I have several friends who enjoy nothing better than hanging out at home… in more ways than one.
One acquaintance of my partner’s, who has now become a dear friend to us both, first came to my attention, when he was potentially in need of somewhere to stay.
He and my partner had met up for the odd naked coffee in our lounge or unobserved nook of the back garden, on a suitably sunny day. He insists that we met briefly at the conclusion of one of these nude visits, but I have no recollection of this, which is surprising as he should have made quite an impression, being the epitome of ‘tall, dark and handsome’, with expressive eyes, a playful smile, and the softest hint of an Italian accent, which gets noticeably stronger when he phones his favourite pizzeria to order a meal. A beautiful man blessed with charisma and humour.
“I don’t know him that well,” my partner said, at the time, “but he may need somewhere to stay while looking for a new place to live? He would want to be naked around the house, though, would that be ok?”
I pondered, “Do I mind a hot Italian guy moving in with us, and taking his clothes off? No, I can’t see a problem with that.”
Friends and family were vying for invites when I told them about our impending lodger, but sadly circumstances changed, and he never came to stay.
A good while later, I got to meet this Italian naturist properly (for the first time), when he came over for naked dinner.
I had done Grindr encounters and sex parties, but naked dining was a whole new ballgame of which I had no experience or idea of the etiquette.
“I’m sorry, but how does this work, exactly?” I asked, after we had been entertaining our guest for a while. “When do we take our clothes off?”
In preparation, I had cranked up the heating AND lit the wood burner. It was sweltering!
After the initial awkwardness of undressing for dinner, it just felt like a normal social occasion, just sans clothing. We stood in the kitchen chatting as food was prepared (keeping a safe distance from spitting pans) and sat around the table like any other dinner party, albeit with interludes to take comedy photos of us posing with carefully positioned utensils and ingredients to hide our modesty, which we naturally sent to curious friends.
One recipient of these photos of underdressed diners was a pal who frequently attends naturist events with her gentleman friend.
Knowing that I am always up for new experiences, her friend invited me to join his naked rambling group on an excursion to the Sussex Downs. A day on a bluff in the buff.
“Doesn’t it trouble you that you that your other half wants to hangout naked with a gay man?” I teased my female friend.
She just shrugged.
Now, I am no stranger to public nakedness, having frequented gay saunas and strutted my milky complexion along many a nudist beach, but there was one thing that concerned me.
I asked, “What if I find one of the rambling group attractive? I might not be able to hide the effects.” I nodded pointedly ‘below decks’, to emphasise my potential predicament.
“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I’ve seen the men in the group, that is not going to be an issue.”
As it turned out, my fellow ramblers put me in mind of a greetings card I had seen, where two women are at a bus stop when an elderly streaker runs past.
One of the women asks, “Did you see that?!”
“Yes, I did,” her friend replies, “and it needed a jolly good iron.”
At one point I looked at my fellow ramblers, a line of grey-haired heads, paunches and drooping bottoms, trapsing through the countryside, and commented to the chap next to me, “I feel like I’m in a very strange episode of Dad’s Army (*Classic BBC sitcom about the British Home Guard).”
He laughed, “Does that make you Pike (*Youngest character on the show)?”
“Very probably,” I replied, “and I have never needed his trademark woolly scarf more than I do right now.”
The whole naked rambling event was a well-planned affair, as an eleven-mile naked hike through the East Sussex countryside needed to be to avoid undue attention.
Apparently, it is not illegal to be naked in public, but curiously becomes an issue should someone complain, so a designated guide performs a recce of the route in advance, to identify problem areas where the group might potentially worry the sheep or cause a dog walker to bristle with Daily Mail indignation. In anticipation of such encounters, we were instructed to carry a pair of ‘emergency pants’, which could be donned at a moment’s notice. A line of mature ramblers, parading past in nowt but their underwear, was deemed perfectly acceptable and less likely to attract attention… obviously.
“Nothing to see here,” I could imagine the team leader declaring, “just out for a stroll in our skivyies… Oh, and good afternoon vicar!”
I considered packing a man thong or something transparent from Clonezone, but opted for modest pyjama bottoms.
I enjoyed a unique afternoon of hiking hills, crossing streams, walking in woods, striding through meadows and fields of barley in the company a dozen brilliantly brazen older men, two of whom were in their eighties. You haven’t seen anything until you witness the rear view of a naked octogenarian straddling a stile, an image that will be seared across my retina for the rest of my days.
I am delighted to live in a world where splendidly unapologetic enthusiasts like this exist. You have to admire their balls… and believe me, I had ample opportunity.