Page 69 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Now you two”—Aunt Deb wags a finger at Matteo and me—“keep those perky parts covered. This is a celebration of vintage bodies only! We’re talking fine-aged wine here, not fresh grape juice. If you want to be frisky in the wind”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you’ll have to find another spot on the shoreline.”

Matteo winks at her. “Don’t worry, Deb. Your oh-so-proper Katie has already decided to stay covered. Though”—he leans in closer to me, his voice low and playful—“I was hoping to see what you were hiding. After last night, I already know howdeliziosoyou are.”

“Hmmm. What was last night? Oh, your performance?” I tease him, my voice coming out breathier than intended. “I’d say it’s under review. I really have to draw up a flowchart and pie graph before I can properly assess your skills.”

“Those noises you made say otherwise.” His eyes darken dangerously.

Before I can explain that Wine Cellar Katie was clearly possessed by a sex demon, Howie claps his hands together.

“All right, folks! Let it all hang out! Remember, what happens on an Italian nude beach stays on an Italian nude beach!”

And then it happens. A flurry of movement. Shirts flying. Shoes kicking up sand. Belts snapping open. It’s like a geriatric strip-a-thon, and I am entirely unprepared.

Chester starts unbuttoning hisBody By BaconT-shirt, revealing a pale, hairless chest. “Time to let the boys breathe! You know you’re an old man when the bells hang lower than the rope!”

That gets a laugh from every guy in the group.

The Dawson sisters perform a synchronized striptease that would make Chippendales blush.

“Freedom!” Agnes announces while Margaret adds, “The only fashion trend that never goes out of style!”

“Always wondered how a breeze feels… down there,” Stan mutters, shimmying out of his khakis.

Skin. So much skin.

And then…Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

My eyes nearly pop out of my head as Chester casually starts doing lunges, buck-naked. He’s surprisingly flexible, but his, um, “frank and beans” are just flopping around and hitting the sand when he goes into a deep lunge. I try to look away, but I’m helplessly glued to the sight. Next, Howie joins in!

Matteo chuckles at my astonished expression, thoroughly enjoying the show.

“It’s not funny,” I say to him. “Now they’re doing jumping jacks! No. Those things flapping and swinging should not be testing the laws of physics.”

He snickers, and I hate how charming he sounds. “It’s merely gravity doing its thing. You know, everything that goes up…”

“Shake what you got, lovelies!” Aunt Deb’s voice pierces through my meltdown, and there she is—my aunt, my blood relative—leading a conga line of naked seniors down the shoreline, her sun hat bobbing cheerfully as they all jiggle along in rhythm.

“If you squint,” Matteo says, narrowing his eyes in mock concentration. “It’s almost… art. Like one of those surrealist paintings where everything sags a bit too much.”

My eyes dart frantically between naked bodies in the world’s most disturbing game of Ping-Pong. “Please tell me this isn’t normal for Italian beaches.”

Matteo, looking way too entertained by my suffering, shrugs. “No, principessa. Usually there’s less… enthusiasm. And more pants.”

“I will never use the phraselow-hanging fruitagain.”

“Why fight it?” Matteo’s smirk is infuriating. “They’re living their best lives. Dancing. Laughing. Showing the world that age is just a number.”

“My boobs are officially terrified.” I fling an arm over my chest protectively. “They’re wondering how many years they’ve got left before they’re roommates with my belly button.”

He leans in, his whisper dripping with mischief. “If it helps, I’m imagining your breasts are—”

“Donotfinish that sentence,” I hiss, jabbing him in the ribs but not before he unleashes some mysteriously filthy Italian.

“Matteo!” shouts Aunt Deb from across the sands. “Time to start the Beach Olympics! We need you to bring some dignity to the hot-dog-eating contest.”

“Really? You’re going to watch them deep-throat wieners. On a nude beach?” I ask.

He squeezes my hip, his searing touch burning through my cover-up. “Try not to miss me during the naked three-legged race.”

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