Hotter Nights (and Days)

The surprising secrets to better sex—and a happier relationship.

Prt 1-f: Mental Illness & Hypersexuality

Is bipolar disorder always a prelude for sex or just a bad mix for a first date?

Nick and I are on this startling ribbon of beach a la Brooke Shields 'Blue Lagoon'.. Nick starts taking off his blue shirt. He's up for a swim already. Great! Me too! We are using our weekend passes from the psych ward to have a steamy rendezvous. We are not staff from the psych ward, but are both patients.

I peel off my tank top. Under it, I'm wearing a one piece suit. I couldn't find my bikini. I explain to Nick - justifying the mass of material. In reality I am thankful.

No matter how much you want to seduce someone, first dates and bikinis never, NEVER go together. Not with me at least. I've never been comfortable with my middle, my tummy - even at my lightest I've always had a pooch - that indestructible belly bulge that won't go no matter how many or what variations of crunches you do. And on anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers, I am definitely not at my lightest. So: I play it safe - I wear a one piece. But one frickin' SEXY one piece. High cut, low back, lower front - LOTS of cleavage. Not even remotely functional for swimming. But who said anything about swimming?

I'm unbuckling my sandals, kick them off and I look up to see Nick. I discover, he too is taking off his clothes. But he's taking off ALL OF HIS CLOTHES! Not to his swim trunks or down to his scivvies, but to nothing.

He's standing there, hands on hips, bare-assed to me, inhaling deeply, looking out, over the water.

Now even though I am hypo-manic, meaning just below the threshold of euphorically manic and potentially psychotic. And it is true that I am also flamboyantly hypersexual, this - Naked Nick - I didn't count on. Not so quickly anyway. I expected sort of a build up to our naked-tude.

Even though I've been lusting after Nick since I saw his name in black felt on the hospital white board...I am dumbfounded.

I pretend to struggle with the buttons on my shorts, telling myself that ‘Nick's just in...fabric transition. Yeah, you know...he's just changed OUT of his beach wear and is about to climb INTO his swim wear. Yeah. That's what's happening. He doesn't know I am looking at him. It's all just a big awkward wardrobe mistake a la Janet Jackson.'

I look up again, holding my breath, hoping I've given him enough time to don his swim trunks.

He WILL BE wearing his swim trunks. And...nope. It's worse. He's now turned around, FACING me, smiling - buck naked, with all of God's gifts staring right back at me.

"Well," he smirks, "didn't I say it would get better?" and he winks. Oh God. I feel faint.

"Huh?" I stammer and look away as if I might go blind if I look at it, I mean, him, HIM, too long. Before I can say anything...

He levels a look at me: "What are doing in your BATHING SUIT?"

My brain doesn't understand the question. I am thinking, shouldn't the question really be: ‘Why aren't you wearing yours?'

"This is the ‘better' part..." and he motions with both arms, fanning them out, for me to take it all in...the beach, the beach, that is. He continues: "It's not technically, legally speaking, a nude beach, but everyone..."

(WAIT: Did he say other people are coming here?!)

"...but everyone who comes here, well there's just an unspoken agreement that it's a nude beach."

Yeah -no shit Sherlock, it's an unspoken agreement alright - no one spoke to me about it. Crimminy!

But I'm trying to look... you know, cool; the sexy rebel he stole away with from the hospital not the mortified prude I actually am.

Somehow I manage to cock my head (sorry, bad word choice, anyway), toss back my hair and say:

"Oh, no, this suit..." and laugh but it comes out wheezy, hiccupy kind of laugh, "...this thing, no, no... I just wore this in case we went to a normal place. I mean a regular beach. Well know what I mean..."

And then before I know it, my inner vixen, my inner drunken hypo-manic, vixen takes over. With my thumb, I lift up the right strap of my suit, hold it there in mid air, pause, give Nick a come-hither-to kind of glance and try to let it delicately fall off my shoulder. But because I stretched the strap too high and for too long, a sling shot effect takes place instead. It doesn't gently fall as I had hoped it would, but instead it forcefully snaps back, stinging my skin and out of my mouth comes not a sexy moan, but more of a yelp and curse word.

To be read part two, click here

 © Victoria Maxwell

Hotter Nights (and Days)