Weenie Waggers

The charge is often made – always by ignorant people –  that naturists / nudists are a bunch of sex-crazed perverts.  Many non-naturists / -nudists imagine life at a nude-friendly venue as being a constant orgy.  One visit to a real naturist venue should cure our detractors of that notion . . . but it won’t.  They will continue to believe what they want to believe.  They base their opinions on one or more of at least three sources: their own prejudices, their secret desires and the rare reports in the news media concerning some naked malefactor who is almost inevitably described as a “nudist.”  It is too bad that we don’t have a naturist / nudist anti-defamation league that could jump all over such reporting and make them print apologies and corrections.  But we don’t.  So we suffer bad press because of bad people.

I was at the beach last weekend and as the afternoon drew late I decided I had manufactured enough vitamin D, packed up my kit and trundled off up the tide line toward the boardwalk, my trusty beach buggy following faithfully behind.  This was at Kellys so the boardwalk was somewhat distant.  When I reached a point well short of the family beach and had just passed the last nudist beach camp I schlepped into my shorts before continuing.

Not long after, when I was well within eyeshot of the Clothen, I noticed a naked guy had built his little camp far too close to them.  So I angled my course towards him with the idea of advising him that this wasn’t a good plan at all.  We don’t want to upset, shock or alarm the textiles after all.  That is only good sense.  On closing the distance between us I realized that the guy wasn’t naked after all.  He was just standing there with his Speedo around his knees and beating the bishop while watching the textiles.  I have 20/20 (corrected) vision so it might tell you something about the guy that I had to get within speaking distance to see what he was about. “Hey,” I began diplomatically, “pervert!”

The guy, let’s call him Stubby, turned toward me and spoke.  For the flavour of his part of the exchange imagine if you will a pirate with a heavy French accent.  If you have ever seen one of the Bugs Bunny cartoons featuring Blacque Jacque Shellaque you will have the voice exactly so I won’t try to render the words into dialect.  “Har!” he said, “I show you my cock!” 

 I had a momentary flash of the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the French soldier in the castle shouts ‘I wave my private parts at your aunties...’  It was surreal enough to get me going.  I replied “Here now, that isn’t a cock, that’s a weenie . . . cocks are much bigger.”

I’m not sure that he heard me, but I think that he must have.  He stopped, thunderstruck.  Perhaps I had offended him – go figure!  Whatever, he pulled up his Speedo, grabbed his meagre beach kit and stomped off down the beach towards the N Zone.  Maybe that wasn’t the ideal outcome but at least if got him away from the kiddies on the family beach and avoided unpleasant media reportage.  I didn’t report the guy because no good would come of that.  Police response time being what it is he wouldn’t have been caught.  Public prejudice being what it is the naturists / nudists who had been minding their own business on the beach all day would have been held guilty by association.

If you want to find real perverts all you have to do is look within textile society.  Those are the people far more likely to be obsessed with sex and to equate sex and nudity.  



Other than that it was a great day at the beach.