"...therefore this court finds that Constitutional protection of freedom of speech extends to clothing, or the lack thereof," Justice Baxandall said, reading the majority opinion of the Supreme Court. "The rights guaranteed to all United States citizens in the First Amendment include the right to be nude."
And with a bang of the gavel, the United States of America became a clothing-optional country.
Of course, the 5-4 ruling changed American life not a whit. Decades earlier, top-freedom became a right for all women in New York State, but this didn't lead to swarms of busty young college girls baring their breasts on Coney Island. Life in this country went on as usual. Very few people exercised their rights on public beaches. Oh, rumor had it there were some beaches in California and Florida where a few odd characters would strip off. Naturist groups established several beaches and parks where public nudity was customary, but this was always done with the greatest of sensitivity towards the "prude" population at large.
The United States was just as conservative as it had always been, but an entire generation of Democrat presidents (Hillary, then Obama, then Gyllenhaal) had stocked the judiciary with liberal judges. Ironically, this was seen as part of the legacy of George W. Bush: Americans were frightened for decades of putting another Republican in the White House. As far-out as the courts were, however, the people hadn't really changed. Social pressure kept the U.S. from turning into the European Continent, just as social pressure kept women's bikini tops from coming off in New York back in 90's and 00's. Without pioneering souls willing to expose themselves to potential public outrage and ridicule (and simply to expose themselves), these new rights would exist in theory only.
I certainly was not going to be the one to put them into practice. Or so I once thought.
About five years after that famous Supreme Court ruling in Harper Valley Township vs. Doe, I was a senior in high school. My name is Julie Johnson, or J.J., as my friends call me. Five foot eight, auburn hair, glasses, and a slender but curvy body I kept hidden under loose clothes. It wasn't really the style at the time, but I was more interested in being noticed for my mind than for my body. I had a 4.0 GPA, had applied to Harvard, Yale, Northwestern, and nearby Wisconsin (as my fallback), and wasn't about to let boys or sex sidetrack me on my road to success. My ambition was to go to law school and make millions of dollars as a corporate attorney.
It was an unusually warm March evening (thank global warming for that) and I was celebrating my eighteenth birthday with my best friends Lana and Sarah. Lana was five foot four, just a bit chubby, with brown hair and blue eyes. Sarah was a knockout, about my height but much thinner, with long, straight, black hair and dark brown eyes, contrasted with pale skin. She had a tiny nose and thick, full, pouty lips. I always envied her looks, despite the fact that I wasn't bad to look at, either. Looking back, in those days I equated beauty with thinness, not understanding the appeal of a large bust and round, full ass. I was the last of the three of us to turn eighteen.
It should go without saying I wasn't much of a social butterfly in those days, only having two friends over for my eighteenth. Sarah, very much the popular girl but a loyal friend since kindergarten, offered to round up a bunch of her friends for a "real" celebration, but I actually preferred a more intimate time with a couple of close friends to large group of people.
Running out of stuff to do at home, we decided to take a walk around our sleepy northern Illinois town.
"J.J., I'm bored," Sarah said. "We should do something wild and crazy. Get you out of your shell."
"I don't know what," I replied. "Not really a whole lot you can do in this town."
"Well... there is the titty bar over by Main and Union."
Lana and I both looked at Sarah like she had sprouted a third arm. "Why the hell would I do something like that? I AM straight, you know," I said.
Sarah mumbled something under her breath; I think it was "not that anyone can tell."
"Look, I like boys, but I'm going off to college soon. The last thing I need is to get tied down with a boyfriend right before leaving home."
"I wish I had a boyfriend," Lana said quietly.
"Anyway," I said, "why on earth would I want to go to the nudie bar..."
"Titty bar," Sarah corrected.
"...titty bar," I continued. "I have absolutely no interest in seeing a bunch of skanks shake their boobs at sad, lonely, dirty old men."
"Because you can! You're eighteen; you should take advantage of it! What else can you do at eighteen these days that you couldn't do at seventeen? Buy cigarettes? No, they're illegal. Drink? No, we'd have to drive an hour to Wisconsin, and none of us can afford the gas."
"I REALLY don't want to go to a girlie bar," Lana said. "My dad would kill me if he knew I went to a place like that."
"Your dad probably DOES go to a place like that," Sarah replied.
"Sarah, that was really mean," I said.
"Sorry," Sarah said. She could be a real bitch, but I always seemed to have a way of engendering her kinder side.
"It's all so stupid anyway," I said. "You can be nude in public all you want. Why do they need a special bar for it?"
"What?" Lana said.