A week ago, I had never had a naturist experience. I don’t have any strong feelings either way about naturism. I haven’t actively avoided it, but then nor have I particularly sort it out. It’s just never been part of my world. A couple of years ago, some curious part of me watched a handful of fly on the wall documentaries about the lifestyle on Channel 4 but that’s where my contact with it had pretty much started and stopped.
Hubbie and I booked a fortnight in the South of France, camping on a beachside resort. He’s been trying to encourage me for years to sunbathe topless, but my anxiety about my physical appearance has always stopped me. Playing with me, he joked about the naturist resort next door and how this would be a holiday where we could strip off entirely if we wanted to frolick in the Mediteranean sea. I scoffed at his joke, knowing I was not the sort to expose my body to the world, not with just how badly my diet had been going (8 years after starting it I weighed more than when I started). Don’t get me wrong, I’m not awful to look at. I’m tall, and an hour glass with great tits and shapely bum – but my tummy is squishier than I’d like, and my thighs… I could write for hours about my thighs.