Tenerife. Day 4. Boobies

Nice boobies, Icky boobies, Rude boobies, Old boobies, Fake boobies, WTF boobies & wibbly, wobbly man moobies; my Son has seen them all now.

As someone who routinely checks the rudie rating on all films and games ( Yes, I said games, flamin Xbox) I have managed to maintain my own innocence in thinking that my little boy had never seen the nipples of naughty ladies and never would until I released the parental password on the internet, currently scheduled for his 18th birthday.  I was happy in my naivety. Life was good!  Well, all that’s gone tits up now. Thanks a bunch Tenerife.

As soon as we stepped off the plane and wandered past the newspaper stands, blatant boobies were on the cover of the magazines, making Zoo & FHM look PG rated in comparison.  My daughter’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline and I hustled them both off quickly.

We arrived at the hotel and dragged our luggage to our room, via the pool area.  Ladies who probably last breast-fed over 50 years ago, sat on sun-loungers, dripping in oil, their bikini bras redundant. My Son looked on in fascination rather than rapture, a perplexed expression indicated that he had questions brewing, and a finger getting ready to point. I hustled him off quickly. Thank you prune boobies.

In the hotel, we were all settled and waiting for our daughter to spend the obligatory hour on her hair.  Son flipped on the TV and immediately the Spanish channels flashed up boobs. Son giggled “Turn it over?” Nod. More giggles “Turn it over again?” Nod. Hysterical laughter “Turn it off?” Stern nod.

That night we went to the nearby Chinese restaurant. We ordered a buffet each and marvelled at all the new foods that my kids tried.  Daughter likes sushi – who knew; since she don’t eat fish at home?  At the end of the meal, the waiter brought over 3 shot glasses and filled them with some peachy liqueur stuff.  He was quite selective as he placed the glasses down. One for me, one for hubby and one for…daughter. I was confused.  She gave me a smug grin “He thinks I’m 18”  I looked dumbfounded at my 12 year old, who happens to be taller than me, and realised she was right.  I made a mental note to hide her make up for the rest of the holiday.

Hubby bowed his head down and picked up his glass ready to throw it back when he stopped suddenly, peered in closer to the glass, then closer again. “Lynz, look…am I hallucinating?”  I looked into the glass.  Oh. My. Gawd… The bottom of the glass had a very rude lady doing very rude things to her lady bits.  Chuckling, Hubby drank up and the un-lady-like lady disappeared.  I looked into my glass and suppressed a smirk as I handed the glass to Hubs. A very happy man was playing solo inside my glass.  Oh, the number of jokes I could have made if the kids were out of earshot.

A strange squeak from across the table made me spin round to see my daughter practically using her glass as an eye-bath.  “Mines got a carrot” she exclaimed.  As I examined the carrot, you know, for parental responsibility purposes, I failed to notice that my Son had surreptitiously swiped Hubby’s glass and refilled it with water.  Hello rude boobies.

Next day, we went to the beach. Lovely volcanic sand adorned with lots of bathers on top.  It was like a boobies and bums festival. This day was the day I gave up on innocence for my former innocents, thanks to a very, very old couple, both in thong’d swimwear and no tops, who stopped to chat to each other. My kids and I stopped digging the moat for our sandcastle in astonishment that their two crotches were at eyelevel, at almost eyelash tickling distance away, until they turned around, giving us a detailed view of their curling crack hair tangled around their thongs.  This sight, I believe, would make even Dr Pixie’s nose wrinkle.

That night, I looked at my own boobies in the mirror and felt disappointed. Lovely brown (ok, red) colour with a shocking white triangle on each knocker.  Truth is, I am as guilty of beach-boobies as the rest of them, and its fab!  Just not when I’ve got the kids with me or other peoples children are around.  If we were in Britain and I let my baps air then
social services would be called!  Am I being prudish or do the rules of flashing simply not apply when abroad?

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