There was no Internet when I was a young boy.  Our natural curiosity about the opposite sex and our own sex mouldered in a forbidden Twilight Zone in the back of our innocent minds.  If we wanted to know what’s under a girl’s clothes, we had to resort to Mom’s medical book (woefully disappointing) or a copy of National Geographic that happened to feature some remote tribe of naked Africans.  To this day I haven’t figured out why the exposure of Africans and primitive Amazonian villagers are some how morally acceptable while everyone else’s is immoral and lewd.

At around age eight I got my first glimpse of what’s inside a girls panties.  It happen in a friend’s backyard, in a playhouse built by the friend’s father.  Aware the little girl down the street had an inclination to give the boys a peek, me and two other boys invited her to join us in my friend’s playhouse, where we right away made our desires known.  She hesitated; perhaps because there were three boys and just one girl.  Negotiations began.  One of us would show ours if she showed hers.  All three of us gave in when she insisted we all show ours, provided she goes first, which she did.  Moments later, racked with apprehension about my turn coming up, my eyes widened on her little twat.  She seemed perfectly delighted by our amazement, but steadfastly refused to let my more forthright friend to touch it.

The moment passed.  Her panties were back up.  It was our turn.  The bravest of the three of us went next, at which time my friend’s mother poked her head in the door to let him know it was time for lunch.  She gasped in horror.  Our hearts dropped.  In the blink of an eye, our feet took flight, all accept an angry mother’s son that was doomed to face the consequences.  Caught and scarred for life.

Imagine a small town in 1950s Wisconsin.  That’s where and when this happened.  My next scarring came when I inadvertently referenced a female body part to my mother.  It was during time I had been hanging around my father’s the auto parts store, listening to the teenage boys that were gathered around their Chevys, blustering about going to Texas for a little Texas pussy.  Back at the house I found my mother in the kitchen and told her I was going to Texas for a little Texas pussy, then shrank to the floor when she screeched.  Knowing Texas was a sunny state, I thought those boys had been talking about sunshine.  I can still feel the scars from that lecture. No wonder I had reached mid-life before I got out in a public park reserved for nudist and enjoyed the feel of the sun on my skin.

So why are so many so uptight about the human body?

The human body is a sensual, mysterious, beautiful work designed by Mother Nature.  Why aren’t more of us celebrating and enjoying it?

So what’s wrong with this picture?

She’s dressed for a day of sun and swimming … he’s dressed for what?  A snowstorm?

So how about this … or at least something close

or better still, this …

I know … we’re not all young and beautiful.  So what?  Isn’t life too short not to enjoy the sensual joy of our body, even if it’s not in perfect shape?  If everyone was perfect, this would be a very boring world.   So why not get out there and feel alive, feel the sun, the fresh air and other people’s eyes on your skin?

I recently spent a week on the Florida west coast, a state that has 2276 miles of beaches.  In the whole state, there is only one legal nude beach, Haulover near Miami.  What’s up with that?  Two or three city blocks out of 2276 miles!  Every man I saw on the beach that I went to, young and old, was clad in those ridiculous balloony outfits.  How do they swim in those?  What keeps the wind from blowing them away?  When they float they look like a guy that fell from the sky and landed on a parachute.

I live in Texas, a big state, millions of people. In the entire state there is just one place human beings can get naked, legally that is. McGregor Park, commonly known as Hippie Hollow, a sunny, sloping, multi-tiered shore on Lake Travis just north of Austin. My wife and I have spent weekends there: a motel room by night, sun and fresh air by day, sharing the unspoken kinship with other like-minded naked adults, looking and being looked at.

Continue reading →