A nicely-developed kid of sixteen was batting grounders now. He
pounded one down to third and a lean, tanned blonde girl gobbled it
up like a pro and rifled it across the diamond to the kid at first.
The fact that the third-baseman had a nice pair of breasts didn't
attract any attention at all. Nor was the third-baseman at all upset
by the exceedingly mature maleness of the kid at the plate. And the
center-fielder, a wiry girl whose breasts were just mere points, was
yelling for one to be hit to her. "Come on, Mickey, hit one over my
head!"
Mickey hit one over her head. She raced back, lost it in the sun, went
tumbling headlong. The boy in left field retrieved the ball, tossed it
in, and went over to help the girl to her feet. She came up grinning
and yelled for another chance.
It couldn't have been a sharper contrast to the kind of adolescence 99%
of kids have. I remembered my summer at camp, and how we spent hours
watching the girls taking showers, peeking through a knot-hole in the
showerhouse wall. That kind of hole-and-corner spying was unknown here.
And no loss, either.
I went past the baseball diamond and over to the tennis court. Nick
Riccio and Lorraine were on one court, volleying. On the adjoining
court was a couple that had arrived that morning. A fellow of about
twenty-five, a girl slightly younger. They weren't married, just good
friends going away together for a vacation. She was a creamy-skinned
blonde, very fair, and to protect herself from the sun she had donned
an eyeshade and a kind of bolero jacket that covered her shoulders but
did not quite reach down below her breasts. That was all she had on,
except for tennis sneakers.
I came across Meehan down near the dock, talking to one of the new
waitresses. Not the skinny one, but a full-blown brunette with oversize
breasts. They didn't seem to mind company, so I went over to join them.
Meehan was examining a sun-hat that the girl had given him.
"Look at this thing, Al," he said, holding it up for my inspection. "Al
Fieldston, Mary Kinowski. It's damn clever, Al."
I smiled at the girl and took the sun-hat from him. It had a zipper
pocket in front. I opened the pocket and looked in. It contained a
comb, a pair of sunglasses, and a pack of cigarettes.
Meehan said, "Now you know where nudists carry their personal effects.
This is a nudist special, manufactured for use here."
"You don't have to carry things in your hat, though," Mary said. "A lot
of men tuck things into the tops of their socks."
I laughed. I hadn't been faced with the problem of where to keep
things. My crewcut removed any bother of carrying a comb, and I rarely
smoked more than a couple of cigarettes a day. As for carrying around
money or keys--you just didn't do that here.
Mary looked up at me. "Jack tells me you're an advertising man," she
said. "Which agency?"