Big Mike has a sense of humor, and my marijuana is of high quality, so he takes the ribbing gracefully. They're a talkative pair from New York, and have no problem sharing their nudist experience with strangers. "We're pretty new at this," Big Mike tells us. "I had wanted to come for probably two years, but never told Sheryl. Finally I did and she agreed to come. This is only our third time."
KT's interested in Sheryl's take on it. "Truthfully, I don't really like it. But he does. We'll see if I keep coming with him. I'm kinda creeped out by some of the ugly fat people though."
The dance party turns out to be rather lame. Most of the women are in lingerie, and every guy only wears a button-down shirt. On the way to our table with some drinks, I slide by a group of men, and my dick rubs against one's ass. "You'd never guess, but that 1/4 inch of denim makes all the difference in the world," I inform KT once I'm safely back at our table. Later on I get a boner during a slow dance. "Good thing you got your towel," KT jokes while I hide in the corner, fumbling to conceal it before being reprimanded. As the party winds down we're told by a creepy dude we call Boner Bob that some people are heading down to the bonfire.
We join the small group circling the bonfire. Boner Bob is here, along with a 50ish couple and a pretty brunette in her early 30s. We say our hellos and take a seat. The brunette's name is Jessica, and she's a talker. I break out the s'mores while Jessica goes on a rant about how if you aren't nude you shouldn't come to these resorts. "But you have the option of wearing clothes here," I fire back. "That's actually pretty closed-minded of you to say a thing like that. What about the people who come to support their nudist spouse but keep their clothes on? Should they be told to leave?" Jessica has no answers, but holds her ground. We head back to our tent and crash when we've had enough of her intolerance.
Jessica's comments still irk me the next morning as I sit in the grass smoking and watching the guy next door cook bacon, his dick dangling inches from the grill. There was certainly a time when this sort of scene wouldn't faze me in the least, but after years nestled within an uptight society of clothed folk, one definitely loses one's edge. Like a heavy drinker four years sober throwing back a few for kicks, my tolerance ain't what it used to be; I've had to fight through the weak legs and dizzy spells to get back into my comfort zone.
And while the nudist resort experience proved both cleansing and a much-needed relief from the daily existence of not having the simple freedom to walk down the street with your dick out, it brought back too many bad memories of on-set mishaps and flaccid dudes frantically pulling their puds in between takes for me to fully rejoin the revolution. I prefer somewhere just off to the side with obstructed views, and plenty of towels to go around.
Scott Fayner can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.