I got my first two-piece swimsuit in 2005 when I was about five years old. It was a sky-blue bikini with tulle on the sleeves and around the waistline, the color of a shining mermaid tail. On the front, it had a sequin image of the Rainbow Fish. I loved that swimsuit. It’s the first swimsuit that I can remember. I can recall playing my water-fairy games in the shallow end of the pool, mesmerized by the tulle that danced on the surface and in the soft currents below.
In middle school, I discovered what it was like to be self-conscious in my body.
For my entire life, I have benefited from skinny privilege. I have never had to worry about being any specific size, and because of that, I got to enjoy the bliss of having an inconsequential body longer than many others. Especially as a permanent resident of Hand-Me-Down-Heaven; my clothes floated around me in a way that usually allowed me to become invisible, if I wanted.
Swimming was an intimate activity for a long time, even though I did not know it. Being from Colorado, where the pools are either indoors or closed from Fall through Spring, swimming was something I only ever got the chance to do with my family or with close friends. Even at my Mom’s apartment complex pool, where I would spend the summer, I was only ever surrounded by kids I called my friends— kids with moms and brothers and sisters and cousins that I could point to and name— in that way, they were also like my family. As a result, I never really thought to consider my body or even look down at it, unless I was actively suffering a wardrobe malfunction.
The first time I was truly self-conscious about my body in a swimsuit was towards the end of 7th grade. It was April, and one of the first really hot days of the year. We had a half day at school, and the plan was for Lily-Joy to meet Annapolis and me at my dad’s apartment complex for a swim. Annapolis and I left school together while Lily-Joy left in the opposite direction to go home and change. She told us she would only be a little bit later than us, because she had her bike and the two of us were walking.
We shlepped home in the hot sun, fantasizing about our time to come, floating unbothered in the turquoise waters of a luxury apartment complex pool like the Primadonna Girls we were. When we got back to my complex, Annapolis and I bolted up the stairs to change into our suits. Mine was a yellow two-piece with tropical flowers all over it that I’d gotten the past September. It was my first swimsuit from the Juniors’ section instead of the kids’ section. Six months prior, it was so loose that the top would fill up with water any time it got submerged and then spill in an embarrassing display when it resurfaced. As I’d hoped, the top fit perfectly (if not a little snug) by the time I’d gone to try it on again.
I looked at myself in the mirror before heading back down to the pool. I remember thinking that I liked how I looked for the first time, instead of feeling indifferent. My body almost looked the way I thought women’s bodies were supposed to, with subtle lumps and curves in all the places necessary.
Annapolis and I threw on our California Girl cover-ups, exposed bikini tops over denim shorts, and we sauntered down to the clubhouse to wait for Lily-Joy to arrive. We sat for a few minutes enjoying our juices and the complimentary oatmeal cookies they kept in the leasing office. Then it began. Excess company was arriving in place of Lily-Joy.
We heard them before we saw them, the sound of their grimy hands smacking against the big, heavy clubhouse doors and the ringing of their adolescent voices, all in varying shrill octaves, through the halls. All the sounds closing in on us at a rapid pace. We knew what needed to be done without speaking; it was agreed upon by the whites of our eyes and the immediate tightness of our lips. We scrambled to hide.
Annapolis, with her superior athletic prowess and her newly-longer legs, was able to swiftly duck into a nearby computer lab. Before I could do the same, the first pair of heavy, Sperry-clad feet smacked through the threshold, and I was too late.
I was stunned, staring at the boy from my grade, for the first time painfully aware of my own flesh and his. For he did not have a shirt on either, nor did the one who followed in his path, or the one after him. One after another after another. At least fifteen of the most “popular” boys— which is to say the richest and the meanest boys flooded into the common areas, like me, clad in swimsuits and not much else, but without any of the newfound shame I was holding.
I could say I was like a deer in headlights, though it would be more accurate to say I was like a gazelle, because they were more like hyenas than cars. They could see the fear in my eyes, and immediately, they were on me; cackling, squealing, and running about the room.
“Milkweed!” (this was before I was officially F*g-weed to them) “Hey, Milkweed!”
“I like that swimsuit. You look really good like that.”
“I didn’t know your abs looked like that. You look like you exercise.”
“No one would ever know from how you dress at school.”
All the faces of boys who had hardly looked in my direction before then, boys who I didn’t think even knew my name, now circled me with sharp eyes and hungry teeth. Their fingers brushed my back and stomach like seaweed, so I would start and turn and start again.
“You look scared. Do you want a hug?”
“Do you want to hold my arm? That might make you feel better.”
I knew what was happening to me. I hated it. It was like a monster under the bed that you ultimately find out is real. It didn’t matter that they were disinterested in me by default. It didn’t like or respect me. My body, my exposed body, changed things for them. I was a girl. I was outnumbered.
Luckily, for many a thirteen-year-old boy, a swimming pool still has more allure than a partially clothed girl. Like a wave, they were on me with a crash before receding back and rushing out to the water.
The boys were asked to leave by management for having a party too loud and rowdy to be left without adult supervision. By the time Lily-Joy had arrived, the whole ordeal had already ended, and I had already dubbed it “The Bikini Fiasco” in my mind.
“The Bikini Fiasco” would later be renamed to “The Bikini Fiasco Part 1” after a slightly less dramatic two-piece swimsuit event took place the following year on the D.C. trip. The hotel we stayed at had a pool and, seeing that we were all thirteen or older, all the students were allowed to use the pool unattended in the evening hours. I had just gotten a new swimsuit for the season— this one was light pink and decorated with dusty roses. The top was of the balconette variety (extremely trendy at the time), and it made me look far sexier than was really necessary at the age of thirteen (almost fourteen). I loved that swimsuit. It made me feel good about myself, and I was especially excited to show it off to my friends (and Blaize Huckabee).
On our first night in the hotel, after getting settled, all the girls from our room went down to meet the boys we’d buddied up with for the trip. On our way down, we passed a smaller group of the same boys from my previous story. I could feel their eyes on me in my two-piece the same way I had the year before, only that time I felt changed. More confident. More body-positive. I maintained those feelings all throughout our time at the pool, and I felt just as confident on the way back to our room as I had going down.
This event became a “fiasco” in my mind when, later on in the night, I could hear those “popular” boys through our budget-friendly hotel walls.
“Her boobs actually aren’t that bad.”
“No, her body is hot, but it’s her personality—”
“And her face.”
“Personality doesn’t matter that much.”
“But her face!”
“You could just—”
I felt sick. I felt confused. I felt a sensation I didn’t know how to rationalize. Part of me wanted to feel good…kind of… because in a way, I could almost take it as a compliment. They thought I had a nice body, which was nice. They were also extremely comfortable with calling me slurs and insulting me to my face, which was not nice. This was my introduction to objectification.
Seashell Luke told me he would be at my house at seven in the morning to pick me up for our surf date.
I thought he was insane. Ever since reaching double-digits, my weekend mornings had been strictly reserved for sleeping past 10:30 am. That rest was sacred to me, especially since my 9th-grade wake-up time had been pushed to 5 am, in order for me to get to my bus stop (the first stop on the route) on time. However, the intrigue of doing a glamorous activity with a boy who seemed interested in me was enough to rouse me from my bed just after the Sun.
At 6:30, I was awake, choosing between yellow and pink swimsuits, wondering if the whole date was just a facade to get me into a partially clothed situation. It was a paranoid thought. Seashell Luke was nothing but polite the night before. He hadn’t said or done a single thing to make me question his motives or doubt that I should trust him. Not even an innocuous flick of the eyes or lips. Though I was not naive enough, even then, to know that a couple of hours is not enough time to weigh one’s character, especially not a boy.
I wished I owned a one-piece, just so that I could proceed with some caution, but until that moment, I hadn’t considered it necessary. I landed on the pink one, because ultimately it was more flattering. I covered up with cut-off shorts and a loose Doctor Who t-shirt.
The car pulled into my driveway at 7:05. Luke was in the passenger seat and his dad was driving (I would not graduate to dates that could drive themselves until senior year, and anyway, I don’t think I would have known what to do with myself if I found myself unchaperoned in a car with a boy my age. Probably have a stroke). I was already in the backseat before either of them could get out and knock on my door (my parents knew where I was going, but I didn’t want to run the risk of waking up my dad prematurely and ruining the day for the rest of the family). I introduced myself to Mr. Luke’s Dad and thanked him for picking me up in my closest facsimile of Southern Manners.
Mr. Luke’s Dad was a cool dad. There isn’t a better way to say it than that. I crossed paths with a handful of dads just like him (in looks and attitude) throughout my high school career. This is the cool dad archetype as I know it:
a.) Dark, full hair (their chill, laid-back attitude may come from their hair)
b.) A full beard, though manicured.
c.) Speaks in jokes and/or useless aphorisms.
d.) Is apparently involved in/knows about the goings-on of their teen child’s life— and is fine with it.
Personally, I found the chill dad to be off-putting, just due to his diametric opposition to my absolutely-not chill dad, but I also found him relieving for the same reason.
We broke the ice over the long drive to Folly Beach. I shared a little bit more about myself with Luke and Mr. Luke’s Dad, and they smiled and nodded and made me feel much more interesting than I actually was.
At the beach, Mr. Luke’s Dad helped me pick out a board to start on. We landed on a paddleboard because it would be easier to steer, despite its slower speed. In the golden pink light of the morning, Luke and his dad showed me how to paddle out past where the waves were breaking, out to where they would swell and become ridable. My board rode right over the first few waves before I was at last able to catch a little one. I rode back to the shore, beaming, but not getting up from my knees. Luke told me I was a natural. I caught a couple without standing all the way up, and then a couple more in a sort of shaky, unnatural posture. For a moment, I was caught up in a Disney-Channel-fantasy where I was a chill, boho-surfer girl who wakes up early to go surfing with chill surfer boys.
When I looked tired, Luke asked me to sit on the front of his board while he steered. I liked sitting on the front of his board because he could go faster and further than I could— plus I didn’t have to do any work.
What I did not like were all the lovebird comments I overheard from Mr. Luke’s Dad and his beach friends. It’s something adults did that I couldn’t stand. Being in proximity to a boy and hearing the “I hear wedding bells”. Every time I heard a comment like that (which was a few times), I wanted to say You know, I just met this guy about twelve hours ago, so I really wouldn’t— but since that would have been rude, I just laughed a big dismissive laugh and rolled my eyes innocuously. It gave me the ick and made me, once again, all too aware of myself, at the beach, in my swimsuit. I felt scrutinized, like I was being watched. I felt exposed. I needed to relax
We took a break from surfing to play out in the water. All I could think about was how insecure the ties to my top were as we jumped around in the waves, and when he swooped down under me and hoisted me onto his shoulders, I was distracted by how small my bottoms were. I laughed despite myself, the more time I spent with him.
We went out on the boards to surf just a little bit longer before leaving the beach, but instead of surfing, we really just floated out on our boards in the semi-deep water, and we talked about whatever fourteen-year-olds talk about when they are left to their own devices and getting to know each other. I know I was flirting, whatever it was.
At some point during the conversation, I saw him wince, ever so slightly. I asked him what was wrong.
“Nothing,” he said.
I pushed him, and he finally confessed, pulling his foot from the water, “I think I just got stung by a jellyfish.”
I tensed up, though I was sitting cross-legged on my paddleboard, in no danger.”Are you okay?”
He kept his cool completely, “I’m fine, it was a little one, I think.”
“Should we go back to shore?”
“We should wait just a second, that way they can swim away.” He smiled at me.
Maybe, if we weren’t on two separate boards, and if I wasn’t at that moment particularly afraid of jellyfish, and if his dad wasn’t there, I would have kissed him. And it would have been a very romantic first-kiss story indeed. But because of all of those factors, that did not happen.
On the ride back to West Ashley, Luke sat in the back with me.
When “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake played, Luke said, “I love this song.”
I said, “Yeah, Jesse McCartney rocks”.
L for me, but also L music taste for Seashell Luke (in my fourteen year-old opinion), I was just trying to be nice.
We stopped by Sonic on the way back, and I ate the last real meat burger I would eat to date. I became a vegetarian the following week after watching Meat Your Meat, per my Biology teacher’s suggestion to the class. It is, in a way, a far more intimate thing than a first kiss that Seashell Luke and I will always have together. My Last Burger.
Seashell Luke told me I could come to the beach with him anytime after that. I believe I wanted to. However, when I texted Solaria Weathervien to ask if she would ever want to come with me, she replied that she didn’t like the ocean, also she didn’t really like Seashell Luke all that much. That was somehow enough to make me not want to go anymore at all. Who is to say why?
I must have written it off just by the mere fact that Seashell Luke simply did not fit the criteria of my list.
- He was blond.
- He dressed preppy.
- He had mid music taste.
Technically, he still had room to wow me with his singing voice, but I once again just did not see that happening for me. So I let my potential romance with Seashell Luke fizzle out.
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