It really is a strange feeling, knowing the very curves, angles, aesthetics of your body are an offence, a cause of embarrassment. Calling a tropical island home, each and every day I walk past these human creatures who respond to the humidity by baring their bodies. I bump into people in the market and I see the individual beads of sweat running down their chests and I drive alongside tourists who wear their underwear on their motorbikes.
I see chests, I see nipples, I see bodies. Men, men, men.
Four days ago, we drove dizzying journey around the island and we were blessed with finding a surreal, empty stretch of sand, with a rocky island, mountain, turquoise view. Do I dare give this thing called toplessness a go, here? I’m ashamed (afraid) of bearing parts of my anatomy that are so, so, often identical to a man’s. I’m tired, it’s a topic so discussed and dissected and violated.
The ocean stands, as I do, my eyes closed, waves rhythmically . A tiny act of liberation brings small ripples of happiness to wash over me.