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Reminder of my first trip to a nude beach
Reminder of my first trip to a nude beach
I was reading my girl friend's blog today and it reminded me of our first trip to a nude beach - together. It was a couple of years ago - after I returned from being out of the country for a while. I was very comfortable with my body so had no problem getting naked. My friends were more inhibited!
You figure out which one I am!
Day at the Nude Beach
I went to a nude beach once, after years of consideration and building up courage. I took my most worldly friend and my most comforting friend. We were eager to view the nudist culture in its natural environment.
After parking miles from the main entrance to the strand of beaches, near the nudist "gate," we hiked down a treacherous dirt path (I fell and scraped my knee), and walked along the sand for hundreds of yards before we spied in the distance what appeared to be a rousing game of co-ed, nude volleyball.
"Eureka! I have found it!" I cried, to the slight disdain and embarrassment of my companions.
As we approached the volleyball game, and the details of the bodies in motion began to come into focus, I was transfixed by the flopping and jiggling of uninhibited middle-aged people engaging in rigorous outdoor activity without the aid or support of modern sports wear. My moment of fascination quickly ebbed into a sense of empathetic discomfort as I watched the unbound breasts of one participant bouncing and slapping against her as she chased the ball.
We passed the game, and moved sheepishly beyond the most populous section of the beach to a more secluded area. Our intention was to distance ourselves from potential spectators, but we later agreed that we'd inadvertently separated ourselves from the safety of the herd and become "easy pickings" for the local wolf population.
As we settled in for a spree of line-free tanning, I removed my bikini top and turned self-consciously onto my stomach, abuzz with nerves at having exposed my bosoms to my friends for the first time. In turn, my comforting friend retained her sarong, but gave me my first glimpse of the pendulous breasts I knew she'd felt alternately blessed and burdened by since sixth grade. My worldly friend stripped to the altogether, revealing that the deep tan I'd always associated with her visage did not yet extend to her breasts and her nether-regions. We presented ourselves to the sun and attempted to relax.
It wasn't long before the vultures began to circle. I noticed the Dennis Franz look-alike first. He positioned himself about 25 yards from us, behind a low dune. All we could see when he was seated was his bald head peeking up over the sand as he stared unabashedly. At regular intervals, he would rise, walk the short distance to the water, and stare as boldly from there while he gently splashed his agitated genitals. In the three hours that we stuck it out, he never strayed from the path he carved playing lookout to our adventure.
We had been led to believe by my worldy friend's ex boyfriend who recommended the beach to us for it's family feel and lack of sexuality that we would be surrounded by sun-browned toddlers and their hippie parents frolicking in the waves. Instead, we found ourselves surrounded by mobile penises in various stages of arousal, and hundreds of unblinking eyes trained in our direction.
Once I'd identified Dennis as an observer, I began to turn my head as subtly as I could manage to see if he was the sole pervert in our vicinity. I was mortified to discover that he was just one in a seeming army.
A 40-something black man wearing a straw hat, sunglasses, a t-shirt, a watch, a belt-pack, and sandals was making slow ovals around us, his pace accelerating at the far ends, and decelerating when he was closest to us. He looked like any man you might see walking anywhere who had incidentally forgotten to wear pants that day.
There were joggers and sun-bathers and passers-by, all of whom returned for multiple views, and all of whom saluted as they passed... so to speak.
Despite feeling mildly threatened by having made myself an object of desire in my effort to get an even tan, I felt safe in the company of my worldliest and strongest friends, so my fascination at the random accessories the nude onlookers paired with their penises for their day on the beach remained intact. I deduced from the frequency of fanny-pack sightings that men are uncomfortable going without pockets, even to the beach. And I found it amusing that most men were wearing hats, glasses and zinc oxide to protect their noses and faces, while their most delicate appendages were enjoying exposure to the elements without any obvious protection. I also took note of the fact that where penises were apparently at ease flopping about in the hot sun and laying on the hot sand, most men wore shoes to keep their feet cool.
After a while, I decided that I would be most comfortable if I pretended to be asleep. At least I wouldn't be aware of the eyes and erections anymore, even if they were still present.
Unfortunately, a man who had been waiting to approach took the coincidence of me and my comforting friend napping and my worldly friend lighting up a cigarette as his opening. He walked up to her, squatted near her head, and struck up a conversation. I pressed my eyelids more determinedly together and listened as she answered his questions curtly and refused his offer of a date. Once he was a safe distance away, she told me I could open my eyes and laughed as she re-enacted her struggle not to look at his genitals as they confronted her.
I sat up to survey the situation, and noticed two couples approaching each other near the water. They appeared to be friends reunited after some time, and swapped partners for intimate embraces which made me blush. The men openly slapped the asses and kissed the mouths of their counterparts' women, and the women laughed and swatted back. They chatted for a while, and when one couple finally departed, the other fell onto each other, somehow remaining upright as they did all but copulate in public.
I turned to my friends, and we agreed that we'd had enough of the nude beach.
Ultimately, and to our disappointment, the experience left us feeling dirty. I think I was most adversely affected by the idea that I had naively made myself an object of lust, and that I had offered the strangers who paraded their hard-ons around us all afternoon the image of myself and my girlfriends sprawled in the sun as fodder for their fantasies afterwards. Perhaps other men had masturbated to my image before that day, but I had never invited it so casually.
Thereafter, I decided that tan lines were sexy and left my top on. I'd still like to go to the Riviera, though.