After a quiet hour of laying on my back, naked, completely tuned into the rhythmic crashing of the surf, I noticed that a naked, muscular, super-tanned man resembling Steven Baldwin had passed by my towel aimlessly for the third time. He was lingering, posing, gathering courage as if in a crowded singles bar. Finally he walked right up to me and said:
"Do you have the time?"
I didn't, but the shadow of his giant cock told me it was about twelve fifteen. I muttered that I didn't have the time, sorry. He must have felt that my answer was encouraging because he crouched down like a baseball catcher and said:
"What a beautiful day, eh?"
My eyes darted around and saw no one else within fifty feet of me. I was now officially being hit on, a nauseating violation of nude beach etiquette. I stammered for a moment, rendered nearly mute by the enormity of my naivete for seeking out a nude beach on Fire Island by myself and by the enormity of his genitals, which were carving a deep trench in the sand as they swung back and forth in the breeze. He looked quizzically at the dunes behind me and said:
"Have you seen any deer around here?"
Just to be fair, there ARE signs posted near the dunes that say deer might be frolicking, but there were no fucking deer around right then, okay? He didn't have a salt lick and he certainly didn't have any hunting gear on, so unless he was also planning to fuck some deer after he finished with me, his inquiry about the wildlife seemed dubious. I sat upright and brought my knees up so that my crotch was hidden.
"Uh, no....no deer here."
If there were any deer around I'm sure they were all crouched down in the dunes laughing at me. And if there's any poetic justice in the world, Shirley Gonzalez was right there with them, snickering her fat ass off. I kept still and stared at the sand, keeping my eyes averted from the hypnotic bronze pendulum that was trying to lure me into its clutches. As I scanned the beach for a piece of driftwood to fend it off with, I naturally started thinking of Swiss-born philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau.
In 1762 Rousseau wrote his then-infamous "Du Contrat Social" ("The Social Contract"). The core of his theory was that rational individuals submit themselves to the "general will" for the sake of the common good. Popular soverignty was his game. In a nutshell: you respect my shit and I'll respect yours. (He also felt that man is corrupted by society and that he is most virtuous in his Natural State. Rousseau wrote all this tucked away in a small cottage in Amsterdam and clearly not under the shadow of an enormous penis. Otherwise he might have felt differently about man's virtuous Natural State as I did that summer day. Nature, while it looks great in HD, is brutal and unforgiving. If you don't believe me, come listen to the guttural screeching of the two cats who fuck under my window each summer, putting on their own gruesome revival of Same Time, Next Year)
Since that day on the beach my misanthropy has increased and my paranoia has intensified, but I am what I am because YOU made me this way. You are all out to get me. This feeling stems from what has become a chaotic breakdown of the Social Contract.
You are NOT submitting to the general will.
You are not respecting my shit.
You are not following the rules.
And I'm not speaking about the basics here: don't kill, don't steal, etc. Not those rules. We all know those. Judging, however, by the recent intensity of my stress rashes, it's obvious that some of you may not know what the OTHER rules are--or that they existed in the first place-- and the Common Good is swirling down the shitter. These are the Unwritten Rules of the New Social Contract. Like don't show up empty-handed to a dinner party. Or don't fart in the elevator. Or don't speak to me.
There are probably many more Unwritten Rules than you can imagine. The Considerate know about lots them. So do the Unselfish. And the Aware. I don't know all of them, and the ones I know about I don't ALWAYS follow. I'm not perfect.
But You should be.
Because You're driving me crazy.