A standout performance in the topless comp

The fine art of going topless at the beach is surrounded by convention and etiquette, I reflected, as I lay on a lurid towel warming my fur at South Maroubra.

For weeks, my investigation of Liverpool Council had dragged me back to Maroubra, on the other side of the city, where I was keeping a merchant banker, a prominent local politician and their colourful associates under observation.

The mammaries of the human female have always held a relentless fascination for this marsupial, I suppose because lady possums carry their nipples demurely hidden in their pouches.

Yes, I mused, idly scanning the talent on the sand, there are two unforgivables in the art of toplessness: vulgarity and self-consciousness.

The genre hasn’t changed much in a quarter of a century so even rank amateurs have now mastered the basic plays. The most common is lying demurely on the back, a decent distance from the crowd. Sitting up chatting to friends is okay, but although animated conversation might make the performance more engaging, such ploys have long since failed to impress the judges.

The ritual of rubbing on the sunscreen provides some scope for individual flair but few can carry off the touching of the breasts without vulgarity, and having the boyfriend massage in the sunscreen is the pits. At least, I’ve never seen it pulled off successfully.

Standing up and walking into the water (let alone running), is edgy stuff indeed. In the first place, convention dictates that be done at least 50 metres outside the flags. Somehow it always seems tainted with self-promotion.

So it’s not often you see the bar raised by a performance that threatens to rupture the envelope, but just then right in front of me, I saw it done.

She snuck up on the audience with an innovative curtain-raiser. Young, brunette, athletic, with a short gamin cut, she trotted out of the surf with three young male surfies, well-waxed surfboard under her arm.

A few metres up the beach they stopped. The young Amazon dropped her board, ripped off her leg rope and peeled off her wetsuit.

Underneath she wore only a skimpy white bikini bottom.

Hmmm, nice opening statement. Easy, natural, original. Straight away, the judges pencilled her in for 15 points.

On the mammary scale from small-but-perfectly-formed to Rubensesque, she rated closer to the former than the latter, the perfect physique for the performance that followed.

The foursome broke into a lively and lengthy discussion of surfing technique with much fighter pilot-type handplay as they debated the finer points of left- and right-breaks. The young men behaved impeccably, their eyes never straying below her shoulders.

After five minutes the assembled judges agreed, by a process of mental telepathy, that this was an impressive performance. It was certainly worth 70 points – but how would she bring it to an end?

Suddenly, leaving the boys to their discussion, she sauntered over to her gear, crossed right in front of the crowd and picked up a couple of items of clothing. Nice work. Not a hint of self-consciousness. 75, maybe 78.

The only question now was the end-game … could she cover up elegantly, for a high 85?

But wait, a sensation! Without putting her gear on, she sauntered back through the crowd and resumed her animated conversation with the boys. Ambitious stuff. She was shooting for a ton.

It was a high-risk strategy. The seconds crawled into – was it two, three – minutes? The tension was almost unbearable. Finally, she unfurled a wrap. Another small item of clothing fell to the sand.

The audience sweated out the seconds, praying for the sort of relief you feel when an Olympic gymnast completes a heart-stopping performance on the bars, but she wasn’t going to let them out of their misery yet.

She tied the little sarong around her hips and went on animatedly discussing the finer points of pulling off the wave. There was an inaudible collective gasp. The judges pencilled her in for an average of 95. Surely, surely, the end was in sight.

The seconds stretched out like hours.

Finally, finally, she reached down to the sand, plucked up a tiny sleeveless white top, slipped effortlessly into it, picked up her board, and wandered off with the boys.

The judges agreed they’d witnessed a hot new talent, whose performance this late in the season was unlikely to be beaten. It was hard to see how it could have been better but we put her down for 99 points (because only God can be perfect).

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We've been online since 1997. Check out the archives or … powered by FreeFind © Nick Possum/ Brushtail Graphics	A standout performance in the topless comp 1 March 2004 Proper eutherian mammals, Mice and hippopotamus and camels, (So researchers have detected) Wear their boobies unprotected. Ron Strahan The fine art of going topless at the beach is surrounded by convention and etiquette, I reflected, as I lay on a lurid towel warming my fur at South Maroubra. For weeks, my investigation of Liverpool Council had dragged me back to Maroubra, on the other side of the city, where I was keeping a merchant banker, a prominent local politician and their colourful associates under observation. The mammaries of the human female have always held a relentless fascination for this marsupial, I suppose because lady possums carry their nipples demurely hidden in their pouches. Yes, I mused, idly scanning the talent on the sand, there are two unforgivables in the art of toplessness: vulgarity and self-consciousness. The genre hasn’t changed much in a quarter of a century so even rank amateurs have now mastered the basic plays. The most common is lying demurely on the back, a decent distance from the crowd. Sitting up chatting to friends is okay, but although animated conversation might make the performance more engaging, such ploys have long since failed to impress the judges. The ritual of rubbing on the sunscreen provides some scope for individual flair but few can carry off the touching of the breasts without vulgarity, and having the boyfriend massage in the sunscreen is the pits. At least, I’ve never seen it pulled off successfully. Standing up and walking into the water (let alone running), is edgy stuff indeed. In the first place, convention dictates that be done at least 50 metres outside the flags. Somehow it always seems tainted with self-promotion. So it’s not often you see the bar raised by a performance that threatens to rupture the envelope, but just then right in front of me, I saw it done. She snuck up on the audience with an innovative curtain-raiser. Young, brunette, athletic, with a short gamin cut, she trotted out of the surf with three young male surfies, well-waxed surfboard under her arm. A few metres up the beach they stopped. The young Amazon dropped her board, ripped off her leg rope and peeled off her wetsuit. Underneath she wore only a skimpy white bikini bottom. Hmmm, nice opening statement. Easy, natural, original. Straight away, the judges pencilled her in for 15 points. On the mammary scale from small-but-perfectly-formed to Rubensesque, she rated closer to the former than the latter, the perfect physique for the performance that followed. The foursome broke into a lively and lengthy discussion of surfing technique with much fighter pilot-type handplay as they debated the finer points of left- and right-breaks. The young men behaved impeccably, their eyes never straying below her shoulders. After five minutes the assembled judges agreed, by a process of mental telepathy, that this was an impressive performance. It was certainly worth 70 points – but how would she bring it to an end? Suddenly, leaving the boys to their discussion, she sauntered over to her gear, crossed right in front of the crowd and picked up a couple of items of clothing. Nice work. Not a hint of self-consciousness. 75, maybe 78. The only question now was the end-game … could she cover up elegantly, for a high 85? But wait, a sensation! Without putting her gear on, she sauntered back through the crowd and resumed her animated conversation with the boys. Ambitious stuff. She was shooting for a ton. It was a high-risk strategy. The seconds crawled into – was it two, three – minutes? The tension was almost unbearable. Finally, she unfurled a wrap. Another small item of clothing fell to the sand. The audience sweated out the seconds, praying for the sort of relief you feel when an Olympic gymnast completes a heart-stopping performance on the bars, but she wasn’t going to let them out of their misery yet. She tied the little sarong around her hips and went on animatedly discussing the finer points of pulling off the wave. There was an inaudible collective gasp. The judges pencilled her in for an average of 95. Surely, surely, the end was in sight. The seconds stretched out like hours. Finally, finally, she reached down to the sand, plucked up a tiny sleeveless white top, slipped effortlessly into it, picked up her board, and wandered off with the boys. The judges agreed they’d witnessed a hot new talent, whose performance this late in the season was unlikely to be beaten. It was hard to see how it could have been better but we put her down for 99 points (because only God can be perfect).