Naked (Sunday) Lunch

So. I’ve been thinking about nudity a lot recently. This may or may not have anything to do with the fact that my girlfriend is several thousands of miles away, but I feel that I’ve been thinking about it in a more intellectual sense; that I’ve been questioning our notions of respectability; why do we consider clothing essential - you know, aside from practical reasons such as warmth, protection, etc? You wouldn’t want to use a soldering iron naked. Are we as a nation just a load of prudes and should we, perhaps, embrace a more Germanic approach towards unashamedly exposing ourselves in public?

I’ll tell you why this has been on my mind. Back in July Beck and I went to meet my parents one Saturday morning in Buckinghamshire. It was warm, but not hot. A pleasant summer day. We exited the M40 at junction 10 where there is always a queue of traffic as it works through a series of roundabouts linking the motorway, the A43 and the services. A couple of cars ahead of us, in the left hand lane, is a battered old BMW from which a long, male and bare arm lazily hangs out of the window.

“Look,” I said slightly bored by our lack of movement, “that bloke’s got his shirt off. Wouldn’t have thought it was that warm.” As we slowly edged alongside them I glanced to my left for no other reason than sheer nosiness. And then I looked again. Yep. Definitely boobs in that car. His wife-girlfriend-female companion was also topless.

Fortunately the traffic was very, very slow and my observation led to a debate as to whether they were merely topless or were, in fact, completely naked. I decided to try and find out. I slowed right down so we were level again and pounding along at about 3 miles an hour. Beck refused to participate so I raised myself out of my seat and tried to peer over the crest of their door.

Unfortunately I couldn’t tell either way, but I did get clocked trying to gawp. The guy laughed; the girl initially blushed and looked away, but then scowled. Hell, she’s the one with her baps out in the middle of a traffic jam - what does she expect? But I suspect that this reaction means that they were indeed starkers.

All sorts of things ran through my mind: How had they got into the car from their house? Perhaps they had undressed in the car, if so why? How were they going to get out of the car? Were they going to some secret Oxfordshire society of exhibitionists meeting? I considered trying to follow them but managed to loose them at the very first roundabout and so instead we ventured on to a join my folks for a fully clothed afternoon.

Naked people, however, keep cropping up in my life at the moment. We went on holiday to Croatia recently. Now we had tried to go before, back in 2003 I think, but had been unable to find a campsite that wasn’t nudist. Using our very slow dial-up internet connection we were logging onto websites and saying things like, “oo that’s a fantastic location, right by the beach. Look it says ‘welcome’ in English. This picture’s downloading slowly. Oh, great, a penis.” We went to Sicily instead, endured temperatures in the high thirties and didn’t sleep for a week.

The campsites in 2007 involved more clothing, but nudism is still big business in Croatia. I mainly blame the huge number of Germans for whom exposing yourself in the Summer is as normal as women shaving their armpits (oh, no, hang on a minute, that comparison doesn’t work). For me, though, the idea of getting my nob out in strong sunlight just makes we wince with pain.

Nudism seems to have a code of etiquette, although I’m not sure how it works. There’s almost a set of unwritten rules and I was worried about getting caught out. For example, we were staying on the Peljesac Peninsula, near Dubrovnik. Having been busy for most of the morning we drove down to a tiny village of Zuljana which my Rough Guide said had nice beaches for an afternoon swim. The book recommended venturing beyond the village to more isolated coves, but warned that the decision as to whether these coves were nudist or not depended on who arrived first. As we descended down the slopes, through the trees to the beach, we were a little concerned as to what was waiting for us. It was fortunately a clothed site. I wonder, though, what would happen if a nudist and a clothist (for want of a better phrase) were to arrive simultaneously. How would you know how far to go? Would they begin preparing for a day at the beach normally; laying out towels, finding a book, taking off their shirt all the while keeping one eye on the other person to check how much was on show. Who would win? Would the clothist be scared off by the sight of pubic hair or would the nudist be reluctant to inflict their genitals on the innocent?

Incidentally, I’m calling them clothists, but there is often very little clothing involved. Nearly-nude people would be more appropriate. Being topless was pretty common and the bottom parts of swimming costumes were pretty skimpy. In fact it seemed that, as a man, the fatter (and probably more Germanic) you are the smaller, tighter and usually redder your speedos are.

Croatia also boasts the world’s biggest nudist campsite at a place called Polari, just outside Rovinj - a place we inadvertently found ourselves outside. We’d taken the wrong turn, honestly, but Beck recognised the name instantly. “That’s where all the nudies are, having fun,” she cried out as I rapidly slammed the car into reverse. The signs at the entrance proclaimed the most “welcoming, friendly and cheapest” site the region. Also, no doubt, the one with the largest number of todgers parading about every morning. Big bushes and high trees surrounded the perimeters and there was no way you could see in, but I think that we could hear the sounds of happy, joyful, bouncing, naked Germans contentedly surveying their fellow campers as nature intended.

I guess I’m just curious. There’s enough people doing it, there must be something in it. Is it the sense of liberation? Is there a sexual element to it? (Jesus, can there be considering the mass and age of most of the participants?) Is it just showing off? I saw a bloke in the Lamb last week with very tight shorts and an enormous cock. I can’t believe that he wasn’t aware of how much was on display and I suspect he liked it. I didn’t get close enough to hear if he spoke with a German accent or not.

So, I’m trying out a little experiment as I write this. It’s Sunday and I haven’t been out yet. I’ve had a shower, but not got dressed. All the curtains are still drawn. I’m naked. It feels… well, weird, to be honest. It feels quite normal. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed, but then I am alone. I’m not exposing myself to anyone.

As I finished typing that sentence a realisation is dawning over me. I’m in the room-the-name-of-which-is-currently-under-review following a protest to last week’s blog (or RoNCUR for short) which does not have any curtains. At all. The room is round the back of the house and it’s difficult for anyone in the houses behind to see in. Difficult, but possible. In fact I know it is, because the woman in one of those rooms likes to stand around is just her pants - often at about seven thirty on a Friday evening as she jiggles around deciding what to wear - and if I can see her, she can presumably see me.

I am on display. Christ, the desk lamp is on - I’m literally under the spotlight. A sudden sense of creeping fear comes across me. I feel a little chilly. Is this even legal, I wonder? Sitting around naked in your own RoNCUR? I try to suck my gut in, to angle my crotch further under the table. I’m constantly glancing at the windows of the other houses. All the curtains seem to be drawn, but there could be eyes peeking out from behind. There. Did that one just twitch? Are there people watching me; wondering what the hell I’m doing? I feel like a freak on display - “look at that man,” the squeal is disgust, “he’s got weird bits and is all strange looking!”

Sod it. I slide out my chair and crawl across the floor to find some trousers.