The Naked Truth

What’s on my mind? Beach season! The umbrellas are out; the beach chairs are out; the bathing suits are on. Our little island is awash with tourists, some of whom wish those bathing suits were not. 

Our gender equality laws allow both sexes to walk around topless here (“Quick! Madge! Turn the RV around! Let’s vacation there!”), though almost no one does (“Forget it, Madge ...”). 

Some people here want to let it all hang out - as in “no secrets.” Why not? Most of the people on the island are seniors. They’d be a tourist attraction. They’d boost our gross domestic product. 

Our neighbors, Mr. Harris and Mrs. H, once went to one of those “free and breezy” places. Mrs. H had no idea they were in an “au naturel” resort. When Mr. H booked it, he told Mrs H to “Leave your glasses at home, honey! They’re only going to steam up in the hot weather!” Not to mention that it was always hot and steamy, where they were going. 

Mrs. H told me she’d ordered one of those fruit juice-rum-cognac specialities of the house, and because this was a vacation, said: “Make it a double.” God only knows what the bartender stirred it with.

Mr. Harris was keen to “see the sights,” as he put it, but Mrs H was content to loll and stroll and see where the day took her. Where the day took her was onto a nude beach, where everyone except Mrs H was starkers. 

She, of course, knew zip! about where she was and how she got there, having worked off only the fruit juice portion of her drink, with the rest still in her system. 

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into that one. When in Rome …? She wasn’t in Rome. Without her glasses, Mrs H wasn’t sure where she was, except that she normally wore more to take a shower than these people did walking around in public.

Mrs H suffers from full-frontal prudity. She was wide-eyed, and everyone else was bushy-tailed. Nudes, nudes, everywhere, and nary a thought to blink. Hoping to “blend in,” she took her socks off.

Everyone’s dangly bits were blowing in the breeze. To distract herself, she said, she tried to visualize the sea of naked bodies wearing goggles, snorkels, and swim fins. It didn’t work. All she saw were lumps and rumps. When she asked a man on the beach to “show me the way to go home,” he pointed east - without using his finger. She made a run for it.

This particular nude beach wasn’t easy to access. On either side were long sweeps of sand. To the north was water. To the south, a cliff. She decided the cliff was her best chance of escape. Resisting a rest, she did. No nudes is good nudes - for Mrs. H.

Our little island really should allow nude sunbathing. Mr. Harris would enjoy it, Mrs. H might get used to it, and the gross domestic product - and other things - would probably rise.

© Nicole Parton, 2019