The Night I Stripped Naked at the Beach Karaoke

Ingrid invited me to her birthday dinner, which was being organized by the guy she was seeing at the time, his brother, and a couple more friends. It would be at a restaurant by the sea, one of those places with a terrace almost touching the sand. “I don’t know who’s coming or how many we’ll be, but I’ve counted on you,” she told me. And of course I happily said yes.

In the end there were twelve of us. The people she had named, plus a handful of guys and girls I didn’t know at all. We had a very, very good time, with jokes, wine that kept going to our heads, and an atmosphere that loosened up with every course. When it was time for drinks, the hosts announced they were going to revive an old tradition that, according to them, especially delighted Germans. There were four of those at the table.

—Karaoke —said Ingrid’s brother, raising his glass.

There was laughter, a few theatrical complaints, and after a while we were all singing out of tune without shame. The bad voices were the least of it. The fun was seeing who dared to.

After a while, four of the guys disappeared without anyone paying them any mind. Ingrid’s boyfriend among them. A few minutes later they came back and stood in front of us with the grin of people plotting something.

—Now comes the surprise —one of them warned.

They turned off the lights. The room went dark for a moment and then the lighting slowly began to rise, like in a theater, while the music from The Full Monty played through the speakers. An old classic, but foolproof. The four of them launched into a full striptease, without holding back one bit, amid applause, shouting, and general laughter. When they pulled down their underwear, the four cocks were left hanging on display, two already half hard, one thick and veined, swaying from side to side, and another slimmer one pointing upward as if it liked what was happening a little too much. They made an exaggerated bow, showing their asses and balls, and got dressed again amid laughter and whistles.

They went back up to sing a couple more songs, and while I watched them I felt that familiar tingle. The one that tells me I’m not going to stay still. And I noticed something else, lower down: my thong was soaked through, and I could feel my cunt pulsing slowly, begging for attention.

I can’t miss an opportunity like this.

I went over to the man in charge of the room, who handled the music from one corner, and asked him in a low voice if he had You can leave your hat on, the Joe Cocker song, the one from that striptease in the eighties movie. I know the choreography by heart; I’ve rehearsed it alone more times than I’d admit, almost always with two fingers inside my cunt in front of the bedroom mirror.

—How could I not have it, when I’ve played it hundreds of times? —he answered me, amused, looking me over as if he already knew what was coming. I caught the bulge in his pants from the corner of my eye when he bent back over the mixing desk.

He did the same as before. Turned off the lights, left the room in dimness for a few seconds, and slowly raised the intensity, playing with the atmosphere. I waited for the first bars in the middle of the small stage. And when the music started, I began to undress.

Not in a hurry. The trick is in the slowness, in making every button last, every strap that slides down. The room fell into an odd, dense silence, broken only by an occasional whistle and by the applause that came a beat too late, as if no one wanted to look away for even a second to clap.

I wasn’t looking at anyone in particular. I was looking at everyone. Twelve pairs of eyes fixed on me, on my clothes falling to the floor, on the skin appearing under the warm light. And that, precisely that, is what I like. It’s not the body. It’s knowing they’re looking. Knowing that in that moment I’m the only thing that exists in the room.

I could feel the heat of the spotlights on my shoulders and, beneath that heat, another kind rising from my belly, from my swollen, wet cunt that was already begging someone to touch it. Every item of clothing I let fall was a small victory. The blouse first, revealing the black bra with my hard nipples outlined beneath it, stiff as stones. Then the skirt, sliding down over my hips until it fell at my feet, the soaked thong so pressed against my cunt that the shape of my lips showed from top to bottom. Then one strap, and then the other. I stretched the seconds as much as I could, like someone holding a long note, and I could feel the room’s breathing syncing with mine.

I saw at least three men with their hands over the front of their pants, squeezing their cocks without being able to hide it. One of the Germans kept licking his lips every time I turned and showed him my ass. Another man’s girlfriend had her hand under her friend’s dress, and they didn’t even bother to hide it. I enjoyed myself as I rarely have in my life.

***

And then came the surprise I hadn’t planned.

When I was down to just my bra and thong, and I think I was already entering some kind of ecstasy, with my cunt dripping inside the thong and my thighs shining with my own juices, Ingrid climbed up onto the stage. She gestured to the man in charge to stop the music and asked him to start again from the beginning.

—I don’t want to leave Nadia alone —she said, with no further explanation.

I looked at her, not quite understanding, but she was already taking off her shoes. When the music started again, she began her own striptease beside me, following my movements awkwardly at first and then with more and more ease. I picked up the choreography from the opening bars, and for a moment we were two bodies moving to the same rhythm under the same light.

The moment came when it was time to take off the last thing. Ingrid came over to me. Between caresses, the occasional not-at-all-accidental brush, and a couple of soft kisses on the lips, we took each other’s bra and underwear off. Her fingers took longer than they should have on the clasp at my back, and I did nothing to hurry her. When the bra fell, her hands went straight to my tits, her thumbs pressing my nipples, tugging on them until I let out a moan that was swallowed by the applause.

I returned the favor. I pulled her thong down very slowly, kneeling, and took the opportunity to run my nose over her shaved cunt before finishing by slipping the garment off over her feet. She smelled like a hot woman, and I saw her wet lips shining a hand’s breadth from my face. When I stood up, she slid a hand between my legs, as if for balance, and brushed my clit with her knuckles. It was a second, barely a second, but I let out a gasp so clear the front row must have heard it. She looked me in the eyes, smiled, and ran her fingers over me again, this time two of them, between my parted lips, sinking them a centimeter inside me before pulling them out and taking them to her mouth to suck them.

I was right on the edge of orgasm, standing there in front of everyone. Later she would confess that she had felt exactly the same, that she had come a little just from seeing my face when she put her fingers inside me.

When the two of us were completely naked, facing each other, a thunderous round of applause sounded that seemed like it would never end. We left our clothes in a heap on the stage and, still with our skin burning and our soaked cunts dripping down our thighs, we rushed out to the beach for a nighttime swim. The water was cold and black, and we were laughing as if we had just gotten up to some enormous mischief. Under the water, Ingrid found me, and this time her fingers went all the way into my cunt, three at once, fucking me slowly while she bit my neck. I came right there, clutching her shoulder, squeezing her fingers with my cunt and biting her mouth so I wouldn’t scream. She came after that against my thigh, rubbing her clit up and down until her knees gave way and I had to hold her up.

I will never forget that night as long as I live.

***

I could keep going, because there are many more. Similar situations that I repeat whenever I can, little games that no one suspects except the person watching them.

When I’m traveling by road, for example, I stop to pee beside the car pretending not to care, pretending I don’t want to be seen, while knowing perfectly well that someone on the shoulder is enjoying the sight of my ass open as I squat, with the stream falling between my cunt lips and splashing onto my thighs. I take my time. I shake my hips a little when I’m done, as if drying myself, and I pull my panties back up very slowly, letting the driver next to me take away an image he’s going to masturbate to for weeks. The same when I walk along the shore and stop for a moment, as if by chance, in view of anyone passing by, with my swimsuit hiked so far up between my butt cheeks that only a thin line separates what can be seen from what can’t. I’ve done it with different friends, male and female, and none of them ever quite knows whether it’s theater or the truth.

In fitting rooms at stores I never pull the curtain all the way closed. I strip completely to try on any garment and I’m terribly demanding with the staff, constantly asking for help so they’ll bring me other sizes and catch me with nothing on top, tits out and shaved cunt on display.

—Right? This isn’t my size, is it? I think I need a bigger one, what do you think, how does it look? —I say, while discreetly drawing the attention of the people trying on clothes in the neighboring fitting rooms, and also of whoever is with them.

Once, a young sales assistant froze when she walked in without warning and saw my nipples. She went red, apologized, and I, instead of covering myself, turned slowly so she could see my ass too. It took her three seconds to close the curtain. Three seconds that were worth the move, because she came back ten minutes later with the excuse of bringing me another size, and this time she closed the curtain behind her. I ended up with her face buried between my thighs, eating my cunt while I squatted there, biting my hand so I wouldn’t scream in the store, and she slipped two fingers under my skirt to come at the same time as me. She left with her mouth shining and handed me a card with her number written by hand.

When I go into the bathroom of a bar or restaurant, I never lock the door. More and more places have unisex restrooms now, and many small venues have a single bathroom for everyone. I’ve been “surprised” inside a lot of times, by both girls and boys, and what fascinates me are the reactions. Some people shut the door the moment they notice someone’s inside, almost apologizing. And some linger a second too long, lingering on the view before backing away. Honestly, the latter are my favorites. On more than one occasion, that second has turned into a guy walking in all the way, locking the door, and fucking me against the sink with his pants around his ankles, his hard cock pushing between my thighs until it found my braless cunt and driving all the way in with a single thrust. No names, no words. They fuck me, cum inside me or over my ass, pull their pants back up, and disappear. I stay a little longer in front of the mirror, semen dripping down my thigh, enjoying the look on my face when I’ve just fucked a stranger.

That instant of hesitation at the half-open door is what I’m after. That fraction of a second in which the other person decides whether to look or look away, and in which I decide whether to cover myself or stay still. Almost always I stay still. I like holding the gaze for a moment before either of us says anything, because in that silence is everything we’re not going to confess. Sometimes I spread my legs a little more, so they can see the wet cunt clearly before deciding. And sometimes I touch my clit for a second with two fingers, without breaking eye contact, so they know exactly what’s being offered to them.

I’m not much for clubs, but you know how it is: huge lines for the women’s bathroom and no one in the men’s. In that situation I head straight for where no one’s expecting me, once again without locking the door. Sometimes I’ve come out with my thong in my bag and a man behind me, his cock still wet from fucking me standing up against the bathroom wall. The same at conferences, festivals, or any big celebration, those fairs where so many people gather that one more face goes unnoticed. But I don’t want to go unnoticed. I want exactly the opposite.

***

At first, when I moved here, I went to the urban beaches, the crowded ones. It was on one of those beaches that something happened to me that changed everything: a wave tore off the top of my bikini and I was deliciously naked among a crowd of clothed people, with my tits out and my nipples hard from the cold water. That scare, which any other woman would have experienced as humiliation, left me trembling with something that wasn’t fear. I took longer than I should have to find the top. And when I got back to my towel, my cunt was throbbing inside the bikini bottoms as if someone had just touched it.

Now I go, either alone or with some friend, to a more secluded cove. One where three quarters of the people are wearing swimsuits and the rest aren’t, guys and girls alike. It’s the perfect ratio. I don’t lose the thrill of being naked among dressed people, but I’m not the absolute center of attention for hours either. For me it’s the ideal setting. I bring a bikini in my backpack “just in case” and get in the water with nothing on. We go by bus, and sometimes I wear a printed dress I bought on a trip, with an embroidered phrase that says I left my swimsuit on another island. No one finds that half as funny as I do. In that cove I’ve let a stranger fuck me behind the rocks, with sand sticking to my ass and cunt while he took me from behind, gripping my hair, and I’ve seen more than one couple come while watching me sunbathe on my back with my legs open.

And especially for you, girls, I’ll tell you something I learned over time. To protect ourselves from the photos anyone can take of us on the beach with a cellphone, something I’m sure you’ve feared as much as I have, what I do is simple: I go without makeup, with a cap or a wide-brimmed hat, huge sunglasses, and clothes I’d never wear out on the street. That completely changes my appearance, until I look like a different person from the one I am anywhere else.

Because that’s the real game, you know? I don’t expose myself despite the risk. I expose myself because of it. For that thin border between showing myself and disappearing, between being looked at and never fully knowing who it was they just looked at. Between someone coming while thinking of me and not being able to recognize me the next day in the supermarket.

And as long as there are still curious eyes on the other side, hard cocks showing in pants, and cunts getting wet under clothes, I’ll keep finding excuses for them to land on me.