The Nudist Beach Police
They surrounded me. Ten legs standing, five fingers – pointing, three penises waving, four tits swaying – all wrinkled and dry, turned to leather from the sun. “Take your pants off or get the fuck off the beach,” one mouth yelled. I stood there, silent, taking the abuse and sharing it between my ears. “What, you can’t get naked? Are you scared? Hey everybody, this guy is scared to get his dick out!”
My back was aching from carrying a heavy bag full of beers up and down the beach, the day was overcast and I had drunk more than I had sold. I took it off, placed it on the sand and took a breath while carefully preparing my defence (or attack – call it what you will) and then released. “You are all fascists, why do you want to see my dick so badly? I’d prefer it if you took me out to dinner first.” The words came out carved and sculpted, edited to perfection. I had known this was coming for over two weeks now and I was prepared. “You call yourself hippies, constantly preaching notions of free love and acceptance, yet you stand here and tell me that I cannot be on this beach if I am not naked… seems like hypocritical discrimination to me.”
One older woman stepped forward from the injured pack. Her body was brown and biggish, yet free from cellulite. I found her vivaciousness arousing; she made me glad that I was still wearing pants – later, when I finally got naked, I would find myself slurping jelly shots from her cavernous belly button. “Look hon, everyone else is doing it. If you want to sell beer on this beach you have to get naked as well. If us old wrinkly farts can do it, so can you – you’re young and gorgeous, what have you got to hide?”
As appealing as she made it sound, I was not going to be forced into getting naked – call it pride, ego, even ignorance – I didn’t care, cos it was bullshit. “I’ve watched you guys for the last two weeks terrorising ‘textiles’ in your attempt to gain imperialistic control over liquor vending on this beach based purely on your ability to get nude. There is no way I am going to succumb to this violent tirade of madness.”
One tall, broad-shouldered, large-penised man entered the ring. “Fucking get the fuck off this beach or I am going to make you.” His articulation apparently hadn’t undergone the same rigorous selection as my own; however, it wasn’t long before it dragged mine down with it and we soon found ourselves in a nonsensical exchange of abuse. “Fuck you cunt,” I yelled, “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want on this beach.” His two large feet stepped forward, his eyes glazed over and his fists clenched preparing for attack. “So now you’re going to fight me because I won’t get nude? This is madness I tell you, madness.” He kept coming forward; I began to retreat.
Luckily, a third-party nudist interjected and stopped him from pounding my clothed body into the sand. The mediator attempted to mediate. “Man, I have seen you on this beach for the last two weeks. I know you’re cool – you just need to understand that we are trying to hold onto a belief here, is it really that big a deal?” Yes, it was: because of my ego, fascism in any form must be challenged – there isn’t room for judgment in a world of individuals, plus I hate authority. I stood there, looked each of them in the eyes and told them calmly that it was my choice to get naked and I’d make it for my own reasons, not because I was pressured into it; that what they were doing was unfair and contradictory to their beliefs and in a word, fascist. I always relish the chance to undermine the self-righteous.
They all stood still, muttering to one another, except for the angry one who turned silent and dejected, seemingly embarrassed of his outburst. I left the pack of nudists and walked slowly down the beach to try and sell more beer. “Ice cold beer, ice cold beer!” I chanted as I went, full of narcissistic delight. I had won and they had lost, yet I was fully aware that next time I came down to the beach I had to get naked, and I was pretty excited about it.