I came upon a set of naked breasts today. A fairly nice set. Firm and full and well-tanned. Carefully cultivated. They had obviously seen the light of day at many a beach or tanning salon.

Alise, The Dutch girl who so graciously grew them for the rest of the world to admire, moved into the apartment next door yesterday with her boyfriend . Very friendly couple. He is somewhat older than she. He looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. She is probably in her mid to late thirties.

When I first saw them yesterday, they were in the parking lot unpacking their truck as I was rinsing off my dive gear. He wore a white “poofy” shirt (for you Seinfeld fans) with straight-legged blue jeans. His hair was wavy grey and black and combed back into the “tousled” look. He has a square, James Brolin-esque jaw with the same dark, piercing eyes. (Easy there, Greatmartin!)

She was tall and thin. The fluorescent blouse she was wearing was loose-fitting, but also somehow managed to show that she was very well endowed up top. Her hair was slightly longer than shoulder length, auburn, and brushed back away from her face so that it looked like a soft lion’s mane.

As near as I can tell, her jeans were painted on. You could see every nook and cranny on her lower half.  Below the paint job, she was wearing patent leather boots with two-inch heels.

But those descriptions are just approximations. I really didn’t pay these guys much attention…Uh-huh.

As I said, they are both very friendly folks, and even though it was obvious that they were Dutch, they spoke impeccable English.

It has been my habit on this vacation to come back from diving, go to the apartment to grab a couple of beers, and then head to the pool to rinse the salt off of my body and bask in the sun for a half hour.  This particular afternoon, I came into the room and went out to balcony to hang up my dive skins. I looked down at the pool . . .  and there were the twins staring back up at me in all of their bronzed glory.

As I stood there hanging up my skins, I heard the young, American couple next door come out on their balcony. I heard the wife gasp as she saw the spectacle. I heard him ask, “Are we going to the pool?”

And I heard her exclaim emphatically, “I am NOT going down there!”

I walked back into the room and said to Mary, “Mary! Come quick! There are tits out here!” Mary dropped what she was doing and came out onto the balcony to take a gander.

Now, some wives would be put out by this. (I know my bad wife, Cruella, would have had a fit!) I looked at Mary and said, “I won’t go down there today.”

She laughed and said, “Why wouldn’t you?”

So I did.

Mary was so at ease with it that when I got to the pool and put my drink on a table a couple of chairs away from “the show”, I looked up at our balcony and saw her looking down at me. She had our camera in her hands, and she laughed silently and motioned that I should walk past the girl.

I looked over at the young woman who was lying flat (in a manner of speaking) on the deck chair with her eyes closed.

So I walked past her, and Mary took the picture. Then, I jumped into the pool. When the girl heard the splash and realized that she was no longer alone (in a fairly public place) she covered herself with her arms for a few moments. Then, she relaxed and went back to her original posture.

I laid back down in my chair and soaked in Ol’ Sol’s rays for a while. Then the sky clouded up, and I felt it start to sprinkle. Now, in Bonaire, it never just sprinkles. A sprinkle turned into a concentrated downpour within a matter of seconds. The cloudburst usually lasts only a few minutes, but in that short time, everything caught out in it gets drenched.

So, when I felt the first drops hit my face, I stood up, gathered up my stuff, and headed for the shelter of the apartment. My pool mate did the same the thing. She jumped to her feet, looked over at me, and immediately covered her chest with a beach towel. I smiled to myself and thought, Too late, honey. When I got to the pool gate, I realized that I didn’t have the key to open it. So she came up behind me, and with the most gracious smile, said, “Allow me.” She opened the gate for me. As we got to the sheltered stairway that led to our apartments, (her’s is on the same level as mine) the skies opened up with big, cold, heavy drops. She squealed and laughed and ran up the stairs quickly followed by myself. When she got to her door, she turned, flashed a huge smile once again, and said, “Well! It was nice to meet you again!” With that, she disappeared into her room.

They were just breasts. Nursing stations. Mammaries. Overactive sweat glands. That’s all. But man! What a commotion they can cause!

Did I look? Yup! I’d be lying if I said didn’t.

Did I enjoy it? Uh-huh! (Is that okay?)

Did I gape? Nope.

Did I want gape? None of your business.

Did she want me to look? I would assume so. Otherwise, why was she exposing the puppies in public?

Everybody who saw them were affected by them, including the girl to whom they belonged.

She was proud of them, and, at the same time, a little embarrassed. (Otherwise, why was her first instinct to cover them up when she heard me in the pool and when it started raining?)

I was affected by them, because I looked, enjoyed looking, wanted to continue to look, and yet was slightly embarrassed for looking and enjoying it. And I would have altered my routine of going to the pool because of them if it made Mary uneasy or insecure.

Mary was affected by them because she thought the whole thing was funny and a little absurd.

The young American couple next door was affected by them because she was appalled and indignant over them, and he wouldn’t go down to the pool for fear of upsetting his wife…because of them.

Do you remember the movie, It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World? (If you’ve never seen it, rent it.) There was a wonderful British comic actor in it named Terry Thomas. (He was the precursor to John Cleese. Same type of humor. Stiff upper lip, rigid, and preposterous.) At one point, Thomas looks right at the camera after watching a well-endowed woman cross his path. He removes his hat, and with bewilderment and disgust, proclaims, “I fail to understand this American obsession with bosoms!”

What do I think about all of this? I go along with Terry Thomas to some degree. However, I also agree with Maurice Chevolier when he sings, “Thank Heaven for little girls!”