If you missed it, have a look at part 1 here: Least Likely To Become A Fkk
My father was born into poverty, having to occasionally go without shoes to school, and steal money for publications. He crossed the Atlantic from Greece as an immigrant in 1952 and worked his way to owning a string of award-winning restaurants. The small fortune he amassed was spent on two things: statues from the Classical and Renaissance era and yearly trips to Greece.
When it came to nudity, I was constantly bombarded by mixed messages. While my mom obsessed over making her family seem like the Brady Bunch, Poseidon's marble dick stared at me from the living room, as did Achilles' member, and the goddess Artemis' one breast.
Visiting the homeland 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 wasn't even pornography, only your typical Greek version of Cosmo.
But it was on the shores of the Cyclades where you just couldn't escape the boob assault. I was nine years old and hated it.
My Naturist Storyline - Boobs Everywhere
It was during one of these island trips that my life took a dark turn. A close male relative had a habit of grabbing my crotch, and not only in private. He did it all the damn time, but nobody seemed to notice or care. Everyone knew he was a bit crazy; 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 striving to avert boobs, we went back to our resort for a shower. I went about my usual 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 reception, I was quick 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 helpless like an unwilling plaything. And I despised him. To this day, I will not let my kids near him.
Being molested just worsened my sense of shame. In the shower I was more paranoid than ever, constantly listening for intruders, determined to never feel broken again. But http://macgallery.net had other plans.
At about ten or eleven, I was taken to a specific physician. My parents talked about me for quite 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 totally unprepared for when the doctor, with my parents looking on, told me to sit on the mat and remove my drawers. I was shocked but could not say no.
Telling my mother, a week after, that I Had felt abused was no help. She did not 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. For the most part, I was furious, but realized the requirement of it, that occasionally doctors needed to check down there. What if, later in life, I developed some cancerous tumour?

Eventually, my anger turned from my parents to society. Nakedness, I were instructed, is offensive and immoral; and genitals are private, disgusting matters despite somehow being created by a loving God except when showering after P.E. or doctor visits.
It made no sense. How could something so shocking in one case become acceptable, even necessary, in another? Unless society had been lying to me. Lying to me since birth.
I never fully realized my disillusionment, how distinct 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 exactly a unicorn, but the experience was magical.
Not a strand shower, but a real one, with shampoo and soap, and her entire body. Everyone could see her. Me. http://serv2.org . People sunning down below. Boobs were such a common sight that they didn't faze me, but this was top and bottom!
While I knew these kinds of individuals existed, for me, they were creatures of myth, who constantly kept out of sight at the far reaches of the strand. For most boys my age, this would have been very arousing, and there was that, but what I also felt was ten times more powerful.
Awe.
She couldn't have cared less who was seeing or what anyone was thinking. For all I knew, she had never heard of clothing. What is more, this was Greece, so nobody seemed to notice.
This odd tourist girl played in my head for months (she is still there, really) but it wasn't her look that mattered, just her approach, her confidence. Nobody could offend her by forcing her to remove her clothing. http://beach-photos.net was the most wonderful, strong thing I'd ever seen, and I was envious.
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 amazingly liberating.
This concludes Part 2. Look out for Part 3 coming next week!
Now read Part 3: Dwelling Nudist Held Captive.
Tags: body pity, breasts, culture, genitals, greece, public nudity, topless / topfree
Class: Naturist Site
About the Writer (Author Profile)
By age six, I knew I was born to write, and by 12, found that clothing was unnecessary. My work is inspired by the 'heroic nude' common to my Greek ancestors, and my personal experiences with nudism. Please see my website 'The Writer's Disease' to learn more: http://writersdisease.blogspot.com/