Speedo burn

When it comes to spending time in the sun, there are no two things I believe in more than speedos and sunblock. So when some ultra–hip straight friends invited my partner and me to a private beach vacation in Mexico, I made sure to pack plenty of both.

My aversion tanning made me, for years, an easy target for nasty sunburns – so during the first couple of days in Mexico I was sure to pile on the protection. But the one thing I didn’t put on was my skimpy swimsuit. I opted for my ordinary board shorts, thinking my friends wouldn’t understand the bond between a gay man and his speedo.

People from the U.S. seem to see a Speedo as vulgar and exposing, as if the swim brief’s sole purpose is to exhibit the owner’s junk for unwilling viewers – in reality it combines comfort and style without hang–ups about the human body. In other words, it lets your crotch feel European.

We began a routine heading to the beach just after we woke up, and by the third day our lady travel mates reached a new comfort level with their husbands and gay friends as they tossed their tops aside for some maximum sun coverage. I figured this was the sign to finally wear my speedo. If they could whip out their boobs, certainly I could whip out my thighs.

The ocean itself wanted me wearing less; frequently the rough waters managed to untie my swimsuit’s drawstring and yank the trunks away, and I often came up with my shorts around my ankles. At this point, the Speedo was the conservative option.

Perhaps a little too excited, I changed from the boring board shorts to a nice, tiny, tight brief cut, knowing full well that I was going to look ridiculous and double–checking that I didn’t out–gay myself among the straight men in the group. Our friends cheered me on that I’d finally stopped overthinking things.

That evening, my thighs began to itch. To rule out the thought that the bed I was sleeping in could be infected with crabs, I checked that my partner didn’t have itchy thighs too. Luckily he was clear. But by the time dinner ended, the itching turned to a full–fledged burning – the mere sensation of shorts brushing against my skin became absolutely painful.

I broke away from the rest of the group to check out the situation below my belt, stripping down to inspect myself in the mirror. Could it be a sunburn? I’d been so careful!

Suddenly it hit me. In my sheer excitement to switch swimsuits, I had completely forgotten to reapply sunblock, having coated only the lower half of my legs. Even though the swim briefs didn’t look as ridiculous as I thought, I had managed to pull off the most ridiculous sunburn of my life – my body remained pale except for my bright red and painfully–stinging thighs.

The stupid sunburn made it miserable wearing underwear. And I could no longer end my nights relaxing in the hot tub; the hot water felt like insult to injury. Even a little sexual recreation with my man turned into an excruciating task.

In my excitement for something a little more fun, I’d forgotten to wear protection. And for that, I got burned.