For several decades in the 20th century, young men in the U.S. swam in YMCA pools, at countryside swimming holes, in high school and college phys. ed. courses, and even at well-attended swim team meets, totally, bollocks naked.
Yes, that's right: fully bare. No skimpy speedos, swim trunks, or even underwear; and usually no hair caps or swim goggles. The prevailing masculine ideal of the time viewed modesty with suspicion or even contempt. Young men were expected to conform and not complain about their privacy.
This little known historical fact seems incredible or outrageous to modern American sensibilities, but America's strapping young lads used to grow up swimming in the buff. In some rural towns as late as the early '80s, American men in their late teens and early twenties took swim classes, swam competitively, and stood dripping wet—waiting in lines for diving boards or to do laps—baring every inch of skin, from the pruned soles of their feet to the top of their crown. It was a harrowing, formative experience.
The titillating practice began to come to an unhappy end starting about sixty or so years ago with technological and social changes. Supposedly inefficient pool filters that couldn't handle lint from suits started to improve (though curiously, women never swam nude). Further, as gender equity and shared, coed spaces became the norm, deference to modesty—given new life by the rise of the Religious Right—finally won out over the long tradition of bare-ass male swimming.
However, like any social change, the switch from mandatory nude swimming to mandatory suited swimming was not overnight or uniform. Nudity was phased out disparately and gradually across time and place. Some teams and school districts began by making suits optional; some held swim practices and swimming classes nude, but their swim teams began competing in speedos. One college might have mandated suits as early as the 1950s, but the neighboring university may still have retained nude swimming for years.
This stimulating background history lesson brings us to a strict reform school in a sleepy Midwestern town, during the early Carter administration—right in the middle of the unfortunate swing of the men's swimwear pendulum away from bare asses and exposed members toward covered midriffs and thighs.
It was a warm day, and the autumn sunlight poured into a hallow-oak office, illuminating the face of a cherubic young man wearing a preparatory school uniform of a black jacket, mid-thigh shorts and long socks. The young man stood adroitly before a polished, stately desk, behind which a stern looking older man sat, rambling and pointing his finger.
The 18 year old Ryan was fair-of-face, average height, and had a slender but fit build. He had medium length wavy blonde hair, was clean-shaven, and had a certain slightly cocky air about him. In coming decades, he might have been called a "twink". Having been sent away for repeated delinquency—boozing, general hoodlumism—he found himself once again in the schoolmaster's office. Nudey magazines were strictly forbidden in the dormitories (as we will soon see, quite ironically so). He had been in trouble before, but even this rowdy teen knew he had crossed a line. He had been hoping to clean up his act to be able to go to trade's school—and 18 or not, he dreaded the thought of what shade his stepfather's cane might turn his soft, plushy pink bottom if he were kicked out of school.
He stood, only somewhat listening, as the middle aged, stuffy looking older man in front of him bellowed and shouted about morality and responsibility—but his concluding remark caught his full attention.
"Are you listening, son? You just need some character building. A little shame."
Ryan was taken aback. What was the old man getting at?
"I'm giving you another chance—but in return, I expect something. You need to learn a little responsibility, and frankly, you need an attitude change."
The headmaster paused, giving Ryan a glance up and down. What is he getting at?
"You will be the coach's assistant for the swim team this coming semester."
"But!" The lad caught himself. "Err, but Sir, I don't swim well. I never have been on the team..."
Ryan was puzzled: in that moment, the schoolmaster's face became tinted with a shade of... was that... glee?
The schoolmaster shook his head, amused.
"Oh son, that won't matter much."
Show up at 9:00 AM Saturday at the gymnasium pool. Bring nothing.
He remembered the master's words clearly. His instructions had been simple, and the youth did not want to make things worse by showing up late.
Ryan opened the metallic door to the open, grey-tiled gym pool; just large enough to hold a half dozen standard 50-meter lanes, a few meters of tile on each side, and rafters along one of the walls. The room was a few floors high, and light poured in from the high-set rectangular windows. It smelled like chlorine.
Ryan took the scene in unnoticed, standing by the door.
Are they naked?
Ten or so guys his age were swimming laps, wearing only their goggles and swim caps. A handful of them were swimming backstroke, and every couple of seconds, their inertia would bring a blur of fleshy appendage and wiry hair to the water surface.
A few, taking a break between laps, were sitting on poolside wooden benches. Their towels, too small to wrap around themselves, were underneath them.
So it was true what they said.
Ryan smirked, half entertained. There was something amusing about their nudity, even though it was clustered away in the mostly empty gymnasium.
His amusement at the spectacle was broken by a burly man startling toward him and extending a hand, giving Ryan quite a firm handshake.
The swim coach was a handsome man in his mid-30s, muscled and broad-shouldered, sporting stubble, a whistle, a white T-shirt, a pair of gym shorts, a clipboard, and sandals. Quite a contrast to the monochromatic beige blurs darting through the water.
"You must be Ryan. I'll show you around."
Ryan glanced around the locker room. It was more or less non-descript: well-lit; off-white tile. Standard: showers, lockers, benches, and not much else. A laundry room was adjacent to the changing room—where the towels were washed.
Coach was giving Ryan a walk-around, spouting little details about the role of coach's assistant, or "towel boy". Ryan noticed the coach seemed to be almost amused, grinning at him. Maybe that's just how he was? Or perhaps there was something else he wasn't telling him.
"You need to keep the place clean; fold clothes, refill the soap, help me when I need it. Help at the meets and with training."
Ryan nodded.
"Well, that's about it for now. Alright, go ahead and undress. As you probably notice, that means everything."
"Err—what?"
Ryan must've heard wrong.
The coach folded his arms and raised his eyebrow, amused.
"Are you slow kid? Did you not get a glimpse of the team uniform when you were poolside?"
Ryan was taken aback. "Err, but I'm not..." he stammered, dazed and growing nervous—"I'm not on the team!"
"Men here have always swam in the buff, kid. It's not that big of a deal, and frankly it's a bit of a team-building exercise. Puts hair on your chest."
Coach looked at the top of Ryan's tank top, glimpsing his chest.
"You could use a little. I start letting you wearing your panties in here, and soon everybody will be getting skittish and shy. Can't have that on a winning team."
Ryan stood there, shocked, subconsciously placing his arms in a timid fold.
"We're wasting time now. I don't have all day."
Ryan stood there stupefied. There was silence except for the faint tick-tock of the analogue clock and the hum of generators. Coach stared, but Ryan could not meet his gaze as he nervously peeling off his shirt to reveal his toned, slender frame. He seemed to drag out the process. Then he kneeled down and wrestled with his sneakers, then his socks, revealing his bare feet. When it came time to undo his belt, his heart started to pound. Coach was still standing there, seeming amused.
"Could I... could I keep my underwear on?"
Coach stared at him, stony-faced.
"Kid, if you don't want to get expelled, you need to complete your semester as towel boy."
Ryan paused for a minute. He took a deep breath, and sat down on one of the wooden benches. He slipped off his shorts, wiggling them past his thighs, calves, and off his ankles, letting them lay crumpled on the tile. He waited a few moments, sitting on the bench in his underwear. Then, heart pounding, he slid down boxers. His hands were almost shaking from nervousness as he sent his white briefs cascading down his shapely blonde legs.
Ryan felt naked. He felt couch's eyes on him as he sat there, fully exposed. His head spinning, and half involuntarily, he folded his arms across his chest, trying to cover himself.
The coach laughed. "Don't be a girl. Yours is hardly the first pecker we've seen here. You'll forget about what you're 'wearing' soon enough."
The lad sat there mesmerized. He was so bewildered and shocked that thoughts weren't coming to his head. Fumes. Was this happening? He was brought to attention when coach tossed a handheld timer at him.
"You're not here to sit around. We need to take lap times."
Ryan took a deep breath and pulled himself together. Fine. The others are like this too. I can deal with this, even if it is really fucking weird.
The coach motioned for Ryan to stand up, waving authoritatively with his hand. As Ryan's bare cheeks pulled away from the wooden bench, a suction sound reminded the lad—as if he needed to be reminded—of how bare he was.
Let's just get this over with.
The first few practices went by as usual, with Ryan becoming slightly less uncomfortable—but never, of course, completely acclimating to walking around nude. The fact that the other guys were naked too eventually made him less skittish, although they were covered most of the time by the shimmering water. They seemed somehow anonymous with their black goggles and swim caps, and they seemed to distance themselves from the "towel boy". Whatever. He tried to avoid getting to know the others too well, who seemed to have a bit of a clique.
