Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt!

"Becky, is that her? You weren't kidding."

Her jogging partner nodded, looking at the woman walking up the beach. Becky and her friend sat on the back deck of Becky's sports-utility vehicle under the raised back hatch. They were changing back out of their scuffed white running shoes into low-heeled designer sandals, thirsting for a post-exercise drink. Just one, very light, one vodka tonic and one vodka mule. Or maybe a wine spritzer in season.

Along the beach, a dark-haired, generously-curved woman walked steadily along the edge of the sea where the tongues of the low-breaking waves licked the sand smooth and wet. She a red and black plaid flannel jacket that was a little small on her, a pair of wide, closed-toe sandals, and brown canvas shorts over golden-skinned lower legs with a sprinkling of dark hair. The hair on her head was curly on top and buzzed short to an inch above her ears.

"I wish I could just be a granola dyke like her. I mean, she can wear what she wants and eat what she wants and never shave her legs and nobody cares. Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt!"

Her shorts sagged a little in back, exposing two or three fingers-width of bare golden skin and butt crack.

The two jogging partners nodded disapprovingly at each other, and went on to comparing their devotional regimens, each eagerly describing what new sacrifice she'd made for ideal beauty and form, or what new diet or supplement held the most promise.

Becky looked up to see that another person had joined the scene. An even fatter woman, this one with a wild mop of silver hair, barefoot and wearing a semi-transparent, boldly printed dress that clung to her buttocks and thighs in the sea breeze, was embracing the plaid-jacketed granola dyke from behind.

Becky's friend followed her gaze. "Sugar momma, huh? Omigod she isn't. She is. Right here by the parking lot."

The older woman was grabbing fistfuls of the younger woman's titties and kneading them. The younger woman tilted her head back, leaning a little into her partner, looking like she appreciated the attention.

"Matching rings," Becky said. "I think they're married. That's some lesbian cradle robbing. Ran off with her women's studies professor, maybe. Or 'Mom' decided to come out after she was a rich widow. Thirty and sixty, you think?"

Loose gravel crunched on the parking lot.

"What a hunk, Becky!" She pointed her friend to the new arrival. A well-built blond man with a light tan, showing a little development in his shoulders and his bare lower legs, walked past the two jogging partners. He gave them a nod and a little flicker of a smile, then kept walking.

"Dreamy," Becky's friend said. "I wouldn't mind waking up to that face."

"Or that dick," Becky murmured. She watched the swing in the front of the man's shorts as he sauntered by. "You think...?"

But Becky didn't complete her sentence.

"Hey you two!" the man called to the women in the middle of their public tit-mauling scene. "Get a room! Geeze!"

They broke their embrace, turned and laughed at the man. "Please!" the older woman said. "Lead on." She offered a hand.

The three of them walked by Becky and her friend, hand in hand in hand.

"He's getting hard for those fat hippie dykes. Hippo dykes," Becky murmured glumly. "He barely looked at us."

"And did you see, Becky?" her friend said. "He's got the same ring. Now I've seen everything. Oh my God."

Becky shrugged. "I give up," she said. "My turn to buy the drinks."