TOPLESS

by Willard Manus Martin Hixon tiptoed through the titties. Hundreds of topless women lay shoulder to shoulder on the patch of beach, sprawled on towels and mats, exposing themselves to the Greek sun which beat down from directly overhead with a liquefying intensity. A few of the women lay on their bellies, reading or dozing, but most chose to recline with their bare boobs pointing skywards like so many gun turrets. Martin's boat, a small wooden skiff, sat hauled up on the beach, awaiting caulking and painting. Scrunched up in its shade were a woman and a young girl who took turns smearing lotion on each other, basting themselves like roast lambs at Easter. The woman, who was wide and bulky with blindingly white skin, began oiling her own hefty breasts, going about it with a vigor and intensity approaching masturbation. Martin tried not to stare, but it was hard not to, considering the way her nipples popped out like brown olives. The girl, who was a redheaded teenager and had small, modest breasts, began massaging herself in similar fashion. She used copious amounts of lotion, perhaps because her skin was pink and freckled. Rubadubdub, rubadubdud, they both kept oiling and kneading themselves, eying him as he came close and set his toolbox and paint cans down. "Sorry," Martin said as he shifted the uptilted boat's position, "I've got to finish my work." Upset at having been deprived of the only shade on the beach, they grumblingly picked up their things and moved off. Martin tried to focus on his work, but was constantly distracted by the many topless women surrounding him. They were of all ages and shapes, with breasts that varied in size from gargantuan to Liliputian. Features hidden under hats and sunglasses, they lay there soaking up the blowtorch sunlight, their naked torsos taking the brunt of the heat. They tried to cope with the temperature by sucking down mouthfuls of water from plastic bottles or by occasionally throwing themselves into the sea, where they flopped around like seals for a while. Then, energy spent, they returned to their mats, broke out their bottles of sun lotion and began the lathering ritual all over again. These women weren't made for Mediterranean summer, because no matter how much sunblock they applied, their skin kept reddening -- especially the skin on their breasts, which was even more sensitive to the sun's rays. Martin understood, though, why they were torturing themselves like this. He knew what northern European winters were like: month after month of grey, wet, ghastly weather that obliged you to bundle up like a Puritan. It made you dream of sunlight and warmth, of being able to shed your garments and go naked by the sea, the Eden-like blue Aegean. Martin had lived for many years in the Greek islands and had been present when the first beaches went topless in his village, a heretofore small, provincial community under the thumb of the Greek Orthodox church. Toplessness was a byproduct of tourism and since tourism had become king in the Aegean--even the church went on its knees before it--women could do whatever they wanted on this beach, even though it was considered a fisherman's beach, the only beach in Lindos without umbrella concessions, pedal boats and snack bars. There was just a half-moon strip of sand framed by jagged brown hills studded with patches of thistle and shrubs, and a rough-hewn quay jutting out into the sea. Towering over everything was an ancient, thousand-foot-high acropolis that had become a major tourist attraction. A half dozen fishing boats were anchored in the bay at the far end of which sat a tiny, white chapel where Paul the Apostle had once preached Christianity to pagans and brigands. No doubt the prudish St. Paul would have been shocked to discover what had become of his bay, which now held an army of Anglo-Saxons who thought nothing of exposing their sex organs in public. St. Paul would not have understood, either, why these men and women persisted in lying naked in the merciless Greek sun, especially after all the scare stories about the ozone layer and skin cancer. Breasts and ultra-violet were particularly incompatible; that much was obvious. Even though Martin tried hard to keep from staring, he couldn't help but notice how many of the boobs on display were showing signs of distress--skin glazed with red, like so many jellyapples; nipples smeared with protective coldcream. It was unnerving to be stuck in the midst of all this sweltering, putrefying flesh. There were a few sleek, browned bodies --they usually belonged to the Italians--but for the most part, the sunworshippers were a misshapen, overweight bunch, all bulging boobs and paunches. Martin, who was protected from the sun by a straw hat, long pants and sleeves, concluded that what St. Paul's bay required was a tit and belly inspector: a man--no, wait, better make it a woman- -who would stand at the beach entrance and decide who could enter or not. "Sorry, lady, nobody wants to see those ugly, shriveled-up dugs of yours. If you want to swim here, you'll need to cover yourself up." And: "You, sir, with the pendulous beer gut and drooping pecs. Either put on a T-shirt or pay a 50-dollar fine for indecent exposure!" Martin amused himself with these sardonic thoughts as he slapped paint on the hull of his boat, sweating profusely all the while. Then a shadow crossed over him. He turned to discover the the woman he had uprooted. She reeked of sun lotion--it was a smell that hung over the beach like the smog in Athens. "How's it ye speak English?" she wanted to know. "I don't speak English, I speak American," he replied. That got a chuckle out of her. "We figgered yew was a Greek, until we talked it over," said the young girl as she joined them. They were mother and daughter, from Scotland. They were down on a package holiday which had started last night, when they went out to Glasgow airport, put themselves on a charter stand-by list, and were tapped at the last minute to fill a couple of unsold seats. "It's the cheapest way uv enjoyin' a hoaliday in the sun," the mother explained. "Wi' a wee bit uv luck, yew could end up some place gallus." "How do you like it here?" "It's aw'right," the girl said. "But just where in bluidy hell are we?" They hadn't a clue where their plane was bound when they boarded the flight. All they knew was that it was heading south, to the sun. When the plane landed they'd been met by a pullman bus which had dumped them outside Lindos at dawn. They were surprised and delighted to learn that they were in Greece, on the island of Rhodes. "Ah've always wanted tae go ta Greece," the mother said. "I was hopin' fer Spain," the girl admitted. "Or Portygal." They put their towels down and leaned against the dry part of the boat for support. "Is it always this bluidy hot?" Regina, the mother, asked. "Ah'm meltin' away to a greasy spot." Martin handed her his canteen, which was wrapped in wet burlap to keep the water cool. "Ach, that's luvely," she sighed after a long swallow. She gave the canteen to her daughter, Doreen, who drank from it even more thirstily and greedily. "You ought to get out of the sun," Martin told them. "Where can we go? There's nae shade about." Martin pointed out a cave in the hillside where they could sit and escape the mid-day heat. "Ah'm no climbin' up that fookin' hill," Doreen said. "Ah'd pass out from tryin'." "Have it your way," Martin said, returning to his work. They watched him wield his paintbrush; then the questions started to come again: what was he doing living in Lindos, how long had he been here, did he like it, and so on. It was mostly Regina asking the questions; Doreen simply didn't have the energy to open her mouth. The girl sat with her back pressed against the boat and her eyes closed, half-stupefied by the sunlight, which continued to pour down mercilessly. Her breasts were small, dovelike things that could fit into the palm of your hand, but they were so red and angry-looking that it pained Martin just to look at them. "Wouldn't it be a good idea to put your bra on?" he asked her. "What's it tae ya what ah do with me bra?" "You've made it my business by going topless." "Oh, and how's that?" "I can't help but seeing what the sun's doing to you." Doreen looked down at her now-blistering tits and made a face. "He's right, ma. Ah'm really hurtin' somefin' awful. Can't we go up tae the village?" "Listen," her mother said firmly, loudly. "Ah've paid for sun and it's sun ye'll get!" * * * As the afternoon went on and the sun shifted its position, Regina and Doreen took up new places on the beach, over by the fishermen's shacks which sat at the edge of the hillside. Martin opened the door to his shack and encouraged them to escape the sun by sitting inside, but Regina wouldn't hear of it, not for her daughter anyway. Doreen was obliged to remain in the sun's glare, exposed to its penetrating heat. Each time Martin took a break he checked Doreen out, noting with dismay her reddening skin, blistering breasts and numbed expression. It was obvious that she was beginning to suffer from heat exhaustion, but still her mother persisted in keeping her out in the sunlight. It was as if she wanted Doreen to sponge up, in one day, all the light and warmth that life ordinarily denied them. The temperature began to get to Martin as well, so much so that he had to put his paintbrush down, strip his clothes off and throw himself into the sea, diving as deep as he could to find water cold enough to chill him. It was when he resurfaced from one of those dives that he heard Regina's scream. Scrambling up the beach, he rushed to the boathouse, finding Doreen doubled over with cramps and Regina frantically shaking her. With the help of two German tourists, Martin carried Doreen up the hill to where his car was parked, a rusted-out Mercedes diesel. With the near-hysterical Regina sitting in back, moaning and wailing as she tried to force water down her daughter's throat, Martin drove as fast as he could to the nearest medical clinic, in the town of Archangelos, twenty minutes away. The lone doctor on duty was someone he knew: Panayiotis, an Athenian serving his internship on the island. He had seen a lot in his two years in Archangelos, which is why he registered very little surprise when three foreigners in bathing suits came barging in, one of them moaning in pain. Panayiotis' clinic was reasonably well-stocked, but he could come up with only a couple of ice packs. To help cool Doreen down, he soaked several towels in cold water and wrapped them tightly around her. "Keep giving her water," he told Martin. "And keep massaging her cramps." As Panayiotis went off to call the hospital in Rhodes city for an ambulance, Martin tried hard to make the inert, pale, slow- breathing Doreen drink. Regina was of no help. Slumped back in a chair, she stared at him with non-seeing eyes. Overwhelemed by the enormity of her stupidity and guilt, she could neither move nor speak. When Panayiotis returned, he joined Martin in massaging Doreen, digging his strong, skilful fingers into her flesh, working to relieve her pain, prevent her system from shutting down. Doreen was sitting up and drinking water on her own by the time the ambulance arrived, a brand-new, gleaming-white Fiat van. Her breath was also coming more easily and her cramps had eased, but she was still unable to speak. Her mother was equally mute. She glanced at Martin as she followed Doreen into the ambulance, mouthing some words of thanks, all the while holding tight to the body cloth she had wrapped round her remarkable, blazingly red breasts.