I love the South of France.
Women go topless and no one really gawks at them.
The food is sublime and the Mediterranean changes color throughout the day and night.
Pure paradise, except during ‘le Grand Depart’, when tens of millions of French and Germans and Scandanavians and Brits pile into their cars for a vacation of the eternal Cote d’Azur. Most are drawn to the beaches and every day men slip into their Speedos and even skimpier bathing gear.
Speedos by Fabo.
A cod piece.
My friend Dave was in Antibes. My longtime friend called to gloat and I asked, “Are you wearing Speedos?”
“Why would I wear Speedos?” ughed Dave.
“For some action.”
The South of France was renown for one-night stands and even-shorter liaisons.
“Suit yourself, but even Pablo Picasso wore Speedos.”
The dead painter had a museum in Antibes.
“Yeah, right.” Dave chortled a laugh and hung up. He could afford to be happy on the Cote d’Azur, while I sat on the roof of the Fort Greene Observatory. At least I know one thing.
Pablo Picasso wore speedos.
And I’m not beyond going au natural in Goa.