If you missed it, check out part 1 here: Least Likely To Become A Nudist
My dad was born into poverty, having to sometimes go without shoes to school, and steal his is my guy Kyle and that is a huge cruiser behind him for publications. The small fortune he amassed was spent on two things: statues from the Classical and Renaissance era and yearly trips to Greece.
When it came to nudity, My first time at a nude beach was at Little Beach in Hawaii. I’d was always bombarded by mixed messages. While my mother obsessed over making her family look like the Brady Bunch, Poseidon’s marble member stared at me from the living room, as did Achilles’ member, and the goddess Artemis’ one breast.
Visiting the homeland for a Bible-thumped boy like me was equally bewildering. Boobs were everywhere you looked. Boobs on postcards, boobs on billboards, boobs in magazines; you couldn’t get away from boobs if you attempted. Magazines advertised skin on every street corner, and it was not even porn, just your typical Greek variant of Cosmo.
But it was on the shores of the Cyclades where you simply could not escape the boob assault. I was nine years old and loathed it.
My Naturist Storyline – Boobs Everywhere
It was during one of these island trips that my life took a dark turn. A close male relative had a habit of grabbing my crotch, and not just in private. He did it all the darn time, but nobody seemed to notice or care. Everyone understood he was a bit crazy; I guess they saw him as a benign, albeit perverted prankster, but it never felt right to me.
Once, after a fantastic day of swimming and playing in the sand, while attempting to avert boobs, we went back to our resort for a shower. I went about my normal routine, double checking that the door was locked and covering myself, but somehow he got in. He knew about my extreme shyness and used it against me. I could have escaped by running out into the lobby, I was fast and slick, but the towels were out of reach.
Paralyzed by shame, he groped and fondled me. But what hurt the most was feeling vulnerable and helpless like an reluctant plaything. And I despised him. To this day, I will not let my kids near him.
Being molested just worsened my sense of shame. In the shower I was more paranoid than ever, constantly listening for intruders, determined to never feel broken again. But destiny had other plans.
At about ten or eleven, I was taken to a specific doctor. My parents talked about me for a long time, but it made little sense, and nobody would tell me what was going on. I was shocked but could not say no. She began poking and prodding me down there and it was like being in that hotel shower all over again.
Telling my mother, a week later, that I’d felt abused was no help. She didn’t take me seriously because she never took me seriously. Things only went downhill from there. For the most part, I was furious, but understood the necessity of it, that occasionally physicians needed to check down there. Imagine if, later in life, I developed some cancerous tumour?
Eventually, my anger turned from my parents to society. Nakedness, I had been educated, is offensive and immoral; and genitals are private, disgusting things despite somehow being created by a loving God except when showering after P.E. or physician visits.
It made no sense. How could something so shocking in one instance become acceptable, even necessary, in another? Unless society had been lying to me. Lying to me since arrival.
I never fully understood my disillusionment, how distinct two societies can perceive the same thing, until my twelfth summer. That was when I first saw a unicorn. O.K., it wasn’t just a unicorn, but the experience was magical. We were making our way to the strand when we saw this girl, who looked to have misplaced her bikini, and she was taking a shower.
Not a beach shower, but a real one, with shampoo and soap, and her whole body. Everyone could see her. Me.
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ViewMy family. Folks sunning down below. Boobs were such a common sight that they did not faze me, but this was top and bottom!
While I knew these kinds of folks existed, for me, they were creatures of myth, who constantly kept out of sight at the far reaches of the shore. For most boys my age, this would have been really arousing, and there was that, but what I also felt was ten times more powerful.
She could not have cared less who was watching or what anyone was thinking. For all I knew, she had never learned of clothing. What’s more, this was Greece, so nobody seemed to notice.
This odd tourist girl played in my head for months (she’s still there, actually) but it wasn’t her look that mattered, just her approach, her self-assurance. Nobody could offend her by forcing her to remove her clothes. It was the most beautiful, powerful thing I’d ever seen, and I was envious.
I desired to be just like her.
And having one hand free for the soap was incredibly liberating.
This concludes Part 2. Look out for Part 3 coming next week!
Now read Part 3: Home Naturist Held Captive.
Young Naturists & Nudists America FKK
Labels: body shame, breasts, culture, genitals, greece, public nudity, topless / topfree
Class: Naturist Website
About the Writer (Author Profile)
By age six, I knew I was born to write, and by 12, discovered that clothing was unneeded. Please visit my blog ‘The Writer’s Disorder’ to learn more: http://writersdisease.blogspot.com/