Show me the SEXY.

Imagine two hot women, naked, in a changing room. As they move, their bodies occasionally touch briefly. Got that basic image in your head? Good. Let’s see if I can sexy it up for you a bit.

One of the women is bent forward over a changing mat table that has pulled down from the wall. Ignoring all the stern pictures and directions everywhere – MAKE SURE YOUR BABY IS PROPERLY STRAPPED TO THE CHANGING AREA AT ALL TIMES – she has her arms around two toddlers who are sitting on the table. The straps are dangling over the edge.

People keep pushing open the doors, which are on both sides and unlockable.

One of the women says, ‘Two sets of families have seen my boobs.’

The other replies, ‘Everybody in this place has seen my cootch.’

As both women struggle with dressing screaming, overtired toddlers in slightly wet clothing, they are singing. Loudly. So loudly that it almost overpowers the echoing noise of the other 50 babies and toddlers who are also screaming.

So loudly that a lady leads her screaming kid outside their changing door and says, ‘Listen! Someone is singing.’ The kid stops crying, presumably left standing outside the door.

Perhaps he heard one of the women scream, ‘Help! He’s pissing! Pissing all over me!’ as she grabs for a towel (and disturbingly cannot now remember which towel, and no laundry facilities are available) and presses it over her child’s penis. She peels back the towel, starts to use the pee soaked towel to wipe off some of the pee that is rolling down her stomach and coming to rest in her pubic hair, when he begins to pee again.

Strangely, she is so cold and tired that she almost welcomes the warmth of his pee on her goosepimpled body.

Her eye catches the other sign issuing stern directions for the fiftieth time – ‘No one with infectious diseases should enter the subtropical swimming paradise!’ She flushes as she pictures the razor burned mess her inner right thigh has become. Misshapen, red, lumpy. Possibly oozing.

Nevermind, she thinks. At least her swimsuit is red and orange and probably means her thigh/bikini line is not noticeable. Her other side still has the odd merry pubic hair dancing about, but she is now afraid to take a razor to the area again.

Doesn’t matter. In this world, the world of screaming children and tiny family changing areas, razor burn doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

Everyone in this place, this swimming paradise, is human. All of the women have stretch marks and sagging tummies – not to mention their shoulders being pulled out of sockets by children yanking them in every direction. All of the men are far too pale and drawn looking.

Every now and then you hear the low hiss of a father saying to a child, ‘You calm down. Right now. Do you hear me? If you don’t calm down we are leaving.’ This is often in harmony with an unrelated mother a few feet away, grabbing her toddler and heading for the pool, her voice falsely bright. ‘We’d better just go in, darling, there’s no point in waiting for your father any longer.’

‘Passive aggressive,’ one of the women whispers to her wife.

‘Look! There’s that other lesbian couple with twins!’ the other whispers back, nodding her head furtively toward the family walking past.

This is how all ‘conversations’ work. None of them are joined on. You are in the Changing Rooms now, and you are subject to the laws of trying to speed change your 15 month old twins, as an ever growing line of impatient and harried families waits to pounce on the first door to open, staking claim.

You keep singing songs. You eye up the two soaking swim nappies on the floor and consider holding one to your crotch so you can pee, because, let’s be real here, you really have to pee. There is no time for you to worry about your bra being twisted, or about yanking on a winter hat over your soaking wet bun. It goes without saying you have not shampooed or even combed your hair.

You are at a holiday spa for toddlers, and the parents are only along to do the domestic chores. So your thigh is probably getting infected, and is more attention drawing than the original pubic hairs? Who cares. So you leaned over last night talking to two strange men while holding up a small child, only to have one of the men point out that he could see all of your breasts hanging out? Move on.

You have a goal, a primary objective. You will wipe small noses with your thumb and smear it on your sock. You will not bother to rinse off your pee soaked stomach. You will jam your soaking wet feet into socks and shoes with nary a thought for the possible athlete’s foot you are inviting.

You are a mother now. You are in the subtropical swimming paradise changing rooms. You don’t care who sees you naked, you don’t care about sitting on the ground to stop your children from sitting on the ground, you barely have a chance to notice your wife is naked before she jams her equally soaking wet body into clothes.

Your kids are all fashionable and looking gorgeous. You are wearing velour sweatpants and a sweatshirt that is ten years old. Nothing you are wearing matches. Green mittens, brown hat, black scarf, red sweatshirt.

None of this matters.

You are in the subtropical paradise swimming changing rooms. You will spend thirty minutes in the actual pool, but these changing rooms? Prepare to sign away your life, because this is it. Your new home.

People check in, they never check out.

Tags: holiday, lesbian, parenting, swimming