Short story: Naturism
Nude at Ninety
MPH or IQ? You decide!
South Carolina is reasonably close to Heaven, I think. The climate is great, the rivers and islands beautiful, the whole place is full of history, the food and drink top notch.
At that moment — and this was a good many years ago, mind — there was no other place in the world I wanted to be. I was sitting on my beach towel, eyes fixed on the sun-kissed Atlantic where a sailboat was navigating through the sparkling waves about a mile offshore.
I had a big floppy hat on to guard my peaches and cream complexion and that was it. No maillot, no bikini, no thong. Just sunscreen oil well and truly rubbed in everywhere.
I was aiming for a deep and uniform all-over tan. When I finished my leave, I’d be returning to my regiment. In the female showers there were no doors and no secrets. Being bold and brave held a certain currency and I figured that I’d be one up on those who were sporting pale white bikini badges of coyness.
At least until the tan faded. We all got paler and paler until in January we were in our winter skins, white and pink and just about glowing in the dark.
Apart from those naturally endowed with deep rich tans. Some of the girls were golden honey, some were mahogany, and some were ebony. I wouldn’t want to be born a person of color, at least not in the USA, but that didn’t stop me from admiring the effect.
I’d be the color of dough and they’d be baked goods, looking delicious and yummy with highlights of plum or cherry here and there.
Ah, I’m talking aesthetics and artistry now. I prefer men when it comes right down to it.
With my bare Hans
Hans, for example. Lying stretched out beside me on a matching towel, he was a feast for my senses. German, and a naturist since birth, he had that deep brown tan that was burned in. Just the eyesockets to show his true colors because he never took his aviator shades off when he was in the sun.
The rest of him was all natural, au naturel as they say in France where he had spent his teenage vacations in what — at least in his words — had been summers even more divine than anything Charleston had to offer.
Some of his stories were a bit hard to swallow. A different chick night after night, day upon day. I wondered about just how far his roving eye extended but for the moment he was mine, all mine, every bronzed inch of him.
And, again, I wondered about that last inch. Just when and where did that get to see the sun? Certainly not when Oma Lehren, all of seventy and an outrageous flirt, visited everyone on the beach, trying to get a rise out of the men.
The Dear knows that I didn’t stand in such a way when talking to nude men lying on the sand. But Oma did. And she put her shoulders back and her hands on her hips like she owned the place.
Well, she did, to be honest.
Private Parties
South Carolina, buckle of the Bible Belt, is very sparsely sprinkled with free beaches. There are one or two sites on Folly Beach I’ve enjoyed but naturism there is tolerated rather than permitted and besides, there are always fisherfolk and beach walkers and young men who say they are birdwatchers but they hold their jiggling binos one-handedly.
If the naturist community grows too large or visible, there are complaints and official action is taken.
Parking and crowding can be a problem on a fine day. Yet on a gray, stark morning when the wind is blowing sand into everything and we have the beach to ourselves, who wants to shiver into the cold water?
Oma made her private beach available on an unofficial basis. No crowds, no lewd behavior, no drunkenness, no camping. There were rumors that occasionally a gentleman of a certain age might be invited to stay overnight but that didn’t apply to me and I knew Hans’ gaze didn’t wander far from late teens and early twenties.
Once gravity began to kick in, women became invisible to him.
I was still, at that stage, something his Raybans rested on. Next summer, who knew? He’d likely be in Bali or Brazil.
But, as I say, for the moment he was mine.
We sprayed lotion onto each other's backs and rubbed it in with appreciative hands.
And, to be frank, if nobody was looking we might rub in a bit of solar protection into other areas.
“Everywhere, Molly,” he would say, “and I mean everywhere.
tous les globes et les fissures.”
I knew what he meant. My first day on a free beach I hadn’t wanted to be seen rubbing lotion into anything pink, and when it was time to go home the pink parts were bright red and I could not walk straight for three days. The next time I was more enthusiastic about total coverage and I didn’t care who was watching; I wasn’t going through that again!
So, sometimes we gave each other a helping hand and this paid off later when we left the beach and showered away the sand and the sunscreen.
Getting wet
Hans was well-built. Kind of natural and soft on the edges though. Not like some of the guys back on the base who spent their spare time in gym and loved nothing more than getting their shirts off and playing a game of something where we could see their six-packs, maybe get all hot and sweaty down below.
Which, to be fair, was always on the cards.
With Hans, it was windsurfing. Not to the point of obsession. Just enough to get out on the water, haul that sail bar thing around, get a few good runs in and then whip back to his adoring girlfriend who would help lift the board out of the water, down a couple beers at a student bar where he could eye off the competition, and then back home for some fun and games.
I had another week before I had to head back to barracks. Probably never see him again but for now I could see as much of him as I wanted. He was good to look at.
Chest rising and falling gently, hard little nubbins of nipples, golden hairs rippling in the wind, a highway of body hair running down south where it thickened up and got darker and Oma’s gaze would linger to see if she could stir him up.
Not just Oma, to be honest.
He was cute, lying relaxed, half-curled, just taking in the sun, not a care in the world.
As I watched, he stirred. Just a tiny bit. Moved by the wind, maybe.
No, there was more. This was the real thing. It was happening.
I looked at his face. Couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he was awake and admiring me admiring him.
“Hey, Molly, feel like a dip? I better get into the water before Oma throws me out for lewd behavior.”
Now, there was a challenge. I pulled my legs under me and pushed up in one swift motion. I stepped over him, planted one foot either side, bent right down and hauled him to his feet. Pausing just long enough at just the right moments to make sure I had an effect. One that Oma could never get.
I leaned in for a kiss but he groaned and broke away for the water, flopping from side to side, splashing through the shallow foam on the sand and then plunging into a wave, the white water coming up to his hips.
He gasped at the shock and turned to watch me running after him, body bouncing as I lifted each foot out of the ankle-deep water surging up the beach.
I judged my timing perfectly, lunging forward and tackling him square in the hips as another wave crashed in behind. We tumbled in a tangle of limbs and water and sand, coming up for breath together.
I grabbed his hand and led him deeper where we could stand shoulder-deep, bobbing up with each wave.
He let me kiss him then, holding me close while we licked the salt off each other's lips.
I reached down to hold him but the moment had passed, washed away by the cold Atlantic.
“Hey, you should see what happens in the Baltic,” he said. “Even in summer the water is winter. The men go in as men and come out as little boys.”
“It doesn’t work that way with women,” I said, showing him two hard little points.
“Huh,” he said, “I have two just like that.”
Shit gets real
Something lithe and leathery pushed past us in the water and then blew hard, whoosh!
Oma, treading water and regarding us with a smile.
“Starkmann, Heergirl. I need you.”
“Was ist los, Oma?”
She pointed. “See, up on the hill.”
I followed her finger. The private beach was more of a cove, a semicircle of higher ground — some ancient rib of land or a fossilized dune — sealing us off from the general public and their prudery. Up on the ridge line I could see two figures, silhouetted against the sky. No points for fieldcraft. They should have been lying down on the reverse slope, taking advantage of concealment and cover amongst the undergrowth.
As I watched, there was a glint of light, the sun reflecting off a shiny surface.
“Two boys. I heard their motorbike a few minutes ago. I am going to go up and tell them their business, and I would like you two to come with me, in case a little old Oma in her birthday suit is not enough.”
I adored Oma. She was not going alone. Besides, I was a trained killer. A couple of lanky teenagers would be no problem for Hans and I.
“Got your back, Oma,” I said. “Lead on!”
“Führe uns, Oma!” Hans echoed.
Oma led us. Out of the waves, up the beach, and along a sandy path that climbed the hill. Once at the top, the path divided, winding left or right under the scrubby windbent trees along the height. She turned left and we padded along behind.
There they were. Sitting on the ridge, one with a set of binoculars, one with a small astronomical telescope. Oma came up behind them, unseen with their attention focused below, and clapped her hands.
Oh Lord, how they jumped!
Brothers, by the look of them, one with a wispy moustache. They turned in unison, jaws dropping as they came face to face with Oma’s belly.
“Up here, boys,” she growled and they looked up higher, probably wishing they hadn’t.
“This is my private property,” she said. “And you are trespassing.”
They regarded her without a word. A senior citizen standing with her feet firmly planted and her hands on hips.
Behind her I stood, feeling intensely uncomfortable but trying to stand as soldierly and erect as I could, as if I were on the verge of throwing them and their telescope down the hill.
Beside me, I quickly glanced, veteran naturist Hans was looking a lot more confident, able, and determined than I felt and Oma showed. He not only looked like he could pick them both up and walk off with them, he appeared as if he was excited to do that and a lot more.
Hans was actually the most gentle and considerate of lovers but judging by the way their eyes widened and their jaws hung slack, they weren’t picking up that exact vibe.
“Now,” Oma continued, raising one finger. “I will give you a choice. If you are still here in ten minutes, I will call the police and have you escorted off my property and charged with trespass. Understand?”
They nodded. The older boy stammered something that may have amounted to “Yes Ma’am.”
“Or,” she lifted a second finger. “You can come down and join us on the beach, remove your clothing like everybody else, and have fun, swimming, sunbaking, making sandcastles if that’s what you want. I’ll assign these two to make sure you don’t get into trouble. Consider your options carefully.”
She tapped her watch — yes, she had a watch along with a half dozen rings and bracelets; she was very well dressed for the cove — then turned and walked off down the track. I followed her, feeling their eyes on my body.
Hans caught their gaze. “Denken Sie Schnell!” he snapped, doing the ‘I’ve got my eyes on you’ gesture before stalking off after us.
Trouble
I paused a moment before descending the slope. From the ridge the view was even more extensive. With a good set of binoculars nothing was hidden. But the problem here was as Oma had presented it. You were watching people enjoying themselves doing beach things and taking a swim in the ocean to cool off, while you were up here in the sun getting sweaty and thirsty.
Oma’s establishment may not have run to an ice-cream stand on the beach but at least she had put in running water, a beach shower to wash off the sand and a couple of sheltered picnic tables where her guests could sit and enjoy whatever snacks they had brought, or just socialize.
From my point of view, a no-brainer.
I used the shower to rinse off the salt and the sand. My hair might have been military short but that didn’t mean I wanted to look like a rescued castaway when I returned to the regiment.
Hans didn’t bother. He wanted more time in the water.
I scowled. I was going to have to reapply my sunscreen all by myself.
Which I did, once back on my towel. Oma gave me a hand with my back, and I did everywhere else. If those kids on the ridge were still looking they could get their thrills with a back view of me anointing my best bits. No way was I risking sunburn again.
“Thank you, Molly,” Oma said, when I offered to do her. “No, my skin doesn’t need any help.”
She was right. Dozens of summers had given her a color and texture that among naturists was as much a badge of rank and experience as any stripes or service ribbons in the Army.
“Do you think those boys will take up your offer?”
“Huh. They haven’t got the balls, I’ll bet. No, they’ll run away. And if they don’t the Sheriff doesn’t mind coming out and taking a look. He’s a real sweetie.”
She glanced up at the ridge. “Hey.”
I looked up as well. One of the boys was waving his arms in the air. “Help!” I heard him call. “Snake!”
“Oh no.” South Carolina might be close to Heaven but we still had a few of Satan’s spawn here. Alligators, cottonmouths, the occasional rattler.
I was sprinting up the path again, acutely conscious of my bare feet and ankles.
The two boys were still where we had left them. The younger one came running. “My brother’s been bit. Rattlesnake.”
Shit shit shit.
“Where’s the snake?”
“Gone. I saw it. Big rattler for sure. It was under the bike.”
His brother was sitting by a motorbike that must have been hidden in the brush. It was now upright, on its stand.
“Where’d he get you?” Oma, coming up behind me. “Sometimes they give a dry bite, just to scare.”
The older boy held up his hand. It was already looking puffy. Two sets of fang marks, oozing blood. He was shivering.
This wasn’t good.
“He needs hospital, quick,” Oma said. “Takes forever to get an ambulance out here.”
“Can you ride that bike?” I asked. The older boy nodded.
“Not you, idiot.”
“I can, slow,” his brother said “Never with a passenger.”
I’d have to do it. “Quick. Get your helmet on.”
I looked at the older one. “You, don’t move that arm, not one little bit.”
I fumbled with the other helmet, got it on him.
“Oma, hold the bike steady. You, kid, get on. What’s your name?”
“Bob.”
“Bob, your job is to hold your brother on, no matter what. You’ll need to wrap your arms around him and me and hang on real tight. Now you…”
I looked at the older boy. “Jim.”
“Jim, you get on next. This hand goes in your shirt and stays there. Other arm goes around my waist and hang on as long as you can.”
No funny business, I almost said, but he looked in no shape for that.
We helped him on. I looked at the tiny sliver of seat that was left for my bottom. I’d seen photographs of whole families riding motorcycles in India.
“Spread your legs and move back, both of you.”
I got on, settled my hands on the grips. Oma moved Jim’s hand around my waist, and Bob could just link his hands around us both.
I looked over my shoulder. “Don’t. Let. Go.”
Wild Ride
All I can say is, don’t try this at home. No, seriously, don’t. It’s dangerous and illegal and coming off a motorbike at high speed is a good way to ruin your life. Or lose it.
If you want to know if I survived or not, just skip through to the end of the story, but for now, I knew that if I crashed, my favorite motorcycle leathers wouldn’t save me. They were in a bag on the back of my Harley sitting in Oma’s tiny carpark.
All I had was my bare skin and that would shred away down to the bone the instant it touched the road surface.
Plus, no helmet. Probably the least of my worries. What was inside my skull wasn’t smart enough to think this one through.
Then again, it was a no-brainer. This kid needed help fast. What would Jesus do? Jump on the bike — an old Honda with some guts to it — and give it his all.
Off we went, Oma yelling something about calling MUSC to let them know we were on the way.
I went straight down the path onto the road. There was a break in Oma’s fence there, possibly caused by a couple of kids on a Honda. If I’d gone the other way, through the carpark and out along Oma’s driveway, I might have been tempted to swap over to my bike, maybe put my leathers on over my nakedness, and things would have worked out different.
But I didn’t. This kid needed hospital fast. Typically it would take about 45 minutes to get to the center of Charleston from here, but I figured, all going well, I could halve that.
The bike handled okay on the sandy surface. Tires a bit soft, I thought. Good for now, not so great on the highway.
“Hang on, boys!” I shouted as I turned onto the beach road and opened up the throttle. A steady, throaty roar. From the bike, I mean.
The first five minutes were the slowest. The road — more of a street, really — was one lane each way, houses in the sandy dunes each side, streets and intersections and pedestrian crossings.
Long straight road, not a bend for miles, but I had to be careful. A man with a dog trotting out from the trees straight onto a pedestrian crossing. I slammed on the brakes, leaving rubber on the road and the bastard stopped dead in front of me, doubtless to waggle his stupid finger at me for riding fast and loud on a residential street.
He did a beautiful double-take as he realized that not only did the bike have three riders, but one of them, almost in his face, had no clothes on.
“Move it, you moron!” I yelled at him. He didn’t and I carefully steered past him, stealing a moment to give him the finger.
Noises from behind. Jim, sobbing. “It hurts, Miss,” he said.
“Stay with me, Jim,” I said. “Hold on tight.”
He readjusted his grip as I took off again fast, and I almost lost them. If it wasn’t for Bob and his fingers interlocked around my belly button, they would have gone head over heels off the back.
Jim’s hand scrabbled along my front as we accelerated and his fingers — and fingernails — found a protruding part of me that I preferred to be stroked and squeezed gentle.
Now it was me sobbing. Goddamn but that was going to leave some bruises. Explain that, Molly.
No time to worry. I said a little prayer to Jesus, asking Him to keep everyone safe, including that idiot bicycle rider wobbling along without a care in the world, at least until we blew past him going sixty.
A couple of turns and more pedestrians. Had to slow. Whistles, someone tooting on their horn in a whimsical fashion at what must have looked like a sex romp on a motorbike, and then we were accelerating again on the highway now, climbing the slope of the bridge to the mainland.
I really opened it up now. Only one marked lane each way but there was plenty of room for bike and pedestrian lanes on each side. If someone was blocking me, I had plenty of room to zip past them, hitting 80 up the slope.
Poor old bike probably hadn't had this much excitement for years. The engine coughed for a moment and my heart jumped into my mouth. I looked down at the gas gauge. Low, but enough to get to Charleston. Or maybe not, the speed I was aiming at. Oh well, we’d burn that bridge when we came to it.
If we conked out, I’d have to flag someone down. Probably not too hard to get a ride out here if I stuck out my thumb. Or anything else.
Not just the engine coughing. Something flew into my mouth and I tried to spit it out before choking it down. Hope it wasn’t something that stung.
Another insect, something with a hard shell, hit my ribs like a bullet. Jim’s good hand was latched firmly onto my breast. His hand was shaking, whether from the vibration of the bike or some sort of reaction to the snakebite, I had no way of knowing. Whatever it was, it was giving me no joy. I told myself if he had a better grip, then it was all to the good.
And a little lower down, Bob’s fingernails had found my belly button and he was digging in for sheer terror. The phrase ‘navel destroyer’ flashed through my mind and I almost laughed as we crested the top of the bridge and the mainland opened up before us, flat to the horizon.
Then again, I thought, there were far worse places for him to dig his nails into.
Focus, Molly. I thanked Jesus for keeping us safe. We hit ninety, maybe ninety-five on the downward run. That was as good as it got. This bike had no more. My Harley would have been howling for three digits on the speedo and it would have been solid as a rock.
The road stretched on, straight as a die. We had a painted median strip now, and I used that a few times to whip past traffic. Horns blared in my wake. Screw them.
I kept my eyes open, thanking the Dear Lord for my sunnies. If they blew off we’d be screwed. And if there was anyone coming the other way up the median strip, the undertakers would be scraping body parts off the road.
Houses and strip development began appearing. Traffic lights as well. The first set was green but the next wasn’t. I slowed to what seemed like a crawl, took the ‘Honda Highway’ between the two lanes, poked my nose out at the line and gunned us across on the red through a break in traffic.
More horns. Some solid blasts of anger, some tootling in appreciation.
That got me some clear space ahead but upped the pressure on my stomach. “Halfway there, boys,” I said. “You’re doing well.”
Home stretch
We were aimed squarely at Charleston now. For the next few miles, before I got on the freeway, I was going to have to deal with traffic and traffic lights. That meant slowing down.
In a way, this was good. It wasn’t just Jim who was shivering now. Without clothing, the air whipping past my body was stripping away my body heat. It was a warm and sunny day, sure. I was cold.
Maybe I’d be just a block of ice by the time I got to the ER. Maybe I wouldn’t even get that far.
Another thing praying on my mind was the thought that Jesus might be urging me to give my all for Jim but the Highway Code of South Carolina had a different view on unclad overloaded high-speed motorcycle riding and I was pretty sure I’d seen a police cruiser a few minutes back.
Also, now that I was travelling slower and more people were getting a look at me — yeah, buddy, what else did you get for Christmas besides a horn that plays a tune? — the local 911 system might be increasingly aware of my activities.
Getting pulled over by the cops might mean that Jim would get a police ride to the hospital, with flashing lights and sirens, but there would be an inevitable delay while I tried to explain the situation to people whose idea of a solution to most problems was to empty their pistol into it and call for backup.
Nothing much I could do about it for the moment but press on. Every minute that passed got me at least a mile closer to Charleston and the ER.
I slowed for a red light up ahead, threading my way between two lines of cars. Suddenly there was something warm and wet on my shoulder and a cry of horror from Bob, still gallantly holding his brother safe by digging his claws into my tummy.
I looked back. Apart from a glimpse of a vignette in the car beside me, where a whole family was displaying identical expressions of outrage and dismay, I saw that Jim was industriously unloading his breakfast onto me, his brother, the highway, and at least a little bit onto the traffic we were passing.
Not good. Jim was definitely having some sort of a reaction. I wished I’d gotten a sight of the snake; this sounded more like a copperhead bite than a rattler.
The light turned green and I put the power on. Jim’s death grip on my breast was losing intensity which was good in one way but it might mean that I was losing him as well.
“Hang on, boys!” I shouted back. “Only a few more minutes!”
I pushed the speed up as much as I dared. Seventy, eighty… Good thing about a motorbike is that it has enough acceleration to exploit breaks in traffic. Away from the lights and I was out ahead of the cars.
Uh-oh. In the mirror there was a flash of pulsing blue and red lights. I could outrun a cruiser in this traffic but once they got a patrolman on one of those high-end cop bikes, I was screwed.
Another intersection — green light, thank you Jesus — and we were on the freeway. Four lanes over the big bridge and we would be in downtown Charleston. I gave the bike the boot as the road opened up. Where there was traffic, I could ease over onto the shoulder and gun past the cars and trucks.
Dear Lord, but I was cold. Jim made some gargling sounds into my ear but whatever was coming out of his mouth was torn away by the wind.
There was the bridge up ahead. Rising into the sky like God’s own heavenly on-ramp. I could make eighty up the slope, ninety down the far side.
And a helicopter above it, moving my way.
I had no choice. Charleston and medical help was on the far side of the river.
The bike slowed as we climbed the slope of the bridge. Eighty, down to seventy-five, down to seventy. There were two cruisers hot on my tail, lights and sirens adding to my stress.
Nothing much they could do, short of ramming me. Traffic ahead scattered, giving me a clear run.
We crested the slope. Ahead was Charleston, I could even pick out the hospital buildings. Just a few more minutes…
And at the far end of the bridge, a line of flashing blue and red lights.
Jim’s hand fell off my breast. Sweet Jesus, was this the end?
Asleep, unconscious, dead?
Whatever, the cops ahead sure didn’t have the right medical supplies aboard. If I could find a gap, I’d take it. I was Jim’s quickest way to the ER.
I piled on the speed down the slope, Up to ninety again, maybe more but I was focused on working out what sort of barrier lay ahead. On each side a police cruiser was keeping pace, the cops inside making ‘slow down’ hand signals.
Morons. If I hadn’t stopped when they turned their flashers on, what made them think I’d do it now?
End of the line
I could see the problem now. Three police cars lined up nose to tail, blocking off all the lanes. Traffic piling up short of the barrier. This was the end of the ride.
I slowed, pulling to the right, pulling to the breakdown lane, passing behind the cop car on that side.
Hah! There was a gap. Ahead of me, the breakdown lane lay open, five cops filling it, each with a pistol aimed at me.
I gunned the bike and aimed for them. A hundred miles an hour, they had no chance.
Nor did I if I hit them.
I figured they’d run and they wouldn't shoot. If the cruisers escorting me weren’t doing anything aggressive, why would these guys?
I figured right.
Mostly.
I aimed my sights on the guy in the middle. If he didn’t move, he was toast.
He moved. So did the cops on either side. I missed the flurry of scrambling limbs by inches and we were through. Woot!
I heard the shots above the motorcycle’s roar as I sped away. One cop was shooting at us!
A second later there were more shots.
Not that any came close. We were out of effective range within a second.
In the rear view I could see one cop car peel out, and then another. At this speed, they wouldn’t catch us. We had two miles to go and that was a minute and a half.
Of course, it took longer. Once I was around the curve, I took the first off ramp onto surface streets and slowed down. This was my home territory now. I knew every street and every lane.
How much longer I could even stay on the bike was questionable. Bob still had a grip of steel on my navel but his brother Jim was flopping from side to side with every turn. I was essentially ice with chattering teeth and the Honda was making some rattling, whining noise that sounded expensive.
We saw one cruiser pull in a block behind us but I ducked down a lane and lost him in MUSC’s sprawling campus.
Twenty seconds later we came to a halt in the ER portico. We certainly attracted attention from the security guard, who came bounding over.
“Lady, cover yourself!”
That did it. “You fucking idiot! I didn’t drive like a maniac to get here to be told to put some clothes on. I’ve got a child here, bitten by a rattlesnake. He needs help. Right fucking now!”
Bob, to his credit, had unclenched his fingers from my midriff, handed over his unconscious brother to the security guy and run inside, yelling for help.
I stiffly got off the Honda and turned to look at Jim, now being supported by the security goon. His eyes were closed, he was limp. But still breathing; he gagged on something and spluttered.
Two orderlies came sprinting out with a gurney, picked him up, laid him down and ran off. In one fluid motion.
Mission accomplished.
I looked at the guy. “You, um, Ted. Find me some clothes and some heat.”
And he did.
When the cops came roaring up, Jim was being pumped full of anti-snakebite magic, Bob was being comforted by a large woman from the welfare department, and I was wrapped up in whatever coats and blankets could be hustled up in the security office in the basement telling Jesus that I was grateful for his help in saving a life and avoiding the law.
And, do you know, the two boys turned up at Oma’s cove with their mother in tow a couple of weeks later, took off their clothes and enjoyed the beach and Oma’s chocolate cookies.
By that time, I was back with my regiment, Hans was off chasing Brazilians, and Ted, well Ted is a whole ‘nother story.
Notes:
This is a spin-off from my NaNoWriMo novel.
I was asked to write an adventure story about naturism. This is the result and I had a bit of fun with it.
I may have changed a little geography around here and there. South Carolina isn’t big on naturism and I’d hate to give away too many secrets. Oma, of course, no longer runs her unofficial nudist beach but I am sure she is looking admiringly down on happy sunbathers enjoying their freedom.
Naturism isn’t about sex. When everyone is wearing what God gave them, it’s not really something that comes up. To be honest, a cheeky little swimsuit is far more erotic.
Two people alone in the nude, that’s sexy. A hundred with no clothes, in all shapes and sizes, that’s just a bunch of people. Half have one set of bits, the other half have a different set. They are all much the same and the novelty vanishes.
Body positivity and acceptance is the big bonus. Nobody is perfect. The millionaire without his carefully-tailored suit is a chubby guy past his prime. Nobody is a supermodel. Even those that are are just regular people without their makeup and lighting and photography crews.
Nobody criticises, at least not body shapes. It’s the difference between being anonymous on the internet and being your true self. There is an honesty and authenticity that is missing at a regular gathering with everyone hiding behind clothing that sends messages of status or attitude.
There’s a sense of community. For me, it’s like being in church or the army without the bullshit. People walking the same road together, supporting each other, not having to worry about what to wear because everyone is in the same uniform. Stress and tension just drains away. Every naturist I know looks forward to their weekends at the free beach or their weeks at a clothing-optional resort.
Try it. You’ll like it.
Molly
