Part 2 of My Naturist Blog Chain: Boobs, Boobs Everywhere

If you missed it, have a look at part 1 here: Least Likely To Become A Naturist
My father was born into poverty, having to occasionally go without shoes to school, and steal cash for novels. He crossed the Atlantic from Greece as an immigrant in 1952 and worked his way to possessing a series of award winning restaurants. The small fortune he amassed was spent on two things: statues from the Ancient and Renaissance era and yearly trips to http://www.thoun.com . Both of which served to confuse me.
When it came to nudity, I was constantly bombarded by mixed messages. While my mother obsessed over making her family seem like the Brady Bunch, Poseidon’s marble penis stared at me from the living room, as did Achilles’ organ, and the goddess Artemis’ one breast.
Visiting the birthplace for a Bible-thumped lad like me was equally bewildering. Boobs were everywhere you looked. Boobs on postcards, boobs on billboards, boobs in magazines; you couldn’t get away from boobs if you tried. Magazines advertised skin on every street corner, and it was not even porn, only your typical Greek version of Cosmo.
While in America, I Dream of Jeannie’s genie could never dream of showing her bellybutton, in Greece, girls too hot for bras sold ice cream on TV. But it was on the beaches of the Cyclades where you simply could not escape the boob assault. I was nine years old and despised it.
My Naturist Narrative – Boobs Everywhere
It was during one of these island excursions that my life took a dark turn. A close male relative had a habit of catching my crotch, and not just in private. He did it all the damn time, but nobody seemed to notice or care. Everyone understood he was a little mad; I imagine they saw him as a benign, albeit perverted prankster, but it never felt right to me.
Once, after a great day of swimming and playing in the sand, while attempting to avert boobs, we went back to our resort for a shower. I went about my normal routine, double checking that the door was locked and covering myself, but somehow he got in. He knew about my extreme shyness and used it against me. I could have escaped by running out into the lobby, I was fast and slippery, but the towels were out of reach.
Paralyzed by shame, he groped and fondled me. But what hurt the most was feeling vulnerable and powerless like an reluctant plaything. He induced me to say that I loved him, more than God, more than my parents, more than my sister for whom I had a special link. And I loathed him. To this day, I will not let my children near him.
Being molested just worsened my sense of shame. In the shower I was more paranoid than ever, always listening for intruders, determined to never feel violated again. But fate had other plans.
At about ten or eleven, I was taken to a specific physician. My parents talked about me for a long time, but it made little sense, and nobody would tell me what was going on. My only worry was for needles, so I was completely unprepared for when the physician, with my parents looking on, told me to sit on the mat and remove my drawers. I was shocked but couldn’t say no. She began poking and prodding me down there and it was like being in that resort shower all over again.
Telling my mother, a week later, that I’d felt abused was no help. She didn’t take me seriously because she never took me seriously. Things just went downhill from there. Unbeknownst to me, I was being readied for operation, and what had once been my privates became public domain for the entire hospital. I was like a frog being dissected in a science lab. For the most part, I was furious, but comprehended the requirement of it, that occasionally doctors needed to check down there. Imagine if, after in life, I developed some cancerous tumor?
Eventually, my anger turned from my parents to society. Nakedness, I were educated, is offensive and wrong; and genitals are private, disgusting matters despite somehow being created by a loving God except when showering after P.E. or physician visits.
It made no sense. How could something so shocking in one case become acceptable, even mandatory, in another? Unless society was lying to me. Lying to me since birth.
I never completely comprehended my disillusionment, how different two societies can perceive the exact same thing, until my twelfth summer. That was when I first saw a unicorn. O.K., it wasn’t just a unicorn, but the experience was charming. We were making our way to the beach when we saw this girl, who looked to have misplaced her bikini, and she was taking a shower.
Not a beach shower, but a real one, with shampoo and soap, and her whole body. Everyone could see her. Me. My family. People sunning down below. Boobs were such a common sight that they did not faze me, but this was top and bottom!
While I understood these types of individuals existed, for me, they were creatures of myth, who always kept out of sight at the far reaches of the strand. For most boys my age, this would have been quite arousing, and there was that, but what I also felt was ten times more powerful.
Amazement.
She couldn’t have cared less who was watching or what anyone was thinking. For http://crazypublic.com knew, she had never learned of clothing. What’s more, this was Greece, so nobody seemed to notice.
This odd tourist girl played in my mind for months (she’s still there, really) but it was not her look that mattered, only her attitude, her self-confidence. Nobody could violate her by driving her to remove her clothes. It was the most amazing, powerful thing I Had ever seen, and I was jealous.
I desired to be just like her.
Back home in the U.S. of A, I started ignoring my ritual, no longer warning my family when taking showers, or jamming a chair under the doorknob. And having one hand free for the soap was incredibly liberating.
This ends Part 2. Look out for Part 3 coming next week!
Now read Part 3: House Fkk Held Captive.

Young Naturists & Nudists America FKK
Labels: body pity, breasts, culture, genitals, greece, public nudity, topless / topfree
Category: Nudist Website
About the Author (Author Profile)
By age six, I knew I was born to write, and by 12, discovered that clothing was unnecessary. My work is inspired by the ‘heroic nude’ common to my Greek ancestors, and my personal experiences with naturism. Please visit my blog ‘The Writer’s Disorder’ to learn more: http://writersdisease.blogspot.com/

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