The Closet Naturist

I didn't really get dressed yesterday. I did cover myself with a dressing gown, because my brother is staying with me. When we were little boys, we'd be bathed together, but aside from that, we were never one of those naked families, and despite circumstantial evidence to the contrary I still find it hard to believe that my parents have genitalia.

I like a dressing gown. Room to breathe. Long and flowing is a good thing for me. I'd have made a good druid, sartorially at least. I think I'd have liked the ritualistic group sex, too, but as the problem pages often tell us, the fantasy is usually much better than the reality.

If my brother wasn't here, I'd be permanently naked whilst at home. I know that this is neither pretty or hygienic. I just feel more comfortable without clothes. Except when there are other people around, when even if I were dressed in a beekeeper's outfit, I'd still feel exposed.

On holiday, in plus 30 temperatures, I still keep my T-shirt on until the very last minute before getting into the water. I wish for a swimwear fashion U-turn towards the full body stripey bathing costume. 

I can't pinpoint the time when I started feeling like this, it seems to be something that's always been there. Had my mind been cognisant, I'm sure I would have sprung from the womb at loggerheads with nature over her intentions. 

As an adolescent, I was mocked in the P.E. changing rooms for my painfully skinny physique, and then as soon as my twenties hit, my metabolism went into  s l o w  m o t i o n  and although my arms and legs remained thin,  I developed a huge belly, and latterly breasts. Not a good look. Naked, I resemble E.T.

I know that it's strange to feel so conscious about other people seeing my body, but to be comfortable undressed so often whilst alone. It was a difficult process, but thanks to a combination of covering up all mirrors at all times and never, ever looking down, I've learned to be happy with my own nakedness.