean, but as soon as they got out of the water they would cover themselves with a towel (cold water and brisk breezes have unintended consequences). A few women?mostly the locals?would nonchalantly prop themselves up on their elbows while chatting away with friends. Another rule is to never involve service people in your state of nudity: definitely put your top back on when visiting a cabana boy or buying a drink.

The truly exhibitionist types would stroll up and down the beach. This was out of the question for me, because of the huge number of spring break idiots videotaping women's breasts for their home spank movies. I was the victim of this one time when I was walking on the beach (top firmly in place). As soon as the amateur Al Goldstein spotted my male companion, he hissed, "Cock block," and moved on to the next pair.

My breasts made their big debut by chance. I had just gotten out of the water and was freezing, and thought that direct contact with the sun would warm me up faster. Plus, breasts always look better with an erect nipple, so this was as good a time as any. I lay down and nonchalantly pulled the strings of my top and let it fall in the sand. My breasts were free to the world?and extremely pale.

The next step was protecting them. What's the best way to apply lotion? Vigorously, or delicately? Some women would apply lotion on themselves in a most indelicate manner, like they were slapping butter on a pot roast. I didn't want to miss any spots, but I didn't want to look like I was molesting myself either. After much deliberation, I decided to err on the side of oversensuousness because, hey, these are my breasts. I felt too weird sitting up and rubbing my breasts, so I did it lying down.

I tanned for about 15 minutes. It felt lovely and free to have no barriers between me and the sun. Nobody looked over, and nobody cared.

The next day I felt bolder and decided to tan longer. I nonchalantly pulled off my top while puttering around to arrange my beach things. I even applied lotion?happily, lovingly?while sitting up, and worked on leaning on my elbows while staring coolly around the beach, flipping my hair over my shoulder as if to say, "Yesss, I suntan topless all the time on the world's best beaches."

I settled back into my towel and into a sun-induced haze, and that's when I overheard a group of Spanish men chattering away. The buzz became higher-pitched, like a swarm of bees. I ignored it. I don't speak Spanish, so there was no fun in straining.

Then I hear, "T-t-t-t-tetas. Tetas! Tetas!" Which quickly grew into "Tetas blancas! Grandes tetas blancas!"

Even without Spanish I could figure out the translation?big white tits. I opened an eye a crack to see to whom this was directed. It was me.

I couldn't figure out if they were yelling in appreciation or horror. I didn't stick around long enough to find out.