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The flood gates of Beauty and The Beast(s) OPEN...

Rashawn, "Ray-Ray" to his close friends, is a father of two, relatable because I'm a father. He's a husband, me too, and he's from Michigan. He's an Army Vet who served his tour(s) in Iraq, I'm thankful for his service. We hit it off because we were both raised in a time period where bike riding, renting videos (VHS) and playing outside as kids was crucial in growing up. There were no cell phones, no technology and news was a bit slower to reach everyone. We experienced the same music, movies and an era that we admired and had formed us.

We talked quite a bit on our down time. Rashawn looked at things from the same, sane, perspective that I did. Since the Prickly Pear Grill was poolside, there was a lot to look at, and a lot to try and erase from the brain as well. During the slow times, we'd lean, casually up on the sandwich "pantry" (a cold table with all the goodies), and peer out into the see of bikinis, one pieces and the random wrinkled old men.

These white old men didn't care about their guts, their silver back and chest hair, or the fact that they were roaming around in the restroom with the old worm hanging loose. These men were the type that must have longed for those high school gym shower days (one big fucking room with an open floor plan). They wanted to display every piece of junk in their trunk (or in these cases, hanging loose for the world to see) and didn't care how big, small or wrinkly. They had ZERO fucks to give and they were never critiqued, by ANYONE, out loud.

With the never-shamed white men, there was beauty. There were older woman, prancing around the pool side, confident in their display of skin. They were a little bit more modest. In between those experienced women were the bikini clad beauties who were adult "younger" women who pranced around confidently.

Men walk all over the place, speedos, wrinkles, hair growing out of places that need trimmed, loud laughs, boisterous, often inappropriate comments, all with no consequences. When women, swam or soaked in the hot tub and walked up to the bar to order a drink, this is a conversation:

"Did you see her?" Unidentified woman (Baby Teeth) asked another unidentified woman (mid-life crisis woman).

"Yes, that's crazy."

"I can't believe someone would wear something so skimpy."

"Me either. Don't she know that there are loyal, heterosexual, monogamous husbands around here?"

"I know, the nerve!"

This was fucking cruel, unsupportive on levels that are quite common. It was appalling to hear a woman I call, Baby Teeth, and another woman who had grown to despise beauty. Should Baby Teeth and her walking mid-life crisis friend be excused for their critique? I'm going to try and erase the whole fucking hypocritical conversation from memory, because I can't believe they weren't more supportive! This is what I say:

"How dare those fucking entitled old men force me to look at their pale, wrinkled, skin, and shriveled worms, but it is a choice, right? What women wear is a choice too, not a fucking puritanical, misogynistic, cultish, ideology that should be forced onto them from the masses, am I right?"

Join me next Wednesday for more on the blog and great times at the Prickly Pear!

Tim Eagle

Find out where RV travel, exploring, DIY and writing at the Dark Nest Travels YouTube channel here: Dark Nest Travels.

Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed and Krae. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction, insanity, and nepotism of rural America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site Thanks for reading, tune in next week for the next chapter...

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