Aftermath

This is a better blog.  You should probably read his since he can actually write - A Guy Without Boxers

Edited from original of April 2014

Seven in the evening on Sunday.  The two and a half hours I was with the men from Minnesota took up an entire weekend.  Totally worth it.

I gave up on the good idea of leaving straight from work on Friday and hit the bars the that great metropolis because I was falling out of this chair Thursday night around nine.  I could hardly expect myself to party even later the next night after driving for almost five hours.  So, I waited until Saturday to leave.

Waking up relatively early, though probably the same time as the rest of Green Bay, for a Saturday, I had several hours to use up before I could reasonably hit the road.  I didn't want to arrive at my destination with time to kill in a city I don't know.  And anyone who's been from a small town to a large metropolis will know it's easy to get lost on the freeway system that services the city and the suburbs.  I doubted I would get lost - Google Rulz - but I could end up farther away from my intentions than I expected.  Late never looks good unless it's intended.

I ended up having breakfast with my ex.  I've been looking forward to such a meeting because, after six years, I wanted to see how he had changed.  Without getting into any specifics, he's not the man I spent years loving.  His current passions hold no interest for me.  What he considers important are mere intellectual ponderings to have during an esoteric conversation about how the world could possibly be, and then cast aside for more concrete and pragmatic concerns.  I don't disapprove of his interests in these things; rather I'm glad he's engaged in something.  I have my passions and will talk your ear off if the topic comes up, yet I don't really connect in what he was talking about.

I scurried home to pack an overnight bag.  Damned electronics took up most of the room - and since I was attending a nudist event, imagine how many clothes I needed to pack.  Toiletries, jeans, any shirt within reach, condoms - just in case, and my chargers.... egad, the chargers!

I stopped at the gas station to top off only to realize I needed a full tank.  Happily paid for my go-juice, I took to the highway with hard rock cranked through badly shaken speakers, smoking the first of too many cigarettes, and downing an ice-cold bottle of water.  Nothing could stop me at that point.

Except my car!  Just outside some blip on the Google Maps laid what was to prove to be nearly my ruin.  My car suddenly turned off the cruise-control and refused to re-accelerate.  Concern was my first reaction and lasted only long enough to realize I was surrounded by the Great North Woods.  Then I was pissed.  This ridiculous state can't even have the decency to have a house or two along the way - so barren and sparse.

I limped my way into another gas station to find Farmer Brown's ugly nephew and a woman who - by her tattoos - either wanted out or just move in.  The flow of patrons purchasing "moonshine" was constant and my attempts to find a service station futile.  Google did alert me to no less than three churches should I wish to be exonerated for my sin of impatience.

Fed up with the yokels, I went to see if my guess of a clogged fuel filter was correct.  Sometimes, letting the car sit will allow the gunk to settle away from the fuel line long enough to get to a garage.

It not only started, but I was able to make it a full twenty minutes down the highway at speed until it happened again.  This time I was near what passes for a city in this state.  Wausau, WI - center of commerce and Hmong immigration for the state.  I appreciate both, I just don't want to live there.

The Subway had a little girl taking orders from three other children, so I turned my tongue into Swiss cheese waiting to ask for the password to the wi-fi.

Google revealed I was mere steps from a service station (if I would have read the signs of the other buildings as I drove in) which purportedly was still open for... three minutes.  Still not realizing it was so close, I dialed the national number and was told they closed two hours previously.

By this time I was nearly without a tongue.  It seems to me that certain industries should assume a constant on-call work schedule.  It also seems that most emergency vehicle repairs would happen over the weekend.  It seems odd that service stations should keep bankers hours.

After being promised that a call would be made to "see if" someone would return to the shop and take a look at my car.  One did, a quote was made - though I wasn't listening, and the work commenced.

During this time I was dialing my insurance agents to as about what kind of services come with my monthly premium.  The road-side assistance package came in handy when I had a flat tire and such, I wondered if they could hook me up with a motel and other necessities should the mechanic fail in his task.  Turns out my policy number is not associated with my name, and so I will be making a politely angry visit to the agents tomorrow.

The mechanic told me the problem was a cam-shaft (no giggling) sensor who's wires were getting saturated with oil and essentially shorting out which basically means my car has no sense of rhythm.  Another politely angry visit will be made to the mechanic who already replaced such a part mere months ago.

Once I was able to resume my cross-state sojourn I phoned ahead to ask if late was acceptable.  Sweet as this host turned out to be, he said he'd put some soup in the fridge for me.  I tried to dissuade him to no avail.  I was more concerned with being the crasher who shows up as everyone else was leaving.  I made that mistake in my younger days and was too stupid to realize I should also leave.  Still, he insisted I come and he would set some food aside to eat after my grueling journey.

I need to start a petition to have the maps of Wisconsin redrawn to show Chippewa Falls as being much farther from the Minnesota boarder than it appears.  I had gone to Minneapolis for surgery when I was twenty and made this very trip a total of four times.  Yesterday I was reminded of the geographical fallacy that is Chippewa Falls.  It is nowhere near the state line.  No matter how intently I craned my neck around every curve of the interstate, the great city of Minneapolis was not to be found.  I was indeed almost another hour down the road.  Also remembered, as I approached the Muddy Queen herself, St. Paul is first, not Minneapolis.

Metropolis traffic is harrowing during the day, but at night it's life threatening!  Added to that I continuously consulted my tablet for the route I was to take around the loop and a minor twelve miles into the suburbs.  Three lanes at 75mph and I had to make sure I didn't act like a tourist lest I cause an accident behind me and I drive on oblivious.

Finally arriving on the darkened ultra-narrow street of the subdivision (of the like Green Bay does not know) and I saw many cars and trucks.  Surely I've gotten to the correct address, yet the parking spanned many house numbers.  Tablet consulted yet again, I noticed the men remembered the Motel 6 commercials and left a light on for me.

As I've remarked previously about my unremarkable physique, and having planned to stop at the motel for a shower and grooming, I was dressed only in my favorite, tight, lounging t-shirt and a pair of sweat-pants.  I wore no shoes nor under-things that would have made the drive even more uncomfortable.  Also, this proved wise as after I was greeted by smiles from around corners and asked to deposit not only my entrance fee but my clothing near the front door.

Apparently my readied state of dress was odd and repeatedly pointed out to those who didn't witness my apparent apathy for personal nudity.  With only two items to remove (the sandals already in the foyer) I really had no reason to dawdle.

What I seemed to have kept from the others was my heart-rate and shaking hands.

Immediately on emerging from reception (the spare bedroom where everyone else's clothes were) I was announced to what seemed like fifty men.  Holding my wadded towel at my side when I was taken by this surprise, I remained completely uncovered though I fought the urge to use the towel as a fig leaf.  My weakling's chest and stick arms are of no consequence.  My stomach, which threatens to become a belly, is also irrelevant.  Plenty of men look like me in those areas.  Many look better and worse.  My legs have always been moderately toned and I can sport a pair of shorts with the best... well, most of them.  I can't really see my ass, though my attempts with double mirrors suggests it's a little sagging, and so I don't generally concern myself with its appearance from other's points of view.  What I am conscious of is my wee willy.  I'm a gay man, I know cocks.  I know I'm small.  All attempts to suggest otherwise or chalk my experiences with men as lucky aberrations in "normal" is a load of bunk.  Don't get me wrong, it works fine and when engaged it's just about right, but flaccid I lack any impression upon a room full of naked gay men.

Before my host finished my introduction I scanned the room to see just how abnormally young, old, or thin and weak I was.  I spied a typical cross-section of upper-Midwest men, just naked.  I noticed two men younger than the rest.  One was Asian, the other has frosted hair.  The Asian wasn't looking at my face.  Oh well, at least I didn't see any immediate judgment from him - he just seemed to be looking.  At my dick, mind, but with no different expression than if he were observing the shirt I would have worn... had I been wearing one.

Already in plain view, announced, and observed, there was really no reason to slyly cover my little bits; so I simply leaned into the breakfast-counter at which I realized I was standing near, opened my water bottle refilled with vodka and orange-juice, and drank... several times.

My soup was served, I was encouraged to sit at the dinning table and eat, and I began to get to know some of the men I had driven to meet.  The soup was chunky, the men were polite, and I was without a spoon.

Another decision: continue to sit safely behind the screening slab of oak, or slide my chair back and retrieve the spoon myself.  It was obvious all things related to the meal were six steps across the room in the kitchen area and most likely near the microwave oven which heated my soup to temperatures rivaling the sun.  As I've made a bit of a show so far of apathy toward my own nudity, it would be noticed if I suddenly caught a case of shyness.  Also, my mother didn't raise one who couldn't do for himself.  My host was too kind to allow me into his home - even more so for offering the spare bedroom in light of my expensive trip out - so to demand his serving me a spoon as well as dinner should be classified as rude.  I hope my gait was normal when I went to and from the kitchen.

The conversation ranged from politics to brief personal histories to a mental note about an LGBT archive.  It took me nearly a half hour to eat the soup due to its temperature, but once I could tuck in, the combination of boiled vegetables and sausage reminded me of my own poor cooking habits.

My concerns about personal space and etiquette quickly found their answer.  These are gay men and so followed gay men's common practices when among their own.  Many a hand found my shoulder, back, arm, leg, and buttocks.  After suggesting his apology, my dick was fondled.  No apology was necessary, it felt nice.  The touch was also was gently re-directed without anyone around us reacting as if they noticed.

My host and I spent several hours after lounging and recounting stories past.  Just as the sun began to think about making its presence known, we finally gave up the night and went to bed.

Morning greeted me gently with a nearly painful need to piss and a gnawing nicotine withdrawal.  My host was preparing the promised breakfast and I remembered the promised coffee, so I got up.  I padded into the necessary to relieve some pressure then emerged to find my host wearing only a t-shirt.  As I was still naked, the shirt gave me pause until I realized it was just a tad chilly.  Next I handled my addiction temporarily then ate a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a lovely bagel in need of schmear.  As I did nothing to prepare nor serve the meal, not to mention pay for it, I ate it gratefully.  It was amazingly good, but since we were discussing the coffee I failed to ask after the brand or flavor.

I hung out with him for as many hours as I dared before traveling back home.  I arrived at my apartment well after supper-time and decided to forego the chores I should have done - opting instead to write these few words and fuss about on Facebook.  I have a couple of friends who are in dire need of romantic counseling.  Surely they could opt for professional help yet they seem to listen to my stumbling advice.  Perhaps we're all just fools.

Crunch Time

Tomorrow's the big day.  The event.  The second most important thing I plan to do all summer, possibly - and that's assuming this weather qualifies as summer.

Tomorrow I drive to Minneapolis to attend a light meal and an evening of board games with men I don't know.  Tomorrow I will do this naked (or nude as some seem to insist.)  Tomorrow I will be more vulnerable to complete strangers than I have been in the six years I've been single... combined.

Interestingly, all my anticipation has been about the road trip, not the event itself.  I've described it to my co-workers, who actually know next to nothing about me - other than I'm gay, single, and have recently taken to pursuing a social life and resumed drinking after assuming my Wednesday night meetings were for AA  - I've described this as a road trip to meet people I don't know.  Accurate, no?  But not honest.  Fuck 'em for the bigots they are.

As I was saying, prior to the rant, I've been focused on getting the car to the mechanic for a once over and an oil-change so the decade-old Neon will safely deliver me home again after a longer drive than it's experienced in the last three years combined. I've been planning my overnight bag; deciding to bring prophylactics and other sundry as well as a change in clothes and some liquor. 

Speaking of liquor, I've decided to bring two drinks worth of vodka & orange juice.  I even dashed about the grocer to find a sports-bottle to carry the tonic.  I've settled on simply refilling my empty bottled-water bottles.  This prompted the concern to then store my overnight bag in the trunk so to avoid any question about open-intoxicants.

I've decided to wear loose-fitting clothes for the drive out and slip-on shoes with no socks.  No need to spend twenty minutes un-dressing once I've arrived at the house of the man hosting.  Last thing I need is extra time to chicken out.  I'll have my car's heater to keep me warm and I'll turn it extra-high so that my body won't mind the evening chill on my arrival. 

The weather forecast in that area looks better than here at home.

I have the bills paid and some of the household chores completed so I won't have to concern myself with things left undone while I'm gone... overnight.

I've considered dialing my parents to inform them of my absence, especially if Dad decides this is the time to begin lawn-care activities.  (He does seem to be able to pick the last miserably cold weekend of the year to start the season.)

Notice none of this has anything to do with the party.  At no time have I pondered over the conversations I would like to have with the other members.  I haven't decided on a personae to adopt to launch myself out of my typical wallflower mode.  I haven't decided on any modes of behavior I want to focus myself as I usually do when entering social situations, especially among large crowds of people who don't know me.  Especially when I want universal acceptance.

The main reason for this is simple: I have no idea what to expect.  My previous attempts at what might be loosely considered social nudism have been with extremely close friends.  These were men and boys I've known for years.  Answering the door nude or accepting a half-hearted joke about joining him in the hot tub, that sort of thing.  I don't remember ever being joined in nudity.  As a boy it was an exploration of sexuality, often resulting in sex.  As a man it was definitely part of foreplay and I was definitely joined by my partners.  Nudity during my criminal activities is not even worth these words since those incidences had so little to do with nudity or sex as to not even need mention.  That was about being mean.

Again, as I was saying; I don't know what to expect.  Will I be greeted by a nude man at the door?  Will I simply wrap my towel around my waist when it's time for a cigarette?  Will I be joined in the habit?  Perhaps we will adjourn to the closed garage nude.  What if it isn't closed?  What if the other men smoke in the back yard in view of the neighbors?  Will I join them and risk a indecency complaint with the police?

Will I remember to always sit on my towel?  What if I have to fart?  I've mentioned previously, what are the personal bubble requirements?  Is Platonic touching permitted?  In a previous post I've commented on personal space and touching in the gay bars or simply among gay men as being mostly at odds with the rest of the world.  I had my ass grabbed at least a dozen times last Sunday (yes! Sunday) night alone... and I ain't pretty!  I'm to meet gay men, will the standard apply or will they be even more solid in their separation with each other?

For me, the vulnerability of other men seeing my naked body or my penis is secondary to my inability to predict behavior.  This is generally how I socialize: observe, summarize, predict, test, gain acceptance.  Unless these men are all there before me and are engrossed in socializing with each other I will not have any opportunity to follow this pattern - a pattern I suspect most people use without really acknowledging the details.  The nudity will be almost beside the point (though I AM joining a group of nudists) and others seeing my dick is really an unimpressive happenstance.

I will have to remember to not let my natural tendency toward gawking overrule the published etiquette.  I've read it is tantamount to talking to a woman's breasts.  While I might find such things flattering (should I have anything to talk to), apparently it is a social taboo.

Though I have yet to get anyone to read this mockery of a manifesto, I shall perhaps take the time and effort to record my thoughts immediately before and after the party.  This will be from my tablet, and not this laptop, so forgive it's brevity, acronyms, and mis-spellings that may occur.

RSVP

It took a couple of days, but I finally responded to the e-mail.  Naked-Minnesota invited me to one of their events.  This after I suggested they Google my name.

I almost backed out.  They wanted an RSVP via e-mail so they could prepare enough food for the event.  The cost is a pittance, the drive is significant, and the vulnerability is severe.

I'm not sure what I fear most, being the best or worst looking one there.  Should I arrive and I'm surrounded by bear-ish trolls I may not be able to leave without causing a fuss.  Should I arrive and I'm surrounded by hard-bodies, I'll then have to decide if I WANT to leave.

I just received a response to that RSVP.  I wrote back confirming my "newbie" status and asked how many the gent was expecting.  Another aspect in preparation.  Would I prefer a small group of four or five men I can talk to about anything and everything.  A group small enough to be heard in while still large enough to keep quiet and listen.

Perhaps I would prefer a large group of more than twenty.  This would allow me to adopt my typical wall flower modus and scope the scene without being seen.  I could watch and witness the proper way to interact with these men.  Every social group has it's own unwritten and unspoken rules they don't even realize they have adopted.

Church-goers tend to talk about the weather, their kids, or their immediate families.  Bar-flies tend to talk pop-culture. Gays are always making joking innuendos and flirting, even with men they have no interest in.  I wonder what nudist tend to talk about or do.  Will there be extra personal space between the men?  Will physical contact be rare - ya know, hand on the shoulder or small of the back to get attention before speaking. 

There's an admonition against gawking or staring in the literature I've read.  The practice of having a towel to sit on is another tip.  Since grooming is high on the list of priorities among nudists (apparently) the proscription of a towel is interesting.

I also wonder how many will wear flip-flop style showering sandals or some other footwear.  It seems to be common to wear shoes while "naked."  Will I be the odd man out if I don't and go bare-footed?  A shame that would be since my feet are not only a topic of conversation because they are so small for my height but I kinda think they're attractive.

Perhaps my only embarrassment will be that no-one found my feet worth mentioning.

Clubbin'

When I was a young'n, I would attend the ritual every weekend, whether I had the money or not.  Foolishly I would drink myself to the edge of sloppy and pretend I was attractive and desirable.  Looking at myself from the outside, I'm sure I would be disgusted now by the ridiculousness of the behavior.

Nearly twenty years hence, I decided to venture once again into the typical scene for meeting friends and lovers.  I chose from only two real choices here in Tundraland and decided upon the bar frequented by older folks.  I am one such now and I imagine attempting to mingle at the other choice would place me squarely in the Troll category.

A modernized version of "Black Betty" was playing on an amazingly neon, digital juke box and the place was dark.  Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but I've not been in such a space in nearly two decades as doing so apparently put the entirety of this noble state in jeopardy. 

The ladies were at the south end of the bar while the boyz were at the other.  A few too old or androgynous for instant classification occupied the middle.  Every group of no more than four were evenly spaced with exactly one bar stool between them.  Everyone had the ability to touch the bar's surface so it was not crowded by my standards.  I remember the happening club being so crowded one inevitably had to press one's body against another to be close enough to the bar tender to garner attention.  Every Friday night was another excuse to commit frottage.

I'll spare you the unimpressive song list over the next hour and instead describe the smell emanating from the man to my immediate left.  Perhaps I shouldn't, such an aroma needn't be described; we all know what ass smells like on old men.

The various televisions displayed episodes of "Golden Girls" from Logo TV and two other programs I couldn't identify.  I noticed breeder-slanted commercials during the program.  I felt the urge to contact Logo and explain to them that they have no breeder audience who would be offended by gay themed advertising.  Then I realized the advertisers were the ones who needed chastisement.  Antiperspirant vendors know damned well who's watching Logo and either are too scared or lazy to shoot a gay-themed commercial.  So, par for the course, I sat in a gay bar watching a man kiss his wife before leaving for work.  Welcome to America!

Obviously I was disappointed with my choice to attend this bar, alone, without the courage to aggressively engage the other patrons.  Next time I will have to make sure I go with a friend who knows everyone there or has the spine to drag me across the room to introduce ourselves.  I currently know of only two such men and they are currently at another bar in Wausau for an event.

Next weekend I'll be back to the bar for a birthday party for one of those men and be in the company of many extroverts.  The weekend after I plan to drive to Minnesota and get naked with other men over a game of poker or chess.  And I believe the weekend after that it's back to the bar for a charity event.

Maybe I'll make a few new friends and never have to go to the bar alone again.

Beginning

This entry starts the blog, journal, diary for the public consumption of insomniacs and bored individuals everywhere.  It ends one of the best weekends I’ve had in… about six years - ever since I left my ex.
The weekend included lots of internet time, meeting many virtual men and one physical one, and was my first taste of the internet ever.  As I have be previously banned from such activities by the state, I was only able to watch over shoulders for the last 18 years.  Gladly, it’s lived up to all the hype.
As it is quite late and I slept little the last couple of nights…:), I really need to get back on my schedule for work in the morning.
I bid the universe adieu for the moment and will recap my excruciatingly boring day after work tomorrow.
Surely, I’ve garnered dozens of followers by now.

Perhaps a Little Explaination

This being the second post, perhaps a little clarification is in order.  Just a little.  Gotta keep em comin back for more, right?
I was recently relieved of my probationary duties and restrictions from this great state of ours. While I still have many restrictions due to the severity of my offence (for which I am responsible - just in case some of you want to deride me further), there were many things I’ve been waiting 18 years for.
My new tablet computer would have been completely useless without access to the internet so I had to wait on both until I was discharged.  That happened last Wednesday… after work so as to not be a complete bum and take the day off.
My exuberance in the previous missive is the culmination of not only exploring the internet and all its amazing, dazzling, and gritty bits, but also of the ability to interact with long lost friends and make new ones without the interference of the agent.  Many of those restrictions were put in place by one specific agent - but that need not be ranted about here and now.
As you can imagine, 18 years is long enough to go from being a twink to being the daddy who gets the twink.  I got me a twink for the weekend.  That was fun.  For those in the know, I was on my best behavior.  Maybe not the healthiest choice I made in the last five days, but one of the most fun.
My co-workers found my good cheer peculiar today.  They finally deduced I had gotten laid over the weekend - took em long enough,  One of the office ladies asked if I had a “friend” over.  I almost laughed at her.  Surely a 40-year old man does not have sleepovers or slumber parties.

Second Weekend

While this weekend is yet to be over, I’m surprised as to the disappointment my decisions have been.
This is my second weekend I am able to associate with people without outside approval.  While I’m almost sure most of my choices would have been approved by the Agent if I had the energy to ask, I didn’t like the very idea of having a three-some in my most basic friendships. Also, I tend to view friendship in many ways that are not viewed as proper or healthy.  My boundaries between acquaintance, friendship, bromance, and romance are not well defined… nor do I think they need or should be.  Describing these relationships can be a little tricky, but I don’t see or value them any less.
Able to reconnect with previously terminated relationships as my Agent decided my behavior would be adversely influenced… or some such rot that is antithetical for those who know me as a pig-headed know-it-all who knows peer-pressure only as a human-development term… I spent much of my first days on the internet searching for these people.
My first weekend was spent getting to know a man I didn’t realize was a twink until we met in person.  I also didn’t realize just how fraught the situation could be if I made one wrong step.  I treaded gently and made sure I showed great care so my more selfish and dominant nature wouldn’t hurt any feelings.
This second weekend was supposed to be all about friends with benefits.  I am home already mildly frustrated my fantasies are unfulfilled.  I don’t think I damaged a friendship last night, but the naughty texts and online chats suggested something we didn’t achieve.  Sadly, I was hoping to get fucked silly and now am turning my attention to the night clubs for such promiscuity.
Another friend I’ve contacted has yet to respond.  This is troubling as I believed we had a closer relationship than one that could be dismantled by Agents and time.  Perhaps I just have a better memory of the comfort we shared.  Perhaps I was a major bore and he’s glad to be rid of me.  Either way, I’m disappointed he has yet to call.
Facebook shows promise of future friendships, if only anyone online is from this backwater burb

New Direction

I’ve decided to change direction of this little blog/journal/diary/confessional.  I’m planning a vacation this summer.  It’ll be the first in six years as I’ve been the world’s worst employee and have not been offered vacation time for many reasons.
As I am newly released from Probation here in Wisconsin I have the opportunities I’ve been denied (for many reasons, not the least of which are other people’s behavior).  I’ve had casual sex, viewed porn (free porn is next to useless, btw), and imbibed alcohol in the last few weeks.  I’m also on the internet with almost an addict’s frequency.
I remember a lie I told in elementary school; I was constantly trying to convince my peers I was cool - still am, I suppose - and said my family owned a beach house in Florida where anyone wanting to use the pool must do so naked.
Almost every nudist website I view or join has asked or talked about how many years I have been a nudist.  On these websites, those who say, “all my life” usually follow by saying they were raised by nudist parents or were encouraged some other way by the adults in their lives.
I most certainly didn’t have nudist parents.  Mom was a nurse for most of her career and encouraged us to listen to our bodies so to better understand our health.  She also made sure we would never hold back information from a doctor simply because it was embarrassing… really that was for her parental communication with future taciturn teens.  All said, I’ve been a nudist for as long as I can remember.  I started sleeping naked in elementary school, I had my first boyfriend (though that’s not what we called it) in middle school, and was testing the limits of public nudity all through high school and college.  I don’t remember a time I didn’t think a naked walk in the woods would be cool.
What was so commonly referred to as peer pressure during my childhood kept me from really diving into the social/recreational nudity scene.  Hell, it took the internet to realize Mazo Beach is real and not just an urban legend. Now I intend to post my experiences as a newbie, from testing my friends reactions during childhood to my adult experiences with sexual partners and friends to planning and going on this summer’s vacation.

Committed

I just sent off an e-mail to Naked-Minnesota and asked to join them for a evening of soup and games; whatever kind those are.  Cards, board, puzzle?  I have no idea.</p>
I asked one contact on True Nudists if I should go and he replied he knows nothing about the group but I should be wary of sexually active groups. Apparently some are nude for one reason.</p>
This group repeatedly advertises a non-sexual basis so I hope I can trust the truth in advertising.  We'll see.  I'm not a shrinking violet when it comes to sexuality and I can take a little ribald-ery.  Hell, I might just find that's what I want more than authentic nudism.</p>
It'll be one hell of a Saturday.  Six hours of driving both ways and a stay at the diviest of motels I can find (or sleep in my car) and the anxiety of meeting new people - in the nude, no less - only to find out it is lame.  Still, I can't continue on Facebook and expect to make friends and influence people.  Video chat can't replace a lover; the ultimate goal in my life so far.