Scientists say that breathing fresh ocean air leads to happiness—you know, probably. Seems like something they would say! So a few years ago, when my beach lifeguard bestie suggested I come down to visit her at the guard house to take my mind off a recent breakup, I jumped at the opportunity. After all, the only salt water I’d been exposed to over the previous 24 hours came from the tears sliding down my face as I detailed the breakup to various friends, family members, and that one unfortunate grocery store cashier.
“Just get in the car now and come down for the weekend,” Megan* told me over the phone. I could hear a raging party and waves crashing on the shore in the background. It didn’t seem like a bad idea. “There are, like, a million hot Australian men here. And you know what they say about getting under someone to get over someone else...”
I didn’t need much convincing. Within a few hours, I’d packed my tiniest bikini and best vintage jean shorts and was in my Jeep driving down to the shore. But even as I was scream-singing along to breakup songs while highway wind ripped through my hair, I started to have doubts. I couldn’t imagine even talking to another guy—no matter how attractive his accent and abs might be—let alone sleeping with him.
Soon enough, I was pulling into the driveway of an enormous oceanfront holiday house where all the lifeguards in this particular beach town lived together for free as part of their pay. Apparently, it’s common for Australians to do a gap year in the U.S. after graduation, and at least 15 of Australia’s most tanned and toned had settled on a beach town three or so hours down the coast from my city.
Megan helped me put my bags into the “girls room” where she and five other female lifeguards slept in bunk beds. “Everyone else is at the bars already, so I told them we’d meet them there in about an hour.” As I put on mascara and perfume, Megan talked up one particular guy, Ben*, who she thought I should flirt with when we got there.
Upon entering the beachy dive bar and meeting the tannest and blondest group of people I’ve ever seen in one place, Ben offered to buy me a beer. He was incredibly attractive and seemed sweet and shy too—nothing like the arrogant bros I’d feared meeting just a few hours ago in the car. But still, I couldn’t stop thinking about my recent ex, which made having sex with any man seem physically repulsive.
I knew, logically, that this is how everyone feels when they first sleep with someone else after a breakup. So, in an effort to convince myself to have sex with a very beautiful, very nice man, I consulted Alex*, Ben’s best female friend since childhood, for a sidebar. They’d both decided to do their gap year in the U.S. together and seemed practically inseparable.
Alex and Ben were basically male and female versions of each other: She had long, blonde wavy hair, sunkissed skin, impressively toned arms and legs, and that warm, endearing Aussie accent. I asked her if she thought he was a nice guy and someone she’d hook up with if she were in my situation. She assured me that he was…then offered to buy me another beer herself.
As we laughed and talked at the bar, I couldn’t stop staring at her sky-blue eyes. At one point, her hand “accidentally” brushed against the inside of my upper thigh, and I knew in that instant I wouldn’t be talking to Ben for much more of that trip. Soon, Alex suggested the whole group leave the bar and go skinny dipping in the ocean. I was afraid—sharks, rip tides, etc.—but as Alex and Megan reminded me, I would literally be surrounded on all sides by lifeguards. I liked my odds.
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On the walk to the beach, Megan pulled me aside from the group. “Alex asked me if you are into girls—she’s a lesbian, I don’t know if I told you that—so I said you’ve had sex with both men and women. Is that okay?” It was perfectly fine with me. Butterflies danced in my stomach as I realized that maybe that thigh touch wasn’t an accident at all.
When we got to the beach and everyone flung their clothes in the dunes before running to the ocean, Alex let me put my jean shorts and bikini top in her bag so they didn’t get covered in sand. If that’s not girl-flirting, I don’t know what is. I snuck a glance at her tits, which were alarmingly perfect: somehow huge and perky at the same time. I grabbed her hand tightly as we ran into the freezing-cold water, diving under moonlit waves to swim farther out from where the rest of the group was floating.
As soon as we were out of earshot, Alex pulled my waist toward her and kissed me. I felt her naked body against mine, her perfect tits pressed up against my much smaller ones. I wrapped my legs around her toned waist, gently sucking on her lower lip as I pressed my pussy against hers...hard. This was exactly what I wanted. I took her hand and guided her to put her fingers inside me. I was getting so wet as she tapped my clit, the ocean water adding just enough friction to her fingers. But just then, we heard shouting and waving from the rest of the group letting us know it was time to head in. Alas, it seemed this underwater sexploration was getting cut short.
That walk back to the beach house felt like the longest five minutes of my life. When we got there, Alex wasted no time pulling me into a bathroom and fingering me until I came, massaging my clit with the perfect slow-fast-slow rhythm and pressure. I started to moan, but she put her hand over my mouth. “People can hear us,” she said in what I still remember as the cutest accent I’d ever heard. “We have to wait until we go to sleep.”
After a few rounds of beer pong with the rest of the group, I told Megan what had happened. She squealed, excited—Alex had become one of her best friends that summer—then sternly told me not to have sex on her bed or in her room.
It occurred to me that this may pose a slight problem, seeing as the female lifeguards in the house shared a room. But after everyone went to bed, Alex grabbed a blanket and led me into the living room, where I proceeded to go down on her for…well, for an embarrassingly long time. I’d been in a relationship with a man for almost a year up until 48 hours before this, so I definitely wasn’t going to get Alex to come as quickly as she’d worked her magic on me in the bathroom earlier that night.
But she was remarkably kind about my inexperience. She gave me tips like “Use the tip of your tongue on my clit and the rest of it for the rest of me.” Eventually, after a lot of effort, she got wetter and wetter and came too. I grabbed her hips as she thrust into my face—suddenly, she was absolutely dripping. Her rapid breaths as she orgasmed sounded so uniquely feminine, turning me on even more. I remember coming up for air after she finished and watching her head lean back as she gasped with pleasure, her blonde hair falling around her perfect tits like some sort of sunkissed goddess.
Alex and I spent the rest of the weekend together—tanning on the same towel by the ocean, making out in the outdoor shower at the guard house, and, of course, having nightly marathon sex sessions in the living room where, one night, we got so loud we accidentally woke Megan up before her 7 a.m. shift the next morning. (Oops, my bad, Megan).
Early Monday morning, I said goodbye to Alex as she walked me to my car. We both knew we wouldn’t talk again—she was going back to Australia come autumn, and I have yet to even visit that side of the world. Even though we didn’t keep in touch, I hope she knows how badly I needed that experience she gave me. Ever since that weekend, my new post-breakup motto has become, “If you can’t get over him, get under an Australian woman.” Not as catchy as the original, sure, but certainly more effective.
*Name has been changed.
