Hippy Hollow is a clothing-optional "beach" in Austin. Now "clothing-optional" sounds like code for nudist colony, where things flop and jiggle. Not quite, as I learned. The landscape wasn’t a beach at all, but basically consisted of rocks along a hillside which emptied into Lake Travis. There is no sand or, as the sign near the parking attendant indicated, nudity in the parking lot. There’s also no lewd behavior. I like this word: lewd. I will use it more often. Now, I’ve been to nude beaches before, and there is absolutely a difference between the US variety and the European ones. In Europe you are left to "naturally" enjoy; it feels normal to be naked. Tanned mothers apply SPF to their blond ringlet children. It’s easier to feel comfortable there. In the states, there is, even with families of hippy nudists eating noodle salad and playing beach volleyball, a sexually charged atmosphere. At Hippy Hollow, no one under 18 is permitted entry, which really amps things up. It’s no longer nudist families promoting ease and comfort in ones own skin. It becomes sexual, despite what the signs indicate.
When I was younger I used to go to the nude beach, beside Robert Moses State Park on Long Island, with my mother. Jones Beach was blanket-to-blanket of Long Island, complete with radio stations and an overcrowded snack bar. "You’re not escaping anything when you go to that place." There was nothing calming or natural about it. My mother and I went to the last lot of Robert Moses because my mother insisted it was less crowded and the water was cleaner. This was true, actually, although it took an extra fifteen minutes by car to get there. My mother liked to sit on the edge of the two beaches, watching passersby reactions as they crossed the line, unknowingly into nudist territory. Oddly enough, my mother would never dream of getting nude in public. She changed her clothes in her closet or faced a wall if I were in the room. She also wasn’t a voyeur. She was a prude, but she didn’t like to think of herself as such. She raised us to call our father, "Poppa" because "it sounds more European." She was not over-protective or uptight, but she was ashamed of her body. Maybe she didn’t want Lea or me to learn this. So we sat on the edge, literally. Sometimes we’d walk to Fire Island, and eventually my mother opened up. "Catch anything?" she asked a naked older man with a fishing pole.
"Just crabs," he replied.
And my mother and I kept walking, then caught on, elbowed each other and began to laugh. "He meant CRABS, Mom."
"Oh come on, he did not!" Then after a few more yards… "Did he?" We were fully-dressed in our bathing suits, but we were walking along the ocean, not loitering.
Recently I returned to the nude beach, just this time with The Suitor, and this time in Texas. I imagined we’d both remove all our clothes. He’d rub me to orgasm when no one was watching, very careful not to get caught. Each time I was close, he’d have to stop, in fear of being discovered. Then he’d go for it when he was sure no one was watching. But we’d have different vantage points, and I’d see that someone was watching. A man was jerking off onto the ground from a bit away, aroused at how I was being handled. This would have been lewd behavior, but who’s going to tell?
So once we found a spot beneath a ledge at Hippy Hollow, I stripped down to all my pregnant naked glory, imagining myself bigger than I am. I’m recently turned on by the idea of pregnant, lactating, women and sex. I find it very hot, and I think for the most part, my days are lived in constant sexual arousal. The books say it’s to do with pregnant blood-flow, but suddenly I want to watch porn and fill our days with dirty sex. The Suitor, however, refused to get hip at the hollow. He took out a book on home improvements and began to read. After about ten minutes, I could tell he was uncomfortable. "Would you like me to put my bathing suit back on?"
"Don’t do it for me. Just explain to me what the benefit is of taking off your bottoms. I understand your top and not wanting tan lines for your wedding dress, but just explain. What’s the benefit?" The benefit?
"It’s a nude beach. It’s not about benefit."
Then he didn’t say anything. I thought this would be a sexy experience. I suppose there’s nothing sexy about a group of men with coolers walking around, fully clothed, watching the nude. "You can at least cross your legs, Stephanie, when someone walks by." It’s seedy, actually, and I’m sure it’s what he was reacting to/recoiling from. So I put my bikini bottom back on. The last thing I wanted was to make him uncomfortable. Aside from these men, who seemed like back-stage grips, it was all couples, mostly older, wearing sunscreen and over-sized hats. Some even took to the water with water noodles (those bright hollow floating wands) and blow up rafts. The hats kind of threw me off. You don’t think of nude beaches as, well, anything but naked. Sunglasses, white lifeguard noses, and boat hats make you realize they’re people, not just bodies. I suggested we go in the water, but he refused (which is very unlike him), so I got dressed, and we left. On our exit, I couldn’t help but notice a couple, about our age, spread out on their blanket. He was jiggling her breast with one hand and cupping her crotch with the other. I was jealous, even though they were putting on a show. Clearly that was their intention. I certainly wasn’t about to rat them out to the parking attendant, but I also wasn’t going to stick around and watch. I’m a doer, after all.