On our honeymoon, Chip and I traveled to St. Martin in the French West Indies. It is an absolutely beautiful, mountainous island, half of it owned by France and half by Holland. Juliana International Airport is on the Dutch side. The fuel oil is on the French side. When they have a disagreement, the borders are secured. Aircraft cannot fly in or out, due to lack of fuel. The disputes do not last very long.
We soon learned that Orient Beach was the most popular. One half allowed nude bathing and one half did not. Nudity was not for me. I was laying on a chaise lounge reading a book. Chip always had ants in his pants, so he went for a walk. He came running back, very excited. “‘I found this great bathing suit I want to buy you. Come and see it.” The sale booths were on the beach.
It was a very small, thong bikini made of chamois cloth with Indian beads hanging off the front bottom. The French saleswoman was wearing one sans top. I asked where I could try it on. She told me, “Right here.” I was shocked. She looked at me and said “Oh, you modest Americans.”
She gave Chip the end of a large beach towel to hold, and she held the other side. A curious crowd gathered. When they dropped the towel, the guys loved it. All the men purchased one for their wife or girlfriend. I would guess that she just about sold out.
Chip was very happy with the situation. The suit was the most uncomfortable thing I ever had on my body. I wore it for about half an hour and went to the ladies room and changed back to my one piece which, although also sexy, was much more comfortable. Chip was not very happy with my decision. I think that holding the towel up made it more alluring. Sort of like Gypsy Rose Lee with the feather wand.
We left the beach later in the day and went to our hotel, showered and dressed. At happy hour, while we were sipping our drinks, a guy yelled out from the other side, “Hey, that’s the girl from Orient Beach in that bathing suit.”
Chip raised his glass and said, “Sure is.”
Valentine’s Day was a few nights later. We dined at a five-star restaurant on the French side to celebrate. A well-dressed gentleman approached our table, “Aren’t you the girl on Orient Beach in that bikini a few days ago.” Again Chip chirped in, “Sure was.”
Another evening, we were in one of the casinos, and the same thing happened. I was embarrassed, but Chip was as proud as punch. Finally, after a wonderful week we had to head home.
We were standing in line at the airport waiting to check in. I was in a jacket and jeans, and a man’s voice bellowed from about five rows over and yelled, “That’s the girl from Orient Beach in that bikini.” Again good old Chip chirped in, “Sure is.”
I was embarrassed but flattered at the same time. I was 40 years old. Never before nor since has anything like that occurred.
It was MY FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME.