Sun and the Single Girl

Lately I’ve been fantasizing about a summer I spent sunbathing nude on the balcony of my very first apartment. At 19, I had just moved out of a cramped, scary residential hotel room. Finally, I had a sunny one-bedroom of my own, on the second floor of a converted walk-up, featuring a small rectangular balcony. The view wasn’t exactly world-class -- I faced the roof of a trendy restaurant -- but I felt like minor royalty spending an hour or two each day under the baking sun in peaceful, naked isolation.

My balcony was too small for entertaining, but it was just the right size for an oversize floor cushion -- which, in turn, was large enough for one giant beach towel and a 5-foot-tall sunbather in nude repose. Working on my tan was part of a greater plan. It meant I was living the good life in the big city. And it was more fun than being at a nude beach. That would be so communal. Instead, I relished my private freedom. This was a naughty, low-rent luxury. With my all-over tan, I looked like a lady of leisure, and my bed partners didn't realize that I never left the city all summer. Mine was a fake tan, for I was happy in my modest surroundings but wanted to look like a luxury item. I noticed that smooth brown skin made me look slimmer -- and was convinced that bikini lines did the opposite.

My girlfriends hinted that I was acting like a slut but I knew they were secretly jealous of my shameless relationship with the sun -- and my little patch of outdoor real estate. I didn't care what the neighbors thought. Or did I?

One afternoon I was faced with a crisis. I was lying on my back, eyes closed, completely exposed, when I heard someone on the restaurant roof next door. What on earth? Then I remembered that extra chairs were stored on the roof. I could hear somebody -- probably male -- moving the chairs. The towel beneath my back was getting rather moist. Should I run for cover? Would I have to stop going downstairs for my late-night snack? But if I couldn't see the guy on the roof, I could pretend he hadn't seen me! I decided to keep my eyes firmly shut.

Nude sunbathing is art, science, relaxation, a bundled activity. Over the years, I befriended others who shared my hobby. Having friends with the same beauty goal is the female equivalent of guys bonding over sports. With many of these friends, I had only one thing in common -- an obsession with tanning. A gorgeous tan, broken up by stark pale breasts, is anathema to the nude sunbathing club, but I soon discovered that I could not expose my nipples to the sun without paying a price. To prevent them from burning and peeling, one friend suggested zinc oxide. But nipples are just the tip of a larger question. Breasts are too delicate and precious for long-term sun worship.

I decided to take some protective measures but was determined to avoid anything resembling a bikini line. I began by covering my breasts with a light silk scarf. On day one, a faint line was visible but it was uneven, due to the special qualities of the silk. The next day, I found that the silk scarf could never sit in quite the same place. After a week, the result was a gradual fade -- untanned breasts blending seamlessly with the brown skin below. Later, I would cover myself with an after-sun cocktail -- olive oil mixed with a drop of iodine -- marinating in this before my shower. The iodine was a tan booster, bestowing a slight tint to my breasts.

When I upgraded to a more spacious apartment, I lost my balcony. I went with my friend Tina to a tanning salon -- one of those establishments where you lie between two light-emitting surfaces, like a naked sandwich filling. The sun bed, Tina proclaimed, was an ideal place to masturbate, especially when pressed for time: "You're having a beauty treatment and an orgasm!" Lying between the hi-tech rays, I noticed that the sun bed offered total privacy -- but there was no breeze.

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August 15, 2002
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