It's a Brand Nude Day! 2023

Any and all characters portrayed in reference to sex are 18 or older. This is a work of fiction. Goofy ass story; at least it's in the correct category this time. I hope it's as funny as I imagined it could be, but not likely. I think Act III is missing. I forgot to set it up. Told from the first person, but now with added characters, none of whom will be fully realized. And oh yeah, sex is referenced, but not graphically described.

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Sometimes a shower feels better than at other times, and this was one of those times it felt better. It had gotten warm right as soon as summer had arrived, and I could feel cruddy after less than half a day outside on most days. After I climbed into the tepid flow I adjusted the temperature a tiny tad and soaped up, scrubbing the grubby spots a bit. I didn't rub one out or anything, but I did completely wash my junk. I luxuriated in the feeling of the warm water rinsing the soap off my body and with it, all the detritus and stickiness. Germs, soil, dust, mold spores, pollen, skin cells, errant loose hairs, couple small spiders, what have you, bye-bye. I patted my stomach, pushed the hair out of my face and pulled the towel into the shower. Drying myself with a patting motion, so as not to overly abrade my dermis, I left my hair wet, running my now thoroughly cleaned hands through it.

Stepping to the sink, I gazed at myself in the mirror. Wow. Yeah. I mean, I was going to shave, but I had to just look at myself for a moment. Weak posture, check. Gut, check. Man boobs, check. Hair, ha. Wispy, thin, receded hair, yeah, check. Cowlicky too, once it gets past about 3/4-inch. Getting to like that actually; makes me look unruly. My face isn't even cute anymore, not that I give a flying whatever.

What else, oh, flagging musculature, well that's half my own fault at least. And there's my dick. "That's it right?" I asked the mirror aloud. Then I thought, like, really, what the hell happened to my dick? I used to have a dick! A real, honest to goodness dick. Shit, the water wasn't

that

tepid.

Moving on, I shaved myself with my trusty electric razor, which must have sentient AI at this point because it and it alone decides what hairs it will and will not cut. Skin too, sometimes, if I get too aggressive with it. I made a couple second passes in some stubborn spots where my beard was also apparently cowlicky and growing in different directions. I left my hair as was, but combed it. Decided to do a quick trim of the pubes because that mess was almost as scraggly as my dick, but did only the tips as they say. So chastened, or encouraged, my dick reappeared, sort of, but still much to my unbridled joy. I wiped the whiskers and pubes from the sink with a swath of TP then with porcelain cleanser and a sponge. And a scalding hot water rinse wipe. I splashed my nicked neck with alcohol based skin bracer, you know, to see if I still felt. I did, and it didn't smell bad either.

I still didn't rub one out. Just so you know, but who's counting? I should have been counting, and okay, maybe I do. Again, not that anyone would care.

I decided I wasn't going to wear much makeup. It's almost always fucking hotter than the dickens in July and today would be no exception. Mainly I didn't want to sweat oddly around the smears of luscious goo. So I just went with eyeliner and a little blush. No lipstick, no mascara. "Sorry Goths, I sympathize, but 'no'," I said into the mirror.

I wandered into the kitchen and made myself some avocado enhanced toasted bagel halves, with a dash of fake butter, no cream cheese, and just the teensiest bit of salt and pepper. Brushing my teeth, I remembered I was getting a crown the coming week and gave that area a serious dressing down. Improve your gums by punishing them. I'm not super into punishment as a remedy for all ills but it works on your gums. The astringent rinse didn't even sting and I wondered if it had gone flat, but it smelled good too like the aftershave.

I strode into the bedroom and looked in my closet. There it was: a complete 1950s-esqe woman office worker dress and top ensemble. More steno pool than early lady lawyer, to be perfectly accurate. Actually even more casual than that, for like home wear, a la Donna Reed or something. Vacuuming, doing laundry and ironing, and making dinner and looking like a million freaking dollars and solving the world's problems all at the same time and shit. I opted to go with tight boxer briefs underneath to keep everything together like spanx. God, 50s women probably would have killed for a pair of spanx. I pulled on one of those miracle sports bra type rigs for a like 42A or whatever it was. It was snug but didn't feel too tight, so far at least. Foundation wear, systems are go!

I slipped the dress and blouse on, and slid my feet into some almost flattering low heeled shoes. I would have rather gone with tennies, so I could perhaps run a short distance if I had to, but they weren't really in style for the era. Good thing I had dainty feet, too, for a guy. I pulled on my wig, not a bob, but not down to my shoulders either, and looked in the full length mirror. Decidedly unfeminine, unimpressive, and unfashionable looking.

It was perfect for National Cross-Dress Day. I was just glad I didn't have to go to work that day. I hate explaining shit to people. You know,

some

people anyway. Most people are good but once in a while I can appreciate how

some

people feel differently about some things. This is more empathy than sympathy and a lot of the time I don't have much empathy either.

Wandering outside, I took in the day, already showing signs of getting bloody hot. I squatted down to pick up the newspaper, pushed myself back up, propping my hands on the back of my hips for support, and turned to see my neighbor staring at me. "Hi Leslie!" I waved.

"Jeez Paco, what the sam hill is up with you today?" Leslie called, incredulous. She always called me Paco for some reason. It certainly wasn't because of latino heritage because neither of us was latino.

"Just enjoying myself on National Cross-Dress Day!" I called back.

Leslie shook her head and shot me a sidelong glance across the yard. "No it's not, you goof!"

"Say what?"

"No, National Cross-Dress Day is in October, I forget the date. It'll be cooler then. Yeah, no, today is National Nude Day."

I was horrified, but at least I could be ready for October. "So, it's Nude Day you say? You're not like, wearing anything under your linen—what is that, a robe? A caftan? What do you call that?"

"Yes, it's called a caftan. Anyway, I simply must say, you look atrocious in that getup. You can't really expect to pull that look off. A house dress or sweat shirt dress would be much more sensible for you."

I started to explain. "Uh, you see, that's sort of the point, or maybe not really at all, of, uh, cross-dressing. You want to look good, but it doesn't ultimately matter if you do or not. Anyway, haven't you ever heard of 'camp'?"

"Yeah camp, I went to camp when I was young. I was the queen of s'mores! There's a secret to getting them to come out just right. Anyway, like I was saying, you really should have worn a house dress, and worn a shorter wig with wavy hair and a sort of up-do. You might be able to make that work for you." Leslie laughed, turning away as she shook off a sudden case of the giggles.

"Okay, so I haven't made any plans for nude day, sounds like you might have, so, what's on the fire with you?" I asked, tossing out a brand new, made-up colloquialism. "And, if you don't mind telling me, what is the secret of s'mores?"

"Here's what's let's do. I think you should go back inside, take off that outfit, including your bra, wash that tarty rouge off your cheeks—they'll be red enough later—you can wipe off half the eyeliner at least, and, hmmm," she stopped for a moment, "yes, I have a giant caftan I sleep in sometimes that might fit you." Leslie crossed her arms in self-satisfaction.

"And then?" I led out, wondering where she was really going with all this.

"We're off to go hang out in the nude! I'll drive!"

"What about making s'mores?"

"You make sure not to burn the marshmallows, but let them get unbelievably hot, like me, ha, and smear them on the grahams. If you do it right, it totally melts the chocolate."

Leslie was my next-door neighbor, and, while we were friendly, I didn't really know her that well. Seemed like she mostly kept to herself a lot, maybe with some nights out here and there, but I didn't know if she was a serial monogamist or had a steady steady, had kids somewhere, or even if she was getting any sex; I really knew nothing about her. I helped her fix her toilet and stuff a couple times, and I knew a guy who was a good plumber to whom I referred her (on a completely different matter), and we'd shared beers once or twice talking about nothing or the weather or watched golf on TV on a few occasions, and I helped her carry some shit from her car a couple times. But, other than that, she was a cipher to me; I could imagine her as anything.

I certainly had no idea she might be a nudist, although when I saw her I usually couldn't help but imagine how she might look nude. She was very pretty, with brown eyes and a wavy brown hairstyle, and sported a pretty good looking fuselage to boot as far as I could tell.

Leslie looked at me. "Go!" she said. "Go fix yourself!"

I trotted back inside, climbed out of my getup, gently re-hung the dress and top on hangers, washed my face again removing all traces of blush and most of the eyeliner, and looked around. I took off the boxer briefs and bra and tossed them in the hamper even though I'd just worn them for around 20 minutes total.

Leslie was waiting for me, so I couldn't make the excuse that I wanted to stay in now because I'd just taken my bra off. I pulled on some nylon jogging shorts with no underwear but they had a thin liner. I pulled on some ankle socks, jogging tennies, and a rock music themed tee featuring a band I didn't know that much about but it had a great graphic. I shoved my wallet, phone, and keys into the Velcro-close pockets, wishing I had a small fanny pack or at least a tiny day pack, and turned again to the mirror. I smiled. I still didn't look particularly good, but at least this was a lot more me.

Back outside, Leslie was watering a flower bed and some dry patches in her front lawn while she waited for me. "Hey! Some improvement! Maybe that will work better than the caftan. Sure it will, you're going to take it off anyway."

"So. where are we going?" I offered, tentatively.

"A local nude gathering," she said, as if it was manifestly obvious. "We are doing a little meet and greet with some other nude people, and it's in a private, air conditioned space, and we can have a couple drinks and other stuff too!"

I pondered the implications of what 'other stuff' might entail, decided for the moment I was in for whatever, and climbed in her car. Some practical, good mileage, half sporty/half sedan/half hatchback that goes like a sonovabitch when you hit the throttle. I was attracted to women that drove those speedy little cars for some reason; maybe it was just that I liked the feeling of being scared when riding with them.

Leslie pulled a chilled bottle from a cooler. "Water?" she offered.

I took it, thanking her. "Wow, this is better than a ride-share already!" It wasn't really because she brought chilled water; it was more that I knew she was nude under her caftan, even though she hadn't specifically admitted she was.

Leslie was surprisingly restrained while driving to our unbeknownst to me destination. I was hardly scared at all. That is, until it dawned on me that I had really committed to nuding it up. Or down, whichever direction it represented, and I began to worry. The look on my face must have given me away.

"Hey, you all right?"

I snapped out of my self-imposed embarrassment and dared to speak. "Yes, of course. Except for being on the way to go get nude in front of other people, especially strangers, yeah. In front of you, too, for that matter."

"True, I haven't seen you nude. Yet! Nor have you seen me nude either. Say, you're not a peeping Paco or anything right?" she added, with a slight smile at the end.

"No, no, nothing like, I mean, why would you even say that? Anyway, maybe I'm just not in mood for nude."

"Oh, so you need to be in the mood? For nude? That suggests that sometimes you are in the mood for nude. Or have been before?" Leslie's eyes twinkled. "How was it? You can tell me, I'm not too judgy."

"Well, um, I once nuded up when I was drunk at a party. People thought it was funny or they were freaked out, I don't know, and I probably should have been embarrassed but it struck me funny as well at the time." I studied her face, on the alert for flickers of judgement, and seeing none, continued. "I go hiking by myself, and sometimes, on a nice day, when I don't think anyone else is around, I undress just down to shoes and socks, and it feels so nice, tramping up a mountain through the trees, airing myself out at the same time. I was almost surprised by other people once or twice, but was able to hide from them in the forest until they passed."

"Okay, that clears things up a bit. You could definitely be a nudist, if only a 'closeted' one. And you risked being seen by others. Was that actually part of the attraction do you think? Did you find that titillating?"

"Ah, jeez Leslie, not sure we really need to explore my motivations that deeply. It just feels good to be nude sometimes, let's leave it at that. The main thing is that I'm really shy about my body, especially now I'm older and saggy-baggier, and not really bringing anything to the table."

"Funny you should say that...," and she dropped the line of conversation.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, trying to follow up.

But Leslie was mum, offering only a, "You'll see."

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We parked, grabbed a couple gulps of hot air, and walked together toward the entrance. Apparently I was still obviously dragging my feet because Leslie said, "If you don't really want to do this, we don't have to."

"What the hell else are we going to do? You've already convinced me, I suppose, since I came along willingly. We're here, so I may as well face the music, with scratchy violins and off-kilter, out-of-tune drums," I lamented sarcastically. "Besides, it's your gig, and it really was nice of you to invite me out. Probably beats hanging at home, doing an atrocious impression of a 50s TV housewife."

I had to admit to myself that I was being a bit of a little bitch about the whole deal, but didn't know why I felt so bent out of shape. Just jitters plus fear of the unknown must equal anxiety. Easy math. But fuck it I thought. Let's just go have a good time.

The place felt kind of like a warehouse with partitioned areas, but it was actually a series of small convention rooms within a nice local hotel with real walls. Entering the blissfully air conditioned space we headed to the check-in.

They checked our IDs, then, seemingly satisfied we weren't some mashers just looking to catch an eyeful, let us in and directed us to the changing areas. In a way this didn't make any sense since we would all be nude in no time, but at the same time I could understand how disrobing en masse could feel uncomfortable for some. The more inhibited folks like me maybe.

In the changing room, I scuttled out of my clothes and stashed them in a locker provided by the event organizers. We were given a pair of small towels, what, was it like at the gym? Wipe the equipment off after each use? Made sense I guess. They also issued small zippered bags we could use to hold our cash, debit/credit cards or phones for those of us without purses, fanny packs, or small backpacks. I was glad; I had wondered about the hassle of just carrying that stuff around, although I also wondered about the wisdom of letting potential pervs bring their phones inside.

I shuffled out the changing room exit and found myself in a larger room with, thank goodness, a bar. I felt I could definitely use a shot or two of liquid courage. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone because, well, just because I don't like talking to people. I also purposefully avoided staring at anyone's bodies, which I assumed would be a no-no.

That was about the time I met back up with Leslie. We eyed each other up and down and I quickly felt a thrill begin building within me. Leslie wasn't just pretty, she really did have a terrific body. It displayed a bewitching combination of toned muscles and gentle yet pronounced curves and I considered myself truly fortunate to lay eyes upon it. As I became aware of my response it dawned on me that might be verboten as well, so I mentally grasped at topics and images that would divert my attention and blood flow. When I needed to do my next oil change, bloody tuna flopping around on the deck of a fishing boat, whether I had paid my car insurance, ‒ those sorts of things.

"Nice winky," Leslie said, deliberately stealing a glance at my crotch. The effect was immediate. It served to both simultaneously further stoke my embarrassment and help defuse my budding tumescence.

"Would you like something to drink? I know it's sort of early but I kind of need something. How about a mimosa? Some OJ for a little jump start plus sparkling wine for kicks and tiny bubbles to tickle on the way down?"

"One sounds good, sure!"

We sipped our drinks, both of us smiling but not saying anything more for the moment. I relaxed a bit and began to feel slightly less conscious of the naked humanity swirling around the room. I still didn't really want to go meet any of the other nudists but Leslie had other plans.

"I mentioned that we could do a sort of meet and greet today, remember that?" Leslie reminded me. "Well, it's going to be a certain kind of meet and greet."

"Oh?" I asked, my suspicions on high alert.

"It's...," Leslie paused for effect, "a nude speed-dating session!"

"Whoa, no! Close interpersonal contact with conversation AND we're nude? Uh, uh, no way girl, ain't happening!"

"Come on!" Leslie goaded, "It'll be hilarious! And fun!" Somehow, I couldn't picture the fun and I probably wouldn't be able to appreciate the hilarity. "I'm going to be participating," she softly cooed, sweetening the deal. Is this where she found her conquests? I pondered that for a moment then downed the last half of the mimosa in one gulp.

"Okay, maybe." I allowed just a chink in my emotional armor for a second, then completely caved. Face it; I was putty in her hands. "Fuck. Sure, whatever. Let's do, let's do, let's do!"

"That's the spirit! How do you expect to find a partner if you don't put yourself out there?" I didn't have any expectation of that. I didn't even really know what I was doing there at all, honestly.

Leslie had the event dialed. She pulled out her phone to confirm the time and the suite where we would be meeting, and, grabbing my hand, whisked me along to another room. I might be being spirited off to an emotional collapse, but at least it was nice holding her hand along the way.

The room was designated as the 'Niagara Room', I noted with minor amusement. As in Niagara Falls, where people went to get married, go on a honeymoon, split up disagreeably, or plot a murder, depending on which movies you like.

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Entering the Niagara Room, I could see the speed dating stations were set up on a long plexiglass table, allowing you to see through it, with dividers erected between each station across the table to minimize distraction from other participants. Ah, the earlier hanging comment about a table now made sense. A table to which I would indeed not really be bringing anything.