A girlfriend at college, Kathy, invited me to Cape Cod for a weekend in late June. Her family had a house on South Pamet Road, in Truro, within the Cape Cod National Seashore, where existing houses were "grandfathered in" for their final years of private ownership. Gradually, they all will be razed and cleared. It is a vanishing paradise with sprawling pastel Cape Cod houses on sandy slopes of sand, scrub pine, and Rosa rugosa. We had it to ourselves for the weekend.
"This beach goes on for miles, Ellen! And right by us, a little nudist section has developed. Everyone can see you!"
Maybe she thought naturism started right there on her beach—a first? The world discovers last year in Truro the philosophy that less is more, bare is better, nothing is just enough? I did not say that. Exciting to me, too--a new kind of naughtiness, new tickling in the places I crave to be tickled. I replied to Kathy's shining enthusiastic face: "And you've done it?"
A huge grin from my little tug boat of chubby nudity, with glowing skin, full round hips, and boobs that swooped down, fat and full—no, not with milk unless she got banged up without my knowing it—with nipples like two-inch Presidential campaign buttons—all of which I had observed in our dorm room, often for several hours a day.
"Oh, it's heavenly! You've got this breeze on your boobs, which already are wet from the ocean, and so they're getting stiff as missiles, and all the guys coming toward you are just SO not staring! And the women are just SO not noticing their delicious brown dicks! I love it!"
Oh, wow, you've discovered the serenity of naturism, with its nonsexual glow in the presence of your fellow man who if textile free, stripped of superficial status, at ease with difference. I did not say that, either. Kathy was saying: "You'll love it, Ellen!"
I suppose so, dear, but you swagger around our room with those saddle bags hanging around your neck, your sashaying ass, and all that chestnut hair on your pussy--and who exactly do you think CARES? Not me. Now, we are going to Cape Cod to increase the anxiety and depression of nice normal women with normal breasts on vacation walking with their husbands along the beach.
"I would love to come, Kathy!"
I will be mistaken for your husband. Oh, Kathy, who is that tall lean guy with you? Does he have a very small, um...?
More charming and Wuthering Heights romantic than I could have imagined, the house sat on its commanding height of sand, all weathered greys and pale blues. Wow, I could spend a weekend here reading and writing and euthanizing a few bottles of chardonnay and keep all my clothes on. Great breeze off the ocean. The upstairs rooms under the eaves were a rabbit warren of misshapen, too-warm, one-bed rooms where you could imagine any bunny of the opposite sex hopping right into your bed from another room.
As we approached the house, Kathy almost stuffed her bra in the mailbox, stripping as she entered. My what an ardent naturist! And when she had removed her bra, she gave her breasts a nice vigorous rub with both hands to welcome their liberation from textile captivity. Ditto with an energetic air shampoo of her snatch thatch.
I loved the sunny rooms with wide floor boards, walls with pastel prints by Winslow Homer, and last-year's grey fall weeds dried in big vases. Kathy was following behind me. Pretty soon, she asked: "Are you going to take anything off, Ellen?"
So welcoming! Any chance of letting me know where to put my suitcase, which I am still carrying, or maybe pouring a nice glass of chardonnay? I did not feel the need to strip. My 32-B breasts rested peaceful in my bra. My pussy liked the snug embrace of cotton panties.
"Oh maybe not just yet. But you're fine, Kathy."
"Not even your top?"
Not even my socks, baby!
"Not especially," I said. "Your whole family are nudists?"
"You've got great little ones, you know, honey..."
Oh, how sweet, Kathy! Do you like to play teetee slapee? 'Cause I'm much stronger than I look and I could slap the shit out of those two pink piglets snoozing on your chest! Wake them right up, for you...
I did not say that. I am refined, as readers know. "On the beach, maybe."
And we were there before noon the next day. No adventures in the interim. I had locked my bedroom door and I didn't hear any animal scratching noises at the lock. At breakfast, Kathy was less than buoyant, I thought, but she did her best, frying eggs "easy over" and bacon, toasting scones, perking some fine coffee. We sat in a breakfast nook overlooking the dunes and the Atlantic beyond and Kathy's sleep-softened eyes, unruly hair, sedate bare knockers, and over-stretched light-blue panties seemed natural in the big kitchen. When she leaned over to serve me, her swinging load just about brushed my plate. She could have spread the melted button on my scones. I giggled. She giggled, too, looking right into my eyes. I took that as a good sign. Cheer up.
After walking for 10 minutes down South Pamet Road, slogging through a high pass through the mountainous dunes, and following a wide, well-trod sand path, we broke upon the vista of Cape Code National Seashore. Almost no one here. Too early. Might have guessed, knowing Kathy.
Among beach goers there are heavy campers and light campers. Light campers bring two towels, a water bottle, suntan lotion... Heavy campers...well, never mind.
Thank you, Ellen. We've been very patient with you, so far, but your story has the pace of an arm-in-arm Sunday walk through a Victorian rose garden. If anyone actually found a sexy enough place to start rolling the dough, by now... Any sex coming anytime soon? You still haven't taken off your shoes, you know...
We set our blankets back toward the dunes, but away from the entry path. Surprise! Kathy was still fully dressed. That's right. "I LOVE how people watch you out of the corner of their eyes when you get up to strip. I once counted 13 guys watching me."
Such good luck, too, sweetie. But what about the naturist-no-one-stares thing? And what am I supposed to do? I was ready to take off my blouse and bra (no bathing suits with us), flop back on the blanket in the sun, and experience the nine minutes of pure relaxation I can endure before I jerk up to a sitting position and reach for a book. Did I have to wait to strip until the coliseum filled up and the tigers were ready for the naked virgins? And exactly how many people came here, anyway, with no public parking and the houses about an eighth of a mile apart on the road?
I did raise the latter question. "There's some kind of little colony of inexpensive cottages about two miles down the beach," said Kathy, waving to our right. "Every day about 25 people from there walk along the beach to this spot with their stuff and don't leave till they're walking back into the setting sun. Nice young families!"
"And when they arrive, you...?"
"Oh, no! They don't look. Pretty soon people start coming over the dunes, where we came, and down the beach from the other direction. They're wearing bathing suits and coming to see the nudists. Some pretty quickly strip. Some bring binoculars. Cameras."
"Cameras!"
"Creepy, I guess, but there always are some, you know. I really don't mind."
After an hour or so on my tummy, clothed, I had re-read half of Antigone and I could feel sweat in my butt and down my neck. I look up. Yikes! It really had filled up. Blankets and towels still maybe 10 yards apart, lot of guys, lot of bathing suits except for the nudists, who had settled a discreet 25 yards to our right. As I watched, the routine seemed to be that a nudist woman headed down to the water to swim and the bathing suits did the same, strolling along the beach for a close look. Everything seemed cool.
I watched a tall, lithe woman get up from the nudist group and stroll toward the water. She sure had a gorgeous ass and her breasts were big enough so that even from the back I could see the edges bulging out. She had an all-over tan almost the color of her long, brown hair. The strolling tourists politely paused for her passage so she walked between two groups of four or five bathing suits. She smiled and lifted a little wave. A LOT of heads watching till she did a flat dive into the clear green-glowing water and I saw her ass wavering as through a window. And so did a lot of other people.
Wow! This was celebrity. Imagine all those people feasting their eyes on my 19-year-old, post-adolescent body as I ambled strode down the runway? Kathy had been watching my face. I turned to her big grin.
"We're on next!"
She rose very slowly and initiated a strategic stretch, arms out straight, chest forward like a cow catcher. I could see her glance around, surreptitiously, as she reached ever so slowly for her white jersey.
Are we up to 13 yet, sweetie?
The jersey came off, down onto the blanket; her hair flopped back into place. Her hands went behind her in the mild contortion known as "unhooking my bra"—I am small enough to slide mine around front for easy access. She paused, arms behind like a captive, breasts unprotected. This is the moment we've all been waiting for, folks.
I glanced around. No one staring. Strangely, though, motion had ceased, heads cocked, faces easefully taking in the sun and sand and surf. SO attentive to nature. As the shivery old line goes: "Do you have strange feeling we are being watched?"
And there they are, folks! The bra drops to the blanket. Kathy slowly shrugs back her shoulders. Two smooth, pale, hefty boobs elevate slightly, like the rising rollers just off shore, so that the pink-orange teats widen as though drawing a breath. A long sigh. So natural! So nonsexual!
Panties do not simply drop off this babe! No push down and let fall. She is bending over, pushing them down over her hips, belly, still shoving as they go over full thighs, finally gaining a little momentum as they surmount her knees, and she kicks them off. Only when she straightens up again can her admirers see the beaver asleep on her tummy and a LOT of people are seeing it. Another stretch, arms flexed, head back, belly pulling a little tighter, beaver stirring slightly in its sleep.
Are you done, dear? I think the manager is signaling for you to leave the stage. Great act. He may want to congratulate you. Possibly shag you right behind the curtain.
She casually sits down and turns to me. She grins. I already am beginning to shake my head and now the shaking accelerates into a fevered rattling. She CANNOT be seriously suggesting that I now do the same thing? If I think she is, I'm going to grab her hair and smash her grinning face repeatedly on my bony knee. Or fasten my teeth on her nipple till the whole beach hears her screaming. I might just cry. This is even less fun than I expected.
"Too intense," I mutter, staring straight ahead, an awful vision in my mind's eye of heads all over the beach craning forward to see if those are breasts or what... I wonder if I could tunnel under the sand down to the edge of the water? Sure would like a swim. Only about 30 yards of sand...
"Okay, let's swim, Ellen. No pressure."
Thank heaven for that. Except, I have no bathing suit. Bra and panties going to have to do. At least both are bright red. Probably pass at a distance.
She gets up, takes my hand to pull me up. We walk hand in hand toward the barely undulating surf, which is pushing flat, tame little waves up the beach. The Geico lizard couldn't catch a decent roller, here.
