Nudist Quotes

Yes, reason has been a part of organized religion, ever since two nudists took dietary advice from a talking snake.

One sometimes gets the impression that the mere words ‘Socialism’ and ‘Communism’ draw towards them with magnetic force every fruit-juice drinker, nudist, sandal-wearer, sex-maniac, Quaker, ‘Nature Cure’ quack, pacifist, and feminist in England.

There are no nudists in cold areas.

I am rather like a mosquito in a nudist camp; I know what I want to do, but I don’t know where to begin.

Doubtless there were insanely frenzied warriors, but there is no evidence that lunatic nudists made regular appearances on the battlefield.

Solomon's Laws: 8. If a guy who's smart, handsome, and rich invites you and your girlfriend to a nudist club...chances are he's got a giant shmeckel.

Was it a camp?" Daniel asked. Sean nodded. "A naturist camp." "Maya will feel right at home", Corey said from his spot on a wooden lawn chair. Daniel sputtered a laugh and Sean tried to hide his. "Naturist, not naturalist," I said. "It means nudist." Corey leaped up and spun. "You mean old, naked butts sat on those chairs?

I tell you that there are eighty-plus-year-old nudists cavorting on your property, Ashley O'Ballivan, and all you can do is laugh?

You're a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on." "You should join a nudist colony

There are no nudists in cold places.

We made love outdoors Without a roof, I like most, Without stove, to make love, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and gushing of dew.

Nudist Colony Halloween parties are especially scary. They give the word "moon" a new cruel meaning.

The mere words “Socialism” and “Communism” draw towards them with magnetic force every fruit-juice drinker, nudist, sandal-wearer, sex-maniac, Quaker, “Nature Cure” quack, pacifist, and feminist in England. . . . The food-crank is by definition a person willing to cut himself off from human society in hopes of adding five years on to the life of his carcase; that is, a person out of touch with common humanity.

I learned that when people see a dachshund, they have to yell, "A wiener dog!" Like "A rainbow!" "A Shriner!" "A shooting star!" "A clown!" "A nudist colony!

Helena abruptly stopped, cursing herself for deciding to go on this stupid trip to the ruins. If only she’d stayed at the hotel with her friends, none of this would’ve happened. Now her life was basically over; she’d end up dinner or a prisoner of some deranged nudist vampire.

Richard felt about as conspicuous as a foreskin at a Jewish nudist camp.

I run a nudist colony. I don’t mean to, but my ducks refuse to listen to me when I tell them to put on pants—or at least a bathing suit when they go swimming.

What you wear is more important than what you say, and if your shirt’s not pressed, impressions are instantly formed about you. That’s why I wear nothing, I say nothing, and I network with nudists.

the sight of myself up on the screen, running full tilt through the Over City with nothing but a one-armed leather jacket and my nuts dangling free filled me with a strange, almost primal sense of vulnerability. I don’t know how nudists ever got used to it.

The immediate issue here is whether the Pooh animals realise they constitute a de facto nudist colony.

Though the weather was cool, the beach at Herringsdorf was dotted with quite a few diehard nudists. Primarily men, they lay walrus-like on towels or boosterously congregated.

You’re a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on.” “You should join a nudist colony.” As

He took the bait like a rapist in a nudist colony for the blind.

Group nudity could also be personally beneficial, according to psychologist Abraham M. Maslow, who believed that nudist camps or parks might be places where people can emerge from hiding behind their clothes and armor, and become more self-accepting, revealing, and honest.

Some days I tell myself that my mission is to say something about the art and sometimes the bliss of limitation. And the legibility of landscape. Other days are more dismal. As if I were queueing in the rain outside confessional literature’s nudist colony, mirrors everywhere, blue with cold.

When Christian absolutes were the basis of society, immoral activities such as homosexual or lesbian lifestyles and abortion were outlawed. There has been a fundamental shift. Our society is now based on a relative morality: that is, a person can do what he likes and is answerable to no one but himself as long as the majority of people can be persuaded that their interests are not being threatened. This relative morality results in society being told that no one can say anything against those who choose to be sexual deviants, to be public nudists, or to do whatever they want (largely within the confines of the law, which is also changing to become more tolerant of people’s actions).

dislodge the cultural brainwash that makes so many people so completely miserable. I

You could paint my nob tartan and call it Throb Roy.

Picture us, five floating nudists in oxygen masks, ragged with fatigue and degrees of schock, squeezing the last beads of antifreeze from our hair.

Rain is a nudist’s shower, and I want a bathtub the size of a lake. Then we could make love like your parents did that one time, nine months before your birth.

I have never attended a nudist funeral.

Love dances in my heart like a nudist in socks.

A zebra is the piano of the animal kingdom. And I am the flute at the nudist colony, if you know what I mean.

Quittez cette mine ahurie, plaisante-t-elle, cela ne vous va pas du tout. Vous ressemblez à un astronaute en scaphandre débarqué par erreur sur une plage de nudistes.

A nudist? In Edinburgh? Does he realise what parallel we’re on?

Nudists are weird. My friend went to a nudist colony and came back with a newfound appreciation for clothes.

German nudists are the only successful rebels against Nazi control,” he wrote.

One gets the impression that the mere words ‘Socialism’ and ‘Communism’ draw towards them with magnetic force every fruit-juice drinker, nudist, sandal-wearer, sex-maniac, Quaker, ‘Nature Cure’ quack, pacifist and feminist in England.

If you’re wearing a space suit, I’ll take a unicrescent sandwich; hold the mayonnaise—and the moon. (But don’t hold it in your hands.) Let us dance like the moon is hollow and inhabited by beings of light who give off enough energy so I can be a night nudist.

Wesley Crusher: Say goodbye, Data. Lt. Cmdr. Data: Goodbye, Data. [crew laughs] Lt. Cmdr. Data: Was that funny? Wesley Crusher: [laughs] Lt. Cmdr. Data: Accessing. Ah! Burns and Allen, Roxy Theater, New York City, 1932. It still works. [pauses] Lt. Cmdr. Data: Then there was the one about the girl in the nudist colony, that nothing looked good on? Lieutenant Worf: We're ready to get under way, sir. Lt. Cmdr. Data: Take my Worf, please. Commander William T. Riker: [to Captain Picard] Warp speed, sir? Captain Jean-Luc Picard: Please.

He splashed his face over and over in a desperate attempt to wash away the sight of Megan’s grandmother’s full womanhood staring him in the face. He groaned and washed faster. “Josh?” Megan asked, standing in the doorway, her voice husky with sleep. He continued to douse his face. “I just saw the most horrifying thing I can even imagine.” She stiffened. “What?” “Your grandmother. In a downward dog yoga position. In the nude.” Megan chuckled. “Oh, dear. Mom had mentioned that Gram was going through a nudist phase, but I didn’t know she’d combined it with yoga.

Shall I get right to it? No, slowly, leisurely, that’s the way. Let me first mention that it is October here in Germany. Though the weather was cool, the beach at Herringsdorf was dotted with quite a few diehard nudists. Primarily men, they lay walrus-like on towels or boisterously congregated in the striped Strandkörbe, the little beach huts.

Patience Thinner by Stewart Stafford You are a pain in the pancreas, Dagger in my medulla oblongata, The hindmost listing straggler, In the mind's eye's neural regatta. The second wheel of a unicycle, The third eye blind of a cyclops, Banana skin for a monkey's uncle, And a barber to overgrown mops You are thermals in a heatwave, An umbrella when the rain stops, A quiet tailor in a nudist camp, And shoe polish for flip-flops. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

The bookstore is owned by septuagenarian nudist Paul Winer, who has skin like burnished leather and wanders the aisles in nothing but a knit codpiece. When it’s cold, he dons a sweater. Paul can afford to keep his bookstore going because, technically, it isn’t a permanent structure, and that keeps the taxes down. It has no real walls—just a ramada roof above a concrete slab. Tarps span the space between them. Shipping containers and a trailer are annexes. Trailer Life magazine called it “the ultimate in Quartzsite architecture.” In an earlier career Paul toured as Sweet Pie, a nude boogie-woogie pianist known for his sing-along anthem “Fuck ’Em If They Can’t Take a Joke,” and he still performs spontaneously on a baby grand near the front of the shop, not far from a discreetly covered adult book section. There’s a Christian section, too, but it’s in the back and Paul usually has to help people find it. “They follow my bare ass to the Bible,” he declares.

Ken Wharfe Before Diana disappeared from sight, I called her on the radio. Her voice was bright and lively, and I knew instinctively that she was happy, and safe. I walked back to the car and drove slowly along the only road that runs adjacent to the bay, with heath land and then the sea to my left and the waters of Poole Harbour running up toward Wareham, a small market town, to my right. Within a matter of minutes, I was turning into the car park of the Bankes Arms, a fine old pub that overlooks the bay. I left the car and strolled down to the beach, where I sat on an old wall in the bright sunshine. The beach huts were locked, and there was no sign of life. To my right I could see the Old Harry Rocks--three tall pinnacles of chalk standing in the sea, all that remains, at the landward end, of a ridge that once ran due east to the Isle of Wight. Like the Princess, I, too, just wanted to carry on walking. Suddenly, my radio crackled into life: “Ken, it’s me--can you hear me?” I fumbled in the large pockets of my old jacket, grabbed the radio, and said, “Yes. How is it going?” “Ken, this is amazing, I can’t believe it,” she said, sounding truly happy. Genuinely pleased for her, I hesitated before replying, but before I could speak she called again, this time with that characteristic mischievous giggle in her voice. “You never told me about the nudist colony!” she yelled, and laughed raucously over the radio. I laughed, too--although what I actually thought was “Uh-oh!” But judging from her remarks, whatever she had seen had made her laugh. At this point, I decided to walk toward her, after a few minutes seeing her distinctive figure walking along the water’s edge toward me. Two dogs had joined her and she was throwing sticks into the sea for them to retrieve; there were no crowd barriers, no servants, no police, apart from me, and no overattentive officials. Not a single person had recognized her. For once, everything for the Princess was “normal.” During the seven years I had worked for her, this was an extraordinary moment, one I shall never forget.

THIS IS MY ABC BOOK of people God loves. We’ll start with . . .           A: God loves Adorable people. God loves those who are Affable and Affectionate. God loves Ambulance drivers, Artists, Accordion players, Astronauts, Airplane pilots, and Acrobats. God loves African Americans, the Amish, Anglicans, and Animal husbandry workers. God loves Animal-rights Activists, Astrologers, Adulterers, Addicts, Atheists, and Abortionists.           B: God loves Babies. God loves Bible readers. God loves Baptists and Barbershop quartets . . . Boys and Boy Band members . . . Blondes, Brunettes, and old ladies with Blue hair. He loves the Bedraggled, the Beat up, and the Burnt out . . . the Bullied and the Bullies . . . people who are Brave, Busy, Bossy, Bitter, Boastful, Bored, and Boorish. God loves all the Blue men in the Blue Man Group.           C: God loves Crystal meth junkies,           D: Drag queens,           E: and Elvis impersonators.           F: God loves the Faithful and the Faithless, the Fearful and the Fearless. He loves people from Fiji, Finland, and France; people who Fight for Freedom, their Friends, and their right to party; and God loves people who sound like Fat Albert . . . “Hey, hey, hey!”           G: God loves Greedy Guatemalan Gynecologists.           H: God loves Homosexuals, and people who are Homophobic, and all the Homo sapiens in between.           I: God loves IRS auditors.           J: God loves late-night talk-show hosts named Jimmy (Fallon or Kimmel), people who eat Jim sausages (Dean or Slim), people who love Jams (hip-hop or strawberry), singers named Justin (Timberlake or Bieber), and people who aren’t ready for this Jelly (Beyoncé’s or grape).           K: God loves Khloe Kardashian, Kourtney Kardashian, Kim Kardashian, and Kanye Kardashian. (Please don’t tell him I said that.)           L: God loves people in Laos and people who are feeling Lousy. God loves people who are Ludicrous, and God loves Ludacris. God loves Ladies, and God loves Lady Gaga.           M: God loves Ministers, Missionaries, and Meter maids; people who are Malicious, Meticulous, Mischievous, and Mysterious; people who collect Marbles and people who have lost their Marbles . . . and Miley Cyrus.           N: God loves Ninjas, Nudists, and Nose pickers,           O: Obstetricians, Orthodontists, Optometrists, Ophthalmologists, and Overweight Obituary writers,           P: Pimps, Pornographers, and Pedophiles,           Q: the Queen of England, the members of the band Queen, and Queen Latifah.           R: God loves the people of Rwanda and the Rebels who committed genocide against them.           S: God loves Strippers in Stilettos working on the Strip in Sin City;           T: it’s not unusual that God loves Tom Jones.           U: God loves people from the United States, the United Kingdom, and the United Arab Emirates; Ukrainians and Uruguayans, the Unemployed and Unemployment inspectors; blind baseball Umpires and shady Used-car salesmen. God loves Ushers, and God loves Usher.           V: God loves Vegetarians in Virginia Beach, Vegans in Vietnam, and people who eat lots of Vanilla bean ice cream in Las Vegas.           W: The great I AM loves will.i.am. He loves Waitresses who work at Waffle Houses, Weirdos who have gotten lots of Wet Willies, and Weight Watchers who hide Whatchamacallits in their Windbreakers.           X: God loves X-ray technicians.           Y: God loves You.           Z: God loves Zoologists who are preparing for the Zombie apocalypse. God . . . is for the rest of us. And we have the responsibility, the honor, of letting the world know that God is for them, and he’s inviting them into a life-changing relationship with him. So let ’em know.

Newspapers and old magazines were piled everywhere. A door to an inner room burst open and Norman Z. Moody emerged. He was about five foot five and must have weighed three hundred pounds. He rolled as he walked, reminding Judd of an animated Buddha. He had a round, jovial face with wide, guileless, pale blue eyes. He was totally bald and his head was egg-shaped. It was impossible to guess his age. “Mr. Stevenson?” Moody greeted him. “Dr. Stevens,” Judd said. “Sit down, sit down.” Buddha with a Southern drawl. Judd looked around for a seat. He removed a pile of old body-building and nudist magazines from a scrofulous-looking leather armchair with strips torn out of it, and gingerly sat down. Moody was lowering his bulk into an oversized rocking chair. “Well, now! What can I do for you?” Judd knew that he had made a mistake. Over the phone he had carefully given Moody his full name. A name that had been on the front page of every New York newspaper in the last few days. And he had managed to pick the only private detective in the whole city who had never even heard of him. He cast about for some excuse to walk out. “Who recommended me?” Moody prodded. Judd hesitated, not wanting to

As the cartoonist for Alabama Media Group, I've been blessed with a target-rich environment. Most days, I'm fat and happy as a mosquito in a nudist colony.

Nudism is an aesthetic of my daily existence, not a fashion statement.

Whenever in scepticism perform meditation completely naked.

Why cover yourself in clothing when you can wear confidence instead.

I am a hermit nudist at heart. It has taken me a while to learn this, but I feel most at home when I am alone and naked. Or with someone where we can be alone/together, naked.

Never had there been a nudist as hairy as this. Not just a five o’clock shadow, but a full beard all over, so to speak.

He didn’t need to tell his uncle he’d sworn off clothing forever. There was no way it would be any less painful to dress than it had been to undress, and dressing meant eventually undressing anyway, so he was going to be a nudist for the rest of his life.

An album of over 250 naturist photos by Leif Heilberg

Well, if I had known that this was a nudist pool party I would have brought my pre-baby body,” Wynn joked.

I would have enjoyed “Naked Lunch” that day, but the cafeteria served us all clothing. I like my meals a little more scandalous. I should eat in the library, along with the other gluttonous nudists.

A Kula or spiritual community is like a nudist camp for the soul. Not only are we given the permission to remove our robes of guilt, our suits of shame, and our masks of false identity—we are encouraged to do so. To become naked and hold nothing back is to become truly beautiful.

I never would've thought seeing a hundred naked people around a swimming pool would have been dullsville, but it is.

Trust Mama to start a hypnotism-based cult with a nudist body slave.

The best way to get over your fear of meeting new people is to imagine them naked. Unless you’re networking at a nudist camp, then you may have to get more creative.

finally it became obvious that my talents lay with flies. That’s a fate that takes some getting used to. Anyway, the hoverflies are only props. No, not only, but to some extent. Here and there, my story is about something else. Exactly what, I don’t know. Some days I tell myself that my mission is to say something about the art and sometimes the bliss of limitation. And the legibility of landscape. Other days are more dismal. As if I were queueing in the rain outside confessional literature’s nudist colony, mirrors everywhere, blue with cold. But

Suddenly, my radio crackled into life: “Ken, it’s me—can you hear me?” I fumbled in the large pockets of my old jacket, grabbed the radio, and said, “Yes. How is it going?” “Ken, this is amazing, I can’t believe it,” she said, sounding truly happy. Genuinely pleased for her, I hesitated before replying, but before I could speak she called again, this time with that characteristic mischievous giggle in her voice. “You never told me about the nudist colony!” she yelled, and laughed raucously over the radio. I laughed, too—although what I actually thought was “Uh-oh!” But judging from her remarks, whatever she had seen had made her laugh. —Ken Wharfe

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. It was a strange sensation watching her walking away by herself, with no bodyguards following at a discreet distance. What were my responsibilities here? I kept thinking. Yet I knew this area well, and not once did I feel uneasy. I had made this decision--not one of my colleagues knew. Senior officers at Scotland Yard would most certainly have boycotted the idea had I been foolish enough to give them advance notice of what the Princess and I were up to. Before Diana disappeared from sight, I called her on the radio. Her voice was bright and lively, and I knew instinctively that she was happy, and safe. I walked back to the car and drove slowly along the only road that runs adjacent to the bay, with heath land and then the sea to my left and the waters of Poole Harbour running up toward Wareham, a small market town, to my right. Within a matter of minutes, I was turning into the car park of the Bankes Arms, a fine old pub that overlooks the bay. I left the car and strolled down to the beach, where I sat on an old wall in the bright sunshine. The beach huts were locked, and there was no sign of life. To my right I could see the Old Harry Rocks--three tall pinnacles of chalk standing in the sea, all that remains, at the landward end, of a ridge that once ran due east to the Isle of Wight. Like the Princess, I, too, just wanted to carry on walking. Suddenly, my radio crackled into life: “Ken, it’s me--can you hear me?” I fumbled in the large pockets of my old jacket, grabbed the radio, and said, “Yes. How is it going?” “Ken, this is amazing, I can’t believe it,” she said, sounding truly happy. Genuinely pleased for her, I hesitated before replying, but before I could speak she called again, this time with that characteristic mischievous giggle in her voice. “You never told me about the nudist colony!” she yelled, and laughed raucously over the radio. I laughed, too--although what I actually thought was “Uh-oh!” But judging from her remarks, whatever she had seen had made her laugh. At this point, I decided to walk toward her, after a few minutes seeing her distinctive figure walking along the water’s edge toward me. Two dogs had joined her and she was throwing sticks into the sea for them to retrieve; there were no crowd barriers, no servants, no police, apart from me, and no overattentive officials. Not a single person had recognized her. For once, everything for the Princess was “normal.” During the seven years I had worked for her, this was an extraordinary moment, one I shall never forget.

It's a very strange nudist camp all round, really, as the men almost all seem to spend their time wearing boxer shorts, lest a glimpse of sausage spoil the view. The

We’ve been busier—” “Than a mosquito at a nudist colony?” She chuckled at her own joke.

I thought about going fully nude for a hot second. But even dead, I wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea of being a nudist ghost.

Man has held three views of his body. First there is that of those ascetic pagans who called it the prison or the "tomb" of the soul, and of Christians like Fisher to whom it was a "sack of dung", food for worms, filthy, shameful, a source of nothing but temptation to bad men and humiliation to good ones. Then there are the Neo-Pagans (they seldom know Greek), the nudists and the sufferers from Dark Gods, to whom the body is glorious. But thirdly we have the view which St. Francis expressed by calling his body "Brother Ass". All three may be - I am not sure - defensible; but give me St. Francis for my money.

the Westlander Theater. I'd never been to the Westlander, but I knew what and where it was—and I was very soon going to visit it for the first time. The Westlander was a burlesque house, but it was to the burlesque circuit about what Spike Jones is to classical music, or one pair of bloomers is to the Arabian Nights. On occasion newcomers to the game got their start at the Westlander, but usually the game was almost over before an act hit the small theater on Los Angeles Street. I headed for Los Angeles Street. The Westlander was showing a twin movie bill—Dope Hell of the Sadistic Nudists, and a film about a real negative thinker, I Even Went Wrong Wrong.

Oprah had come a long way from the days when she, too, loved to shock her audiences. But she no longer wanted to be seen as a vulgarian, hosting shows for nudists and shouting 'penis, penis, penis.

Around the world today are millions living in the Marxist reality-tunnel, the vegetarian reality-tunnel, the Buddhist reality-tunnel, the nudist reality-tunnel, the monetarist reality-tunnel, the Methodist reality-tunnel, the Zionist reality-tunnel, the Polynesian totemistic reality-tunnel etc.

I’m a nudist!” I blurt. They both look confused. “I’m trying to recruit Seth into my cult. That’s why I’m naked.” Seth’s dad looks like he’s trying to swallow his lips. His mom is averting her gaze. Hmm, they don’t believe me. “I actually gave up my clothing for Lent.” “That starts in February,” Seth mutters. Oh shit. “Okay, truth. I have a mole. Somewhere not … normal. I asked Seth to look at it for me.” Seth finally breaks. “Oh my God, stop talking and go put clothes on.” “Okay.” I make a run for it.

She imagined her mother would decide to move away, possibly sequester herself, becoming a priestess on some remote island versus facing her friends at the club after news got out that her only daughter had been elf-napped in an orc nudist colony.

As I suspected, I’m as naked as a stripper at a nudist colony.

I’m a nudist!” I blurt. They both look confused. “I’m trying to recruit Seth into my cult. That’s why I’m naked.

But what’s Mock Turtle about?” inquired Harriet. On this point the authors were for the most part vague; but a young man who wrote humorous magazine stories, and could therefore afford to be wide-minded about novels, said he had read it and thought it rather interesting, only a bit long. It was about a swimming instructor at a watering-place, who had contracted such an unfortunate anti-nudity complex through watching so many bathing-beauties that it completely inhibited all his natural emotions. So he got a job on a whaler and fell in love at first sight with an Eskimo, because she was such a beautiful bundle of garments. So he married her and brought her back to live in a suburb, where she fell in love with a vegetarian nudist. So then the husband went slightly mad and contracted a complex about giant turtles, and spent all his spare time staring into the turtle-tank at the Aquarium, and watching the strange, slow monsters swimming significantly round in their encasing shells. But of course a lot of things came into it—it was one of those books that reflect the author’s reactions to Things in General.

It was one of those days when you wondered whether pants mattered. Usually, they did. Clothes maketh the man, as they say. Nudists had very little sway on society.

The Naked Truth, I Won’t Adjust My Freedom For Your Comfort

Nudism didn't cause me to love me my body, it simply allowed me except my position in what is clearly the scheme of things....... Marching toward the clubhouse with a multitude of naked strangers, I felt the proceedings should be narrated by one of those hushed, scholarly voices commonly used for television nature programs.

Sensuality is not a nudist or sex economy, it's a soul and passion lifestyle economy.

Lady Houston, as she was now called, was reputedly the wealthiest woman in Great Britain, a dedicated nudist who, when appearing at social functions, draped herself in diamonds and furs. Once, in a squabble over back taxes, she personally presented Winston Churchill, then the Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a check for one and a half million pounds. “Do I get a kiss?” she asked. “No,” he growled back. “You get a cup of tea.

Now I’m no art critic, but in a time seen as a bridge between the late middle ages and the early renaissance, where the church played such a substantial part in the day to day running of people's lives, Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, which is painted on oak with a square middle panel flanked by two doors that close over the centre like shutters, is rather racy. When the outer shutters are folded over they show a grisaille painting of the earth during creation. But it’s the three scenes of the inner triptych that fascinate me. If you’re unfamiliar with the painting, I’ll do my best to describe it for you. Apologies in advance if I miss anything out. It’s regular sort of stuff, you know, naked women being fondled by demons, a bloke being kissed by a pig dressed as a nun, another bloke being eaten by some kind of story book character while loads of blackbirds fly out of his arse, a couple locked in a glass sphere and – let’s not beat about the Bosch here – locked in each other’s embrace as well. There are loads of people feeding each other fruit, doing handstands, hatching out of eggs, climbing up ladders to get inside the bodies of other people and looking at demon’s arses. There’s a couple getting caught shagging by giant birds, and a white bloke and a black Rastafarian with ‘locks (400 years before the Rastafari movement was founded) about to have a snog. You’ve got God giving Eve to a very puny-looking, limp-dicked Adam, and there’s a bunch of people sitting around a table inside the body of another bloke while an old woman fills up on wine from a decent-sized barrel while a kind of giant metal face pukes out loads of naked blokes who go running into a trumpet and another bloke being fed a cherry by a giant bird while a white bloke shows a black lady something in the sky. It’s all going on! There's loads of those ‘living dead’ mateys walking about, and a bloke carrying giant grapes past a topless girl with, it has to be said, pretty decent tits. She’s balancing a giant dice on her head while doing something strange to another bloke’s arse while a rabbit in clothes walks past. You can’t see what she’s doing because there’s a table in the way but beside them is a serpent-type creature with just one massive boob and a pretty pert nipple. One huge tit the size of his chest! Of all things, he’s holding a backgammon board up in the air. I’d say Bosch was a tit man, wouldn’t you? But there’s more. There’s a crowd of naked girls – black & white - in a water pool, all balancing cherries on their heads; read into that what you will. There are just LOADS of naked women in this water pool, including one of the black girls who’s balancing a peacock on her head. There are dozens of nudists riding horses around them in a circle. Some are sharing the same horse, so I must admit that in places it appears to be a little intimate. And now what have we got! There’s a couple cavorting inside a giant shell which is being carried on the back of another bloke. Why doesn’t he just put it down and climb in and have a threes-up? There are people with wings, creatures reading books and just more and more nudists. There’s a naked woman lying back, and this other bloke with his face extremely close to her nether regions! What on earth does the blighter think he’s playing at? There’s loads of grey half men-half fish, some balancing red balls on their heads like seals, and another fellow doing a handstand underwater while holding onto his nuts. You’ve got a ball in a river with people climbing all over it, while a bloke inside the ball is touching a lady in what appears to be a very inappropriate manner! There’s a kind of platypus-type fish reading a book underground and Theresa May triggering Article 50 of Brexit (just kidding about the Theresa May bit).

Part: 1 July This one more of how where I remember these days. Photos online, and cam videos all that are my memories- of me to others. Part: 2 August Compare… them then and now- naked slut girl or 1940s modesty. I remember having the old photo album spread out on the bedroom floor. Oh! Wow! Look at this one… do you like how she was remembered better than me? (Photo) Part: 3 It's- September More of the same- I have become a cam-whore!!! Nothing more… Part: 4 OCTOBER …And yah- a, ah- pics that would make you blush, and hard, you boys would love to see me, now, wouldn’t you? Part: 5 NOVEMBER Making cummie videos is my life. Part: 6 DECEMBER Coming 7 hours out of the day is taking time away from other things. Part: 7 WAKING UP …After fraping till- I passed out all hot gross and sweaty, I did not remember falling asleep- with mom and dad- sis and the world seeing me as my door to my trashed bedroom- all jammed open- and’s- and’s- AND’S- did not care at this point. (SAY IT WITH exhausted SLURRING.) JANUARY yet how- ga-gives- a ________. Ef… E- un- mm- ah- in-n… Whatever… I am making 50 G’s in a night… so that makes it okay. (A photo of me lying in bed with all this money!) Part: 8 TIME PASSES Craziness… look at my life here… all board… ‘I am home,’ I mumbled, confused- not even more. ‘What did I do?’ I felt my face wrinkle. It was so unfair. My behavior… here is wow… After that first week… of doing this… How do I look… which neither of us ever mentioned what we do? I hadn't missed a day of school or work. My grades were perfect. Yet this show is all going to shit- no? This is what I did here… showing everything that makes me a girl! Now I am passing down- to her- yah me- is it wrong? I must live with it. #- A cam video and all these photos of her online now are worth 1,000 words! #-0-okay then what does this one says then? My little sis- and she is frapping harder than I do- in this- damn, she is my Minnie me! She started younger than me even- yet that is all girls, her age. Here is one with her dressed wow seem weird to see her with something on anymore- (Swipe- and the phone in your hand would make a click sound…) Oh, this one- She loves these beautiful white lace kid’s girls’ shorts- so girlie- girly- from Wal-Mart, yet she was banned from wearing them in school without anything under them, yet I look around and all other girls do it. Yet, on Facebook- and Instagram 1, you get one persona and on Google images a whole other- just like Snapchat you have her as your girlfriend for the night yet have- yet she is your striptease only- and the other Instagram- that grammar should never- ever see- yet this is how to get popular- and stay popular. Besides then there is the community of internet nudists- on MFC. And the profile- she now has too, a legacy to be remembered by, no? Yet, when you have no education to speak of and working for some d*ck head is just out of the question, over they think you’re not worthy of their time- were you're not making anything, and at this point in Pa she too young to work, yet is old enough to have unprotected sex… Um- and then I wonder- yet she needs the money- for school coming up because your mommy and daddy don’t have it, and all for fun, boys, and a girl's night of fun- and partying- and being crazy. Money is everything… and why girls do what they must do…

You see, humans shrunk themselves when talking. Traditionally, one must succumb to the correspondence of politeness and must be careful not to step over anyone’s toes. This meant nodding your head at rather unthoughtful, sporadic moments, raising your voice an octave, and repeating the last few words a person said to assure them that you were respectfully listening. Everyone shrunk, but she kept. If she did not want to listen, Soriah would tell you. If she didn’t know what you were saying, she’d stop you and ask you to repeat yourself. Many people didn’t like that. It was a difficult, naked territory to be in—to be told by someone they weren’t listening to you, but she was a conversational nudist. Soriah withstood the awkwardness of confrontation, the nervousness of acknowledgment, and lived in it, and almost enjoyed it. Even if you tried, no preparation could ever prepare you in a conversation with her. She was point-blank. Her beauty was that of a certain wildness and her choice of conversation was just as predictable as the heartbeat in your chest in which she too controlled.

And it's a hell of a lot easier to believe in a nudist than a werewolf

The nudist can't put his clothes back on. He's far from liberated.

None of it makes much sense, but what it’s hard to argue with is that there are a hundred and seven nudists heading back through time in a cave under a field not far outside Bristol, and I’m one of them.

Figurative Fun by Stewart Stafford Neigh, neigh, Hyperbole! Galloping into wild mares' play. I'd yell, "Egregious slander streaker!" But it skulks 'neath its nudist speaker. Understatedness hides in a selfie's rear; Verbosity hogging limelight sans fear; Caustic parody, satire, and critique, Peddling wares in skewed oblique. Gossip's lip, stained in a bloody hue; Rumour's half-baked harmonies slew; Utterances bejewelled speak of love, Absolutes sting as a duellist's glove. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.