I had no idea how much I would suffer, in just a few short minutes, by looking at her beautiful honey-colored cleavage. Whenever I went to the salon to tan (once a week, almost every week), I always felt a little awkward. I like being naked in a semi-public place. It gives me a rush. Might the lock not work? What if one of the beautiful, young women who frequented the university tanning booth was to burst in on me accidentally? But something mischievous always seemed to be going on behind the blond woman at the counter’s brown eyes, a sort of knowing in her professional smile that made it both genuine and a little frightening, as though she could see through me and knew exactly how much I looked forward to the weekly interaction at the counter. I’d walk in, give my name, while she’d sit behind the counter, looking at the computer. I was looking forward to being naked in the warm, clean, brightly lit coffin. She always remembered my name. There was something intimate and playfu...

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