Baltimore-based fiction writer James Magruder remembers his life-changing summer of the (off-brand) Speedo.
Greetings from Corsica, a starkly beautiful Mediterranean island where young bucks fry their junk on nude beaches and old beppos who look as if they’ve swallowed basketballs are still rocking their Speedos — stretched across their tiny teabag heinies — well into their seventh and eighth decades.
I have never sunbathed naked. That would require extra inches and SPF 240, not to mention different parents, but I did wear a Speedo. Once.