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“When you’re ready, join us,” he said, and then continued on his leisurely stroll. “Thanks,” I choked out in the next wave of giggles. We quickened our stride, trying to create as much distance between ourselves and the oiled up Adonis at our backs. We started to relax, started to unclench. My giggles even changed from nervous to relieved. We were in the clear. We could look people in the eye again! But then we saw another naked. And then another. And, suddenly,

his lower legs and—OH NO—he was not squatting, but bending over. We saw one coming straight for us, and the sun glinted off his special area. He was pierced. Oh boy, was he pierced. We saw one lying casually on a towel among four fully clothed friends. How can you be comfortable lounging in the buff when your pals obviously prefer bathing suits? We saw one sitting naked in the surf, letting the ocean lap at…. himself. I don’t know how we didn’t notice it sooner, but the nakeds were

paid sixteen dollars for the Fall Harvest and Seafood Festival, which consisted of joining a crowd of hillbillies of unknown origin to watch crabs race in a kiddie pool. In an effort to avoid any further debacles, I refused to make any plans beyond the elaborate meals we prepared to compensate for our visitors’ risk in venturing from Connecticut, over the Throgs Neck Bridge, and into Long Island. After we ate, we decided to visit the beach. I’m happy to report that I was not the one who suggested we explore Fire Island’s

Howoften do you stroll around public property and encounter another human being without any clothing?

there were too many to count. Instead of retreating, we had entrenched ourselves further inside the heartland. If these people were of one nude nation, we’d just entered their Tribal Belt—a belt that didn’t hold up any pants. We passed a bodacious babe shaking a booty so vast her dance threw off the tides. We passed a man wearing a shirt and no pants—a human Donald Duck—standing with his hands on his hips, pelvis thrust forward. We passed a naked drum circle. Yes, a naked drum circle. We passed a sand sculpture—and even she was naked! We passed a woman with maybe two percent body fat walking, if I recall correctly, in slow motion through the surf. She looked like the African goddess of intimacy; even I stared too long. We passed a naked Jerry Garcia. Eventually, we did emerge, but we left a piece of ourselves behind on the beach that day. A naive piece. A trusting piece. Our friends have yet to return to Long Island for another visit. And we? Well, we’re still here. And perhaps we were not meant to leave. Perhaps, like the man with the eyeglasses seemed to believe, we were meant to join them. No, that isn’t it. Alena Dillon is the author of the humor collection, I Thought We Agreed To Pee In The Ocean: And Other Amusings From A Girl Wearing Sweatpants. *

everywhere. We were surrounded. “I don’t think we’re on a regular beach anymore,” someone whispered. Then we saw what appeared to be a mirage: a glimmering man in impeccable physical condition, hands on hips, standing proudly, with no tan lines. He looked as if Michelangelo carved him from bronze. His presence was palpable. His physicality deafening. He didn’t have to say anything— we knew he was the king of his sandcastle, the sun of this solar system. We felt the gravitational pull, and we didn’t like it. It was suddenly clear that if we got too close to him, we’d never be able to leave. We’d get sucked into the mechanism. We’d be caught in the rip tide and pulled out to sea. We’d be no match for this Lighthouse Beach David. “We have to get out of here right now,” my friend Joe said. And we all heard the unspoken end of that sentence: before it’s too late. Our car was still a mile away. We’d wandered too far from the beach grass trail, so we turned on the shore and headed toward what we thought was the exit of this disrobed dimension, toward what we thought was freedom. Aswebeganourescape,amanwearingnothing but eyeglasses and confidence approached us, casually flipping through a magazine. I’m not sure what the magazine was, but I’m guessing it wasn’t a Men’s Wearhouse catalog. He stopped and looked us up and down.

emblematic lighthouse, but I also did nothing to stop it. Fire Island is vehicle-free, so we drove to the parking lot closest to the lighthouse, parked, and walked a mile-long trail through beach grass. When we arrived, we climbed it, descended, and then wandered onto Lighthouse Beach, where we immediately spotted a beacon even brighter than the one we’d just scaled: a blatantly naked man. How often do you stroll around public property and encounter another human being without any clothing? We were startled and confused, but also a little giddy. Intrigued by the novelty of his brazen nakedness, we ventured in for a closer look. My husband Phil, who just had eye surgery, squinted and said, “He can’t be naked. He must be wearing a flesh colored bathing suit. He can’t be naked.” But he could, and he was. Beginning from that moment and continuing for the next twenty or so minutes, I was one long nervous giggle. As we moved closer, my unencumbered giggling frightened the nude creature, and he curled up inside of a blanket and hibernated. At first we were a little disappointed that we scared off this lone animal, when the sighting of one is so rare. But as soon as this one went into hiding, we spotted another in the distance, and this specimen appeared far bolder. He was applying suntan lotion to

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