Putting the "Tonk" in Honky Tonk...
The Lifeguard recently took a trip to that beachfront paradise, Old Orchard Beach, Maine. (The pier appears above.) A mere 60 minutes from Boston, and a place where the shot, the stabbed, the pierced and tattooed can take the sun and enjoy the surf without fear of being judged by anyone other than The Lifeguard.
A brief stroll past the shops on the main street revealed tattoo parlours, piercing pagodas, and fried dough purveyors. (Remember, one must be 18 to be pierced or tattooed. However, The Lifeguard's observations revealed that a lot of people--especially young girls--have fake IDs, or boyfriends who have tattoo guns.) Indeed, there is nothing sexier than a pimple-faced teenager with stretch marks, belly scars, navel jewelry and a tramp stamp. In fact, The Lifeguard had to brace himself as he got nearer to hell (or, closer to the beach).
Upon reaching the sand, The Lifeguard encountered the cream of the crop.
There she was. A vision of beauty. A testament to years of tanning, without sun block. Her skin, like deeply tanned leather. A sun hat, hanging playfully on her cane, which was near her beach chair. I tried to turn away, but couldn't, drawn to the portable oxygen kit and the tattoos adorning her belly. Tipping the scales at a svelte 100 kilos, she was a goddess, smoking a generic cigarette and scanning the beach for men (or food).
There were pasty Canadians, speaking French and wearing Riviera Dink Suits. There were 30 year old women, trailed by a Benetton-ad's worth of kids. There were barely-legal girls, showing off their bodies, fully aware that they are built for sex. It was a frightening milieu, and The Lifeguard, after dipping his toes in the chilly Atlantic, retreated to his car.
Then, needing therapy, a drink and a tetanus shot, The Lifeguard left OOB. For good.