I went to a Nudist Hotel on MDMA - Part 1

Part 1: a relapsing sloppy social nudist

My dad was not one to wear a towel between the bathroom and bedroom. It seems the daily scenes of his middle-aged schlong bouncing through the house each morning deeply affected me. Any remains of that shame guilt-tripped into Adam and Eve were completely ground out.

Around the age of 18, I became a kind of sloppy social nudist. After a certain amount of pints, I would always, without question, find myself naked. It reached the stage where people would bark demands that I undress, or even unsheathe me without my consent, treating my genitals like some sort of communal comedic prop.

It took four shameless years, a few brushes with the sex offender’s register, and a bunch of drunken debates with police officers (defending the harmless entertainment value of my flaccid penis) before that drunken instinct thankfully faded.

Though my evenings of whoring out my form for the cheapest laughs are behind me, I still have no qualms with patrolling sans clothes under the proper circumstances.

Here’s me at the nudist spa.

The Young British Naturists, or YBN, are the hip, happening youth wing of the British Naturism society (naturism is what naked Brits call nudism). Naturism has always been an old man’s game, but since forming in 1999, the YBN have been striving to entice younger generations to the lifestyle. Intent on shifting the image of naturism as strictly a pursuit for wilted pensioners knocking about shuttlecocks.

YBN’s website makes the bold, slightly threatening claim that “not a lot naked happens in this country that we don’t know about or get involved in!” But, I would later find out, rather than some lurking, omnipresent nudey entity, they are simply an assortment of 18 to 30-year-olds who link up for “safe, fun” unclad get-togethers, to hang out and hang free.

The YBN was holding a weekend event at Birmingham’s very own Clover Spa & Hotel. I figured I’d jiggle in undercover and reveal all. I was curious as to who makes up this band of unclothed misfits, and my inner-recovering-drunken-nudist was curious about a sanctioned relapse.

What to expect? I had visions of me waddling through the quaint B&B exterior, only to be dragged by the ankle into some clammy, good-natured gangbang. However, the naked truth of it all was altogether more horrifying.

To prep, I considered a scrotal shape-up to ingratiate myself to my nude friends, but, through a quick scout of the flesh reclining on the Clover Spa and Hotel website, I saw that the classic sprawling bouffant is still very much à la mode.

Due to circumstances beyond my flimsy willpower, I found myself drunk, sleepless, and a little pilled-up when I arrived.

Upon entering, I was greeted at the reception by the owner, whose kind words and close resemblance to Back to the Future’s Dr. Emmet Brown put me at ease. He put my drug-induced scattyness down to first-time nerves, my visible drunkenness to liquid courage.

While changing, I lifted up my trusty paunch to reveal a penis dissolved, barely casting a shadow. He rested like a single pasta shell, defiant and petite, jamming at a right angle to his pill-depleted testicular entourage.

I entered the spa area and didn’t know where to look, so I started with an uncalculated scan of all lounging genitalia in attendance. The gender ratio was like an early AM tour of Omegle—i.e., mostly men. Nevertheless, I was pleased my pubic research had paid off. I made an awkward beeline for the steam room.

Inside, I found two nude folks casually chatting away. I tried to politely involve myself, over-agreeing and making intense eye contact.

They left. A dusty old dude sauntered in, stretching in the doorway.

Misreading my friendliness, he began laying his clumsy, geriatric charm down, thick and slimy. This leather-bound lech was smacking his lips, ogling my degenerated junk as if fantasising about cake. I’m all for a cheeky, harmless flirt, but there was only vapour between me and his advances. I felt a little vulnerable and pretty miffed he had considered me an achievable target, concave willy or not. I dodged and weaved seedy praise of my “athletic legs” and “strapping physique.”

Having soaked up a quantity of sleaze beyond what politeness required, I left for the bar area. Apart from the 11 nude people hanging around, the bar was much like your average B&B.

Unsurprisingly, the Young British Naturist weekend had attracted a wealth of corrugated male veterans. The few relative spring chickens were mainly YBN reps. They ploughed through their meeting’s rigid itinerary, shaping the course of British Youth Naturism with the gravitas of a civil rights discussion.

Amid this expired sausage fest, I ordered a comforting strawberry cider and set about mingling. I clocked a fellow nude-n00b from his pelican-like perch, gawkily resting one foot on top of his knee. Much like my hastily-prepared alias, he had just fancied giving it a go, he told me. Most of the people I spoke to told me they had developed a taste for naturism abroad, mostly with their parents on childhood vacations, while one had been persuaded by, what must have been, one hell of a leaflet..

Part 2 coming next week.

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