It was safe, secured. I was sure of it. I looked out over the long stretch of water I had covered, and decided I’d make that same journey again, only with my hands empty.
Every stroke I took further from the pier sent a shiver through my body. I was too far. I should turn back. Just a little farther, another bolt of pleasure. That was enough, the sun would be setting soon. But I went farther. And farther. I swam by groups playing volleyball, drinking beer, body surfing, couples playing catch, hugging with a quick smooch here and there, a couple surfers almost hit me riding by. They came the closest to me and probably would’ve been able to see me through the water if they weren’t focused on the few feet directly ahead of them. For everybody else, I tried to leave just enough water between us to make my body a murky and unclear blob of skin, a far cry from the pink bikini that probably illuminated an extra couple feet in the water, but who among these strangers would remember what I wore last time I passed them?
My pruning body soaked up the world. It was not them who might see me naked. It was my bare body tingling with excitement on the fringe of seeing the world for the first time.
I saw Shades and his group of friends laughing about something someone said. I was going to make a point to wave to them, so risky, but then I saw somebody I didn't want to see, the Creep from the bus. And he was talking to Shades and his group of friends.
I had been sure to keep the water covering myself, but now I slunk even lower, so that my eyes were just above the water like a crocodile. I didn’t want the Creep to see my face. Trying to keep your eyes just above wavy ocean water is a recipe for lots of salt water in your eyes.
Instead of hanging out to wait for the Creep to leave and for my salty eyes to turn as red as those of the boardwalk doctors, I started to breastroke back to the pier. My adventure had been nice, pleasant, thrilling. But it was time to get back to real life. The sun was setting and the crowds had thinned. The crowds meant safety to me, and I wanted to leave while they were still here and before it got dark. The Creep was the reality check I needed.
The distance between the pier and I, between my bathing suit and my naked body tantalized me. How far I was from being proper. Ridiculous scenarios started playing in my head, like a shark attack forcing everyone to run out of the water, or a looming tsunami pulling the water far out and leaving me exposed on the barren sandbar.
On the way back, I even said hello to a few passersby. “Nice surfing,” I said to a curly haired teen on a boogie board. He said thanks, peering under the water at my wibbly wobbly body. I thought he was too far to be able to see more than a hazy monocolored shape. But being on his boogie board, he was a little higher up than your average swimmer. Maybe at his angle, he could see more than I thought. Probably not, but who knows. I swam away on my downhill roller coaster.
The pier was just yards away. I remembered the pole that I had hid my suit near and approached it with caution, for there was a fisherman on my side of the pier now. I felt the ground getting rocky beneath my feet. This was the spot. No. It couldn’t be the spot. I couldn’t see my suit. I felt around with my feet. It felt just like the stone I had used. I was sure it was the stone I had used. I went underwater and lifted the stone up. Nothing.
I came up with the most intense panic yet, a hurricane mixed with that strong surge of butterflies exploding around my bladder. I scanned the surrounding waters, looked at the shore and out at the ocean and saw nothing floating anywhere. Except seaweed, there was plenty of that floating around. I craned my neck to see the top of the pier and the one fisherman, a little farther down. I thought of shouting to him, asking if he had seen a bathing suit floating around, or had maybe hooked one in his line. No, I thought, that’s ridiculous.
Nobody hooked my bathing suit. I knew what happened. And I should’ve known better. Of course my swimsuit got loose. The water eroded the sand around it, nullifying my security measures. The same way the crashing waves always dislodged my sandcastle seashells, the current had stolen my only cover.
I swam back out again to where I had first entered the water, my body shaking with pleasure and fear. This was real. There was no going back. There were a few blocks separating my nude self from my home and I had no idea how I would get there.
3 The Shore
Someone had stolen my flip flops. I was certain of it, staring at the empty spot where I left them. The sun had set and the beach was a lot less crowded. I was quite cold, crouched in the shallow ocean water. It always seems no matter how warm the water is going in, it eventually gets cold, like it slowly permeates your skin until it touches your bones, which have no tolerance to anything below body temperature. Also, the beach would be closing in a few hours. Security guards probably had spare towels or knew where to get them. I could just wait for the closing guard to drive by and wave him down. It’s just one person seeing me naked, not bad for the amount of risk I put myself in that day. But the beach wouldn’t close for a while and the water was only getting colder. I tried to remember how cold it had to be for hypothermia to be a possibility but high school first aid was a blur in my mind. No, I didn’t think I’d get hypothermia, but I’d be more pruned than a raisin, coming out of the water like an eighty-year old.
A second wind lifted my spirits and ended any deliberation. I was ready to make a run for it. I was shaking, either from excitement or the cold, probably both. I moved towards the shore, gathering as much seaweed as I could as I went. The water level lowered and I got down on my hands and knees, crawling in the water.
I waited, my heart pounding. A couple got up from their matching beach towels holding hands and walking off towards a nearby fruit vendor. I did not see their dog, chewing on a bone, sitting a few feet from their towels. And so thinking this was the best chance I’d have, I took three slow breaths to prepare myself. Go!
I couldn’t move. My nude body stuck in the sand. It was in my head. It was nerves. It was fear. I thought about the looming security guard. I thought about all the seaweed in my hands. I thought about my increasingly pruned body. I thought I might be stuck in the sand forever. But I had to go. I had to. I had to.
My body lunged out of the water. My hands plastered the seaweed to my body as best I could on the run, creating a whole new style of bikini. Frilly. Lots of holes. Could I pull it off in this dim lighting? I ran past couples kissing on the sand. I ran by drunken groups of friends celebrating their mutual interests. I kept my distance from that one particular group of friends, but for all I know they saw me hustling and trying to keep my stuff together from a distance. I couldn’t tell who saw or didn’t see my flopping seaweed covered breasts and slick behind. I hoped nobody saw, and it certainly was possible, what with the darkness, the drunkenness and the horniness of my beach co-inhabitants.
I reached the empty towels of the couple I had spied. I grabbed the closest one to me and began to wrap it around my body but I couldn’t get it all the way around. It was snagged on something. A grrr erupted from the ground beneath me. The couple’s small Boston Terrier tugged at the towel. I tugged back but its tiny razor teeth were firmly implanted. I let go of the towel and the Terrier fell back on his rump pulling the towel over himself. I grabbed the other one and ran away, only getting a few feet before the dog caught up with me. This time I was ready. Instead of wrapping the towel around my body, I held it above my head, hoping wind resistance alone would hold my seaweed bikini up. I ran straight for a changing booth, the yipping Terrier right on my heels.
The graffiti walls were now full of teens and hippies smoking weed. I made it by the wall without any hoots or hollers and entered the changing booth. Maybe they hadn’t seen me. Or maybe one did and is now desperately trying to convince skeptical friends that a naked woman had just run by them, ‘Dude, I think you should pass the blunt, there was no naked chick’.
My musings were interrupted by barking coming from inside the booth. The faux bamboo walls didn’t go all the way to the floor so the Terrier stuck his head right under and barked
and barked until I finally yelled back. It retreated but only a few feet, where it continued it’s aural barrage.
I wrapped the towel around my body, leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. I could run home like this. The dog wouldn’t follow me the whole way would it? On the wall to my right was a showerhead. A sudden heightened awareness of my sea salty stickiness overcame me. I unwrapped the towel, hung it over the wall and turned on the faucet.
The water wasn’t warm but it did its job, quickly wiping away the sand and grit and shame. Wait. Shame. This is the part where I expected to feel shame, but I felt none. Only excitement. Only joy. Where was the post naughty adventure remorse? The regret?
This was dangerous. I wasn’t supposed to feel so good about doing things like this. It was a recipe for a relapse. I saw a future of increasingly more perilous situations, escalating to a red and blue climax and resolution behind bars. Consequences. I would probably lose my job, my career. What jobs could sex offenders work? I shook my head. That was irrelevant. I wouldn’t get caught because I wouldn’t do it again. Besides, I didn’t mean to do it today, not entirely. And if I had been caught I wouldn’t have gotten in trouble. I was sure women lost their bikinis to lecherous waves all the time. No big deal.
I turned the shower faucet off and reached for the towel. But it wasn’t there. No no no no. I dropped to my knees and looked out below the door. It was gone. In the distance I saw that damn Terrier. I was sure the dog must’ve somehow taken it but there was nothing in its mouth. Next to it walked a woman and sure enough, the towel was in her arms. Of course. The yelping dog led her right to it. “I need that towel! Please. I need that towel!” I yelled. But she either didn’t hear me or she ignored me. And what did I expect? It was her towel. I was the thief. She probably thought I was just another boardwalk weirdo.
Soon she was definitely out of earshot. I cursed myself for not trying harder. I knew I was in the wrong for taking the towel but if I had explained myself she would have understood. What would have happened if I had yelled out, ‘I’m naked! Don’t leave a defenseless woman alone in the nude on a beach full of creeps!’
A sinister thought ran through my mind for the first time, that maybe I didn’t want this adventure to be done, that my unconscious mind purposefully put little effort into calling to that woman. And maybe I didn’t really do as good a job at securing my bikini as I could have. There were bigger rocks around. No, I pushed these thoughts away. I couldn’t believe that. And yet, I seemed so scared by the idea of it. Perhaps fueling the whole concept was the tingling sensation growing in the pit of my stomach as I realized I had to venture out once again in the nude.
Sleeping in the changing booth slash shower was out of the question. The sand would get real cold in the dead of night and the ground wasn’t sanitary. I’d most likely wake up sniffling with a cold and an STD. Okay, so maybe that’s an exaggeration.
There was another problem. My parents. I’m an adult and I stay out late but if I’m not coming home I usually let them know. I’m sure they’ve been texting me asking when I’ll be back in. It’s not the biggest deal, I’ve gone out late without telling them before but I don’t want to worry them. Maybe, maybe this is exactly the type of scenario they should be worried about. No, I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t even be living with them.
My seaweed bikini had torn up under my feet during my brief shower. It was rendered useless now. I would have to go nude, completely nude this time, with nothing but the shadows to hide me.
I opened the booth door and peeked around at the boardwalk, still alive with people. It was also lined with street lamps. It’d be hard to get too close without being spotted. That’s what I get for doing this on a Friday.
The clown I saw facepainting children was still there, only he wasn’t facepainting anybody anymore. He sat in his chair with his head in his hands, verging on sleep. Wait, maybe he was asleep.
Rather than think too much and miss an opportunity, I crept out of the booth and started along the dark sand towards the face painter. I made sure to stay at least thirty feet from the boardwalk walking parallel to it, out of the streetlamp light’s reach.
My body was drying against a warm summer night breeze. I had never experienced a breeze like this, against all of my body. It made it that much more exciting seeing all the boardwalkers only thirty feet away, still shopping, walking, holding hands, eating ice cream. Their numbers had dwindled since daylight, but it was still enough that I moved with extreme caution.
I crouch-walked up behind the face painter’s cart at the edge of the sand. He was asleep. He must’ve been homeless too. He didn’t even take his clown makeup off before going to sleep. I overheard a man ask a woman if she wanted her face painted. I shrunk down as best I could behind the face painter’s cart, my chest pounding. Then I realized it was said as a joke and the woman laughed it off. The couple kept walking down the boardwalk, oblivious to my presence. Next to the cart were a few yogurt containers. They had lids on but paint on the sides revealed the colors they contained.
I grabbed the black container and the blue container and started off back into the sandy shadows, feeling like I’d committed the most debased crime I’d ever commit stealing from that desperate man. I stopped and turned back, remembering something I had noticed. The man had a hat for collecting tips in front of the cart. No, this was the most debased crime I’d ever commit. I went back and reached my arm out from under the cart and grabbed two quarters out of his hat, promising to myself that I would come back some day clothed and pay this man much more for his trouble.
Money in hand, I found a spot behind a palm tree to begin my transformation.
The paint felt like ice flowing over my body. You could’ve scored an orange with my nipples, they were so hard. I had to be careful with the paint. If I was too sloppy it’d be obvious I was just a naked woman in bodypaint. But would it really matter? A cousin of mine used to buy the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated every year. The release of that issue always seemed to coincide with our family trip and my cousin had no shame looking through that mag during every car ride, dinner outing or tourist attraction. The body painted swimsuits in those were probably as good as they get and yet they still were obviously naked ladies in paint.
Black helped. The black paint was a lot less revealing. I fashioned the upper half into a tank top. The edges around my shoulder ended up pretty blurred especially under my armpits. I tried holding my arms straight out on either side until the paint dried. If my adventure was a movie my high school drama teacher would’ve yelled out Biblical allusion alert, Biblical allusion alert! The idea of naked painted me somehow symbolizing Jesus in that moment really cracked me up. I bent over laughing and couldn’t hold my arms up anymore. So the armpits were pretty smeared but I could work with that.
There was very little blue paint in the other yogurt cup, just enough to make some short jean shorts. The blue was definitely more vibrant than any jeans I’d ever seen, but I was hoping to stick to the shadows, where the details of my outfit would be lost anyways.
The truth was I had no mirror to see how my work of art actually came out. For all I knew, there were gaping holes on the back of my painted black tank top and half my ass was exposed.
One of the girls sitting against the graffitied wall smoking a joint had torn jeans and a giant loose tank top exposing her lacy black bra underneath. Maybe I looked something like that. I could only hope. A burst of air escaped my lungs in the form of a chuckle. No, I probably looked like a naked painted woman.
The paint was dry within a few minutes and I was ready to make my way across the boardwalk, which was more lit up than any other street in the city. That was it, I only had to cross the boardwalk once, then the worst would be over. I watched and waited for an opening. As a teenager, I would play Frogger in the arcade down the block on this very boardwalk. It was all training for this moment.
It was time. I clenched the stolen change in my fist, took a deep breath and ste
pped into the light.
A couple was walking down the boardwalk holding hands, talking. The man looked frail compared to his large, both in height and width, date. The woman said, “I don’t understand what she’s thinking, calling me every day as if we’re still friends. She doesn’t get that it’s over.” Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the man’s head turning as I passed. The woman said, “Hey are you listening to me?”
I dodged into a shadowy building door frame across the street and exhaled. I looked back and saw the man still looking over his shoulder in my direction as the woman next to him chatted away.
I’m not sure how much he saw. While I was in the light, I had taken a good look at my front. From my angle, my nipples, although cold and hard, looked reasonable enough. It just looked like I had a tank top with no bra on. False. My bottom boob was more obvious, but because it was black paint, the black crack created by my resting breasts was somewhat hidden. My blue bottom was probably the real problem. I was wishing I had just used the black paint for the top and bottom. It would have hid my butt crack much better. At least I was recently waxed. There would have been no hiding the front sporting any sort of fuzz. Then again, instead it looked like I was donning quite the camel toe.
I started down the empty street away from the boardwalk and peeked around the corner to find exactly what I was looking for; a pay phone. There was a problem though. A young man in a hoodie leaned against the chain linked fence right next to it. He looked like your Hollywood stereotype drug dealer. I like to assume real life stereotypes are the opposite from time to time. Maybe this guy was just waiting to be picked up by his mom.
ENF: Embarrassed Nude Female Page 3