The Naked Nudist
It had been years since I stepped inside a gym. I was now the proud owner of a gym membership thanks to my big mouth declaring my New Year’s resolution of shedding twenty pounds.
I lifted a little weight on day one, gyrated around on some electronic monkey bars and road on a bicycle that went nowhere. After this incredible display of athleticism, I wandered into the locker room to cool down and shower. As I sat there on the bench, proud and sweaty, I became surrounded by fellow gym members in various states of disrobing. It was an awkward moment because I don't know how to act in front of naked people besides my wife. I know it was just a bunch of guys, but I don't want to be caught looking at something that I shouldn't be looking at, whether it's shyness, shame, or guilt. Who knows why, sounds like something for Dr. Phil to dissect. I can't speak for other people, but situations involving nudity outside the bedroom or doctor's office have been an uncomfortable experience.
My first recollections of nudity were at the age of six at the neighborhood swim center. The old men in the locker room would yank their britches down and shed their clothes with no hesitation. My brothers and I would laugh at all their mounds of flesh and hair, not realizing that those guys didn't give a damn what we thought. A few years later, some of the neighborhood girls would show and tell as I would gander and take mental notes.
The years progressed without seeing much nudity until my grandmother’s neighbor decided to walk around topless in her backyard. That was quite the show for five of us boys to fight over and who got to look through the hole in the fence. We were voyeurs and peeping toms, but I think she knew because of all the clamoring and ruckus we created for that one golden moment.
As a young man, all of eighteen with no girlfriends on the horizon and still much of an awkward and shy person, I tried to find out where all the naked people were at. I knew about striptease establishments, but I couldn't find myself in one of those joints sitting along with other men ogling naked women and pretending they are gynecologists.
I always heard about a nudist colony in the mountains near my home. I called them up, and they invited me down for a tour, or they could send me a color brochure in the mail. I opted for the color brochure, and when it arrived, I was utterly disturbed by what I saw. This place was closer to a family summer camp than a Playboy resort. I didn't want to see moms, dads, and children playing naked volleyball.
I often heard guys talking about a nude beach that was in a secluded area. I was going to go there by myself on a reconnaissance mission. I found the place, parked my car, and trekked down to the beach in my clothes, just in case wild dogs were loose. There weren't more than ten people laying about like lizards in their birthday suits. I sat my belongings down a good fifty yards away from fellow nudies. The closest to me were a couple who looked to be in their thirties, blond and without body hair, possibly Scandinavians. We acknowledged each other's presence and waved. I wiggled out of my clothes while lying down, looking like an earthworm on a hot sidewalk.
I laid there with dark sunglasses and sneaking peeks at the small selection of sunbathers. I ended up falling asleep for a while until I heard the laughing of people playing in the water. It was the Scandinavians frolicking in the ocean, being free, careless, and fully nude. It was fascinating, weird and I wanted to be like them. I got up but wasn't going into the cold water, so I casually eased into a jog along the shore. I was free, a hippy child, and didn't feel like a pervert as I jogged. I soon left and thought that maybe I would be back someday but with a girl and sunscreen.
I never did return, and it was the last time I was naked outside except the one time I went streaking in my backyard. Unless you are a doctor, a nude model, or a Scandinavian nudist, the naked body seems to have a peculiar effect on those who still have their clothes on.