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The Thong Bearer - Short Story by Peter O'Neill

I had a wonderful morning this morning. I woke up at 5.20 and I did my exercises, as usual, before going for a run on the beach. The sky was truly Homeric, rosy fingered dawn. The beauty of the scape was simply staggering. I stopped running after a while, just so that I could appreciate it all the more. In fact, so compelled was I by the beauty before me that I started walking into the sea, after first taking off my runners and rolling up my leggings. The water felt so good that I actually felt like getting in. This is Ireland I am talking about, the Irish Sea, scrotum tightening. But, I actually started seriously thinking about it.

When I looked behind me, I noticed a woman, I think, staring out at me. She must have understood what I was thinking of doing, and possibly wanted to watch me swim! But when she saw that I had spotted her, she ran on. That was more like it, I usually scared them off the minute they saw my young, fresh corpse. She too was jogging. So, I had the whole stretch of coast to myself. What I have to relate is kind of funny because I was in a small predicament as I wasn’t wearing any swimming gear but rather a thong, for purely comfort, not aesthetic reasons. So, was I going to, literally, bare it or not? It was too nice an opportunity to waste, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I stripped off quickly and walked back into the sea.

* * *

The soft, inverted, black pyramid of silk between his thighs, its exquisite, fibrous nature, its architectural flimsy, signalled a very definite kink to his manhood, manhood that is, as is commonly understood by the world. Meaning? God only knows! But an indicator, nevertheless, of a certain form of androgyny; the thong being normally associated as that highly luminous, decorative cloth splitting in two, like a fine knife, the bulbous, sun blessed cheeks of the soft, pear-like, magnificent, Californian buttocks of playboyish babes. So, here, on a man, it was an altogether different spin. How so? Boxer wearing manhood usurped by this thong bearing skinnymalink? That was it, wasn’t it? His body also not conforming to the quality control; Auschwitz chic as opposed to the sculpted forms of the Olympian, uber-athlete. Yes, he had, finally, given himself over to the side of the ubermensch. How we are all plagued by the evil necessity of ideal forms; Plato, has an awful lot to answer for.

As he moved through the water O’ Shea was only fully aware of the sensations, giving himself only now to the four elements.

List now his pre-Socratic origins.

Air; the micro-pockets of the thong were so fine that the actual sensation was one of being at one with the air, so light was the sensation of the fabric. The only giveaway to the touch was the hold of the very fine waistline which he had pulled high above his hips, again accentuating the androgynous nature of his being.

Fire; the great lozenge of the Homeric rose, above him in the sky, the sky which was painted like a theatre backdrop, only more divinely angelic, that fiery planet, the sun, the all hypnotic locus to which he now sky gravitated, was also reflected in the two miniature orbs (namely his testes), which were being supported in their sumptuous, silken, black pouch, and as he bore himself forward...

Water; cooled and succoured him, its liquid luminosity enchanted, bearing him forward like a merman under the fiery heat of the sun.

The Earth; beneath his feet the sand, so fine, ground under him into a minute turbulence of sandy cloud.

But where was she? Where was his Calypso? His Circe? His crown?

Mary sat watching the solitary figure of the bather negotiating his way. He, it was a he, wasn’t it? She mused, silently observing the white body, or shape in the distance.

Is that a feckin’ thong he’s wearing?

Mary smiled, Good shite. I’ve seen it all now. Would you look at de’ bleedin’ state of yer’ man? Would yea’ look at da’ pale arse on him!

Give him a name. I said O’ Shea, Michael shagging O’ Shea!

The first touch of the water on his loins caused him to shudder with delight. His cock and balls thrilled to the liquid splash and play inside their now sodden, silken pouch.

Slowly, slowly.

He felt the cold of sensation envelope him like a winter hand, penetrating every part of him. First swim of the year. Like a virgin, the sea was slowly seducing him, after first using the sun as a lure.


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