by the sea (mr. t)

We practice consensual nonconsent, the ocean and I. My wading into the surf constitutes tacit permission, and the waves beat me down again and again, weighing my swimsuit with salt. I may emerge gasping and stinging, but at least my piercings have gotten a thorough rinse.

I love the ocean. I love kitsch and lobster and docks at midnight. I love falling asleep to phantom swells beneath each rib. I have until Sunday, and I intend to soak up every lick and sputter of my precious half-week.

(Also this bathing suit is authentic ’60s and I got it on Etsy, so that’s pretty cool too.)