It was a typical day…
You know, roll out of Granny, grab a coffee, drive to St. Cloud to pick up some dear friends who share a passion for naked sunbathing/swimming-
Ya, you read that right. We were headed to lot 13, baby. A magical place where all who love to be naked in nature and don’t find it to be weird are welcome to indulge sans fear of being arrested!
Don’t knock it till you try it, bub.
There was, for whatever reason, a mischievous kind of air stinking up the van as we approached the gate granting access to the beach. Could’ve been because we were fully intending on trying to sneak my expired parking pass by the guard to get in (worked like a charm by the way), or maybe we were simply sensing the other incoming bouts of harmless mischief that were waiting to weave themselves into our day.
As we got lost in some swimming, no surfing, because that’s something that’s not so fun doing naked unless you want wax in places you would otherwise only pay a professional to handle, we lost track of The Wall and how it was making its way around the beach.
For those who aren’t natives here, “The Wall” refers to the giant border of rain that if not paid attention to, will drench you, your comrades, and all of your belongings without warning. It may come hit you in a flash and last all day or it may come in a few hours and only piss on you for a second… Hell, it may just taunt you and never come.
It takes a lifetime to familiarize yourself with the impulsive and reckless tendencies of The Wall, but it’s a skill I’ve come to master 60 percent of the time, all the time. So naturally, I pride myself on that.
Not today though, my friends.
My dear Jonny boy looked to the right of us and muttered a “shit, that’s coming straight for us” before we were running stark naked out of the water and up to our belongings that were already soaked. Including my guitar, uke, and some expensive pen full of medical-grade goodness that may or may not have been indulged in throughout our time spent there.
Amidst the thunder and stinging rain, I threw on a shirt and some shorts and we sprinted the long way back to Granny for some shelter.
Of course, by the time we reached her, it had completely stopped raining… Damn Florida.
But we figured since we packed up all our stuff, we’d go sneak into an apartment complex down the road we had house-sitted in a couple New Years Eve’s ago. We just wanted to use the sauna…
But as I was struggling to get my wet shorts off in exchange for some other/more dry pants, I heard someone pull up and behind me and start yelling-
“The parking lot ain’t a dressing room miss, you can’t be naked here, put your clothes on!”
Fucking nudie police, man.
First off, that’s exactly what I was doing and you couldn’t see anything worth seeing, and secondly, there was a grown man bare-ass naked hanging out of his trunk a couple of whips down!
I felt better after flashing her as she pulled away. No, she didn’t see, and we then moved onward.
Where we got a stern talking to in the sauna about sneaking into fancy apartment complexes…
The sauna police couldn’t figure out whether we were telling the truth or not about visiting “our friend in apartment x,y,z” though, so he backed off long enough for us to get our fill of the heat and alter our course to the brewery.
It’s funny, being a grown-up, because however mature you may look, you’re still going to get your kicks out of stirring the pot here and there whether it’s intended or not.
And then you get to have beer which, to me, is a major bonus.
When’s the last time you stirred the pot?
by Alexa Francisco
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