There will come a time when everybody
Who is lonely will be free…
To sing & dance & love (dance and love)

There will come a time when every evil
That we know will be an evil…
That we can rise above (rise above)

Who cares if you’re so poor you can’t afford
To buy a pair of mod a go-go stretch-elastic pants…
There will come a time when you can even
Take your clothes off when you dance

Take Your Clothes Off When You Dance
We’re Only In It for the Money
Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention

I am not a nudist.

The term nudist implies some marginalization shared by both the mainstream and the minority, some freakish cult of people that define themselves by some risqué lifestyle that helps to strengthen the barriers against the common practice of what is in fact a completely victimless, yet restricted activity.

Although I don’t define myself as such, I do like being naked and seeing other naked people – (raises hand) – but I have squandered the summer by only once visiting Gunnison Beach in Sandy Hook, NJ, the only nude beach I know of in these parts.

Don’t fool yourself. The summer is done. All that remain are soggy cold days on a grey barren beach sipping sighs of depression with the small smattering of fellow survivors who only frightfully make eye contact while raisining rather than tanning all the wrong parts.

And that was more or less my first visit a year ago when I decided to vacation during the death throes of summer.

That visit was actually a significant moment for me.

Although my mind imagines itself some brazen Braveheart hero of obscenity and exhibitionism, that character is sadly kept locked away by the mighty passive agressive clutches of some real fucked see-saw confidence, dominated by a fat 12-year old version of myself anchoring the side of inaction when it actually comes time to do the deed.

So clearly, having to overcome my own personal obstacles was not made easier by the concentration camp tone of the beach that day.

The surreality of it was actually entertaining and even despite the huge colony of ants that committed mass suicide, littering the surf, it was still a great sensation eventually losing this inhibition, feeding mind and body new information, standing bare and letting the surf…a breeze…and passing eyes go right through you…

On a subsequent trip earlier this summer, it was more typical beach fare. A hot, bright summer day with clean water and sand packed with every shape and size of human nudity: fat, skinny, emaciated, dead, white, mostly white, women, men, no clowns.

You might be concerned that visiting a nude beach would be like entering some kind of competition. Trust me, NO ONE on that beach had been training for competition…except maybe for a frightening collection of older gentlemen who may have been competing to see who could be “The Most Disturbing Naked Santa Claus”.

While perhaps excluding a Santa Claus Convention, there is a big part of me that sees every social interaction as some dumb game that never reaches its objective and would always be made better by a full orgy breaking out.

Cut the small talk during a 3 floor elevator ride and go RIGHT to orgy.

Clearly…

But of course, again, when it comes to reality it is once more that see-saw battle of imagination and practice.

Fortunately and unfortunately, an orgy is not actually par for the nude beach, nor does it seem anywhere on the horizon. Clearly people are looking, but not everybody and certainly not in any aggressive way. I’m sure some people try to pick up others, but I didn’t see it.

The most forward people you’ll meet are those still working on their confidence, trying to drum up a volleyball game or engaging you in a conversation on some completely mundane thing which is all just pretense to congratulate themselves for aggressively ignoring the obvious.

“Oh…I’m naked?! And so are you!? I didn’t notice. We’re sooooo mature…”

Enough with the small talk. Admit we’re naked. Look me over and let’s discuss my body. That certainly won’t be small talk! It’ll be…average to slightly above average talk, but that’s still an improvement, isn’t it?

I spent most of the day baking in the sun and taking dips now and then in the nearby water, overhearing people walking by invariably bitching about how hot the sand was.

“Oh my, Harry, the sand is quite hot.”

“Why is the sand so hot?”

“Boy…the sand sure is hot today.”

And on and on…and on…and on…

While trying to relax, I couldn’t help but drop F-bombs to myself about their incessant whining and sad attempts at conversation. They might as well mumble, “Oh my. The water is sure wet today.”

After a while, hunger pangs hit me and I viewed a small food stand off in the distance, a modest trek from the water.

I gathered my money together and carried it in front of me like a divining rod of nude hunger, beginning my journey.

About six steps later, I began cursing uncontrollably as I found my feet were being absolutely fucking seared by the sand which was not only hot, but was in fact…LAVA.

The mumbling of passersby I earlier discounted as small talk had actually turned out to be vital, vital information…that I had ignored until it was too late.

Tears coming to my eyes and my body shutting down, all remaining inhibition was obliterated as I was forced to take a stumbling knee, disrupting the otherwise peaceful day of some fellow beach-goers on a nearby blanket.

Several more knees were taken until I was near enough to see my prize, the cool, shaded storefront of the food stand. My hero instinct took over and I began powerfully and painfully on the final leg of my journey.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a huge muscle bound “man’s man” with similar intent, but no signs of discomfort. His steadfastness made me feel embarrassed for my earlier wild screaming.

Soon, however, both of our facades were completely shattered as the searing sand sent both us sprinting and wincing, imaginary pigtails bouncing wildly along with things more real, until we found blessed relief near the grill.

The food prices were high, as was to be expected, but I had brought enough money. The poor bastard who had just joined my frantic journey, unfortunately, did not and I was witness to one of the greatest depressions ever, as his soul completely deflated, forced once more to endure the torturous burning coals of the beach on the way back to his blanket, empty-handed.

Waiting for my food, I noticed a large tip jar.

Fat chance, Mr. Burgerflipper. Your prices are already incredibly high and unfortunately all of my charity was obliterated during my run over the lava field. Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be tipping today, thanks.

But then, it dawned on me. The prices were not only high, they were also strangely fractional.

$4.07 for a hot dog?

$2.17 for a soda?

Oh…you crafty bastard.

Where…oh where…will I put all that change?

Look’s like…its ALL yours!

This was perhaps a tragic end to the day – and the trip was littered with other annoyances – but although I was not quite so adventurous as to turn my anus into a change purse, my actions that day were still enough to shift the balance of the see-saw battle that is my confidence, enough so as to send the anchor that was the fat 12-year old version of myself flying through the air.

And I’d love another day of diving into myself…letting sky meet sand…at me…

Unfortunately, I can’t just toss down to the park and find a legal place to strip to the sun. Not many beaches, let alone parks have their own clothing optional area.

Again, I am not a nudist. If clothing was optional EVERYWHERE…I’d probably still wear it most of the time. Its good stuff. It has its uses.

However, it is absurd that public spaces, supported by everyone’s tax dollars, prohibit the thoroughly passive act of simply not wearing clothing, the revealing of what – I’m pretty sure – most all of us have underneath. What a shame that such a benign thing as being in your own skin isn’t allowed.

I’ll tell you this…the day we transfer our minds to androids to forever transcend our animal origins, I’m making my android the most lascivious reproduction of a naked woman that is technically possible, just to spook the robot squares…and for other reasons…