A Perfect Day and a Penis

“Look to your right,” My Fake Boyfriend said to me.

And there he was.

This Russian man, who looked like a more toned, more bald Vladimir Putin. Specifically, there was this Russian man’s penis:

Hours went by and MFB, Mza and I played like seals in the waves, enduring crabs that mechanically nipped at our toes and sun that blasted off the top four layers of our skin.

It was amazing. Sigh. A beautiful, peaceful day with friends on a checkered sheet on a New York City beach. There were no plastic bags in the water; there were no shouting children. There were no cigarette nubs or douchebags throwing beer bottles.

And then MFB turns to me again later and says, “Why does that guy always have to be in my line of sight?”

And there he was again, the fellow in the photo above, strutting around in his black Speedo like Putin in Queens. But I can’t say he detracted from our peaceful dozy lazing. He just likely monitored it from a small recording device tucked up in the crevice of his tiny (really very tiny) bathing suit. A square nib of a chip shoved somewhere up between his testicles and his thigh. Something so miniscule packed into a place so entirely laminated by spandex that there was very much a possibility that, between his being everywhere and his suit being so tight, we would be able to see its outlines.