Part 2: Nudist hotel x MDMA
Part 2: Going rogue in the land of the wilting dong.
If you missed it, here’s part 1.
The nudists were a tirelessly lovely bunch, but they were cursed collectively with near-unlawful dullness. So began the relentless onslaught of gruelling, adult chit-chat, meat and veg staring me down all the while. I’ll give you a flavour of the wit bouncing about the place: as I tucked into a baguette, a fellow naked guy coined a nickname for me.
“We are going to have to start calling you ‘Baguette Sam,’ aren’t we?”
The nickname didn’t stick. My bare booty on the fine suede bar stool, however, did. I was gently informed that it’s common courtesy to place a towel down. Regretfully, this was not the last naturist spa faux pas of my journey.
I learned that silences feel more awkward in the buff. Without the waning effects of the morning’s drugs, I’d definitely have nodded off. The blazing boredom soon had me longing for the company of that steamroom predator. He, at least, kept me on my toes.
These naked folk had travelled from far and wide to fulfil what, for most, was their secret passion. Friends, relatives, and even partners “just wouldn’t understand.” An old couple just stared expressionlessly ahead or read, pleased to be comfortably bored of each other in this exotic location.
In this bizarre climate, “other times you’ve hung out naked” replaced “sports” as the universal fallback topic. Rare conversational relief came only from hearing parents speak lovingly of their kids, which is always nice. Sapped of serotonin, I kept catching myself stargazing into some netherly fold or another.
The danger of any untoward, southerly stirring was quashed by the pills and the thriving dong population. Though there was one point when I suppressed a single hint of a ball tingle at an attractive, young, clothed member of the staff. Damn, clothes are sexy.
I floated around past the witching hour on the off chance that everyone started fondling each other. Gonads stop eyeballing you after a while as an odd normality sets in. Kicking back in the hot tub beneath a starry sky, balls juggling to the beat of the jets, drunk enough to occasionally slip out of role, it dawned on me: Shit, I’m enjoying myself. I’d gone rogue. Deep, deep cover. Stockholm syndrome. I was a functioning naturist, basking in the freedom of shedding clothing’s oppressive shackles.
There is undoubtedly something calming in being at ease naked. All I heard was how bloody natural it is: “We’re born naked, and we die naked.” Alright, but I didn’t see any of you dilly-dallying to the tub as that brisk West Midlands air pimp-slapped you across the knackers. A shivering, pocketless existence is downright impractical. Straddling a sun-splashed beach, with some other company, I could see it being pretty fucking pleasant.
Nudity was spoken of as a leveller. Without the uniform fleshiness, my standard scruffy chic may well have left me ostracised from the suits. Still, with no costume for a billboard, most naturists just rattled on indefinitely about their jobs to get their social status across.
Naturists are like the police: You just want to laugh in their face, but they take themselves far, far too seriously. Regular trips to the bathroom were crucial for me to let out gagged laughter and take notes.
The scheduled nude photo shoot I turned up at the following afternoon to infiltrate was the sole time it was culturally acceptable to acknowledge that being naked is funny.
Feel you are getting on a bit? Just pop along to a YBN meet for a comprehensive mental, physical, and spiritual checkup. I feel like I vacationed with Father Time and spent a few lazy afternoons being waterboarded with the elixir of life. Before travelling cross-country to trade pleasantries with a congregation of dick-swinging dullards becomes worthwhile, there is plenty of living to be had. At least, I hope so.
If you liked this… check out:
I Found Love through a Porn Advert
The 3 Stages of a Ketamine Trip
Life with a Phone Sucks
The 5 Stages of Balding