I’ve always been fascinated by nudists. It isn’t the wobbly bits that intrigue me (yeah, okay, maybe a little) but the driving force behind the compulsion to walk around naked in public. The first time I ever encountered nudists was during a family holiday in Broome, Western Australia. We visited Cable Beach for a camel ride at sunset one afternoon and found after ten minutes, to our complete surprise, that the camel trek took us along the stretch of beach dedicated to nudists. My mum spied a leathery old man sauntering towards us with a golf club, thwacking a ball every couple of yards.
“Is…is that man naked?” she asked.
Oh yes. There was no mistaking his pendulous dong waving in the breeze as he waved to us.
The next day I decided to ride my rented bicycle to Cable Beach. I told my family I was looking at souvenirs when I was actually going to try nudism out for myself. I found a secluded part of the beach, stripped off, applied generous amounts of sunscreen to my body and my previously nocturnal wang and sat back against the warm sand. I was a nudist and, by God, it felt liberating. It also felt rather hot. I looked around at the other nudists who all appeared to be on the wrong side of seventy years old. They didn’t seem to be feeling the heat but their gristly, tanned hides spoke volumes. Mainly about cancer. Having Scottish ancestry meant my time in the sun was limited and I had another fifteen minutes before I turned into a walking leg of roast pork. I closed my eyes but a short time later heard an inquiring voice nearby.
“Excuse me, mate. Have you seen my golf ball?”
I shook my head and reached for my pants, trying to avoid looking at the schlong oscillating at my eye level.
I guess you could say my life as a nudist was short but eventful.