Co-ed Naked Philosophy

Co-ed Naked Philosophy

By Will Forest

Copyright 2011 Will Forest

Smashwords Edition

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Nude Scribe

Cover image copyright 2011 Bernard Perroud, lingni2@yahoo.com

Quando o português chegou

Debaixo duma bruta chuva

Vestiu o índio

Que pena!

Fosse uma manhã de sol

O índio tinha despido

O português

Oswald de Andrade

El puritanismo

ha creado

un nuevo pecado:

el exceso de vestido,

que, bien mirado

y por ser tan distinguido,

en nada se distingue del nudismo.

Xavier Villaurrutia

A Charm invests a face

Imperfectly beheld—

The Lady dare not lift her Veil

For fear it be dispelled—

But peers beyond her mesh—

And wishes—and denies—

Lest Interview—annul a want

That Image—satisfies—

Emily Dickinson

Table of Contents

Fall Semester

August

September

October

November

December

Spring Semester

January

February

March

April

May

Summer

June

July

FALL SEMESTER

August

Sundry Adiposities

His cheeks burned. How he’d arrived at age thirty-five without understanding the swinging and swaying and bouncing against each other of a woman’s breasts as she walks nude—a simple, physical property of unbound bodies in motion, so intimate and yet so ordinary—he later blamed on the reams of obscene laws and perverse commandments that even now caused him to drop his head in shame. But with admiration, astonishment, and hastily mustered objectivity, Assistant Professor of Philosophy Dr. Christopher Ross lifted his head back up and looked again. The sun, while searing a line of flesh along the band of Christopher’s swimsuit, broke through a cloudbank and illuminated the nude woman, young, and the young man accompanying her, as they pulled off their snorkel masks and shared laughing gasps of new air. They were just as completely nude, Christopher marveled, as they were nakedly unconcerned about the curiosity they attracted on the crowded beach.

He had seen them arise from the sea: first the shark fin-like snorkels, then rounded bases like dolphins’ backs, and finally human faces and torsos as they stood, the water streaming down their skin, unveiling muscular contours. Now, holding their snorkel masks by the straps, the man and woman had grasped their free hands together, steadying themselves against the wash, and were wading through low waves up the sand slope toward the beach. The swinging of their snorkels complemented the graceful sway of breasts and genitals unbound, an exemplary collection of appendages that hypnotized Christopher, who watched, enthralled, as these fascinating figures gained the shoreline and pulled each other into an embrace. He met their allure with the scrutiny of the naturalist who, though he predicts the scarlet bloom of the frigatebird’s pouch or the accurate aim of the archerfish, feels profound satisfaction, all the same, at the visual confirmation of his investment in so much wonder.

With the tide at his feet, Christopher also felt awash by the instantaneous realization of two certainties: that he was lying under the sun with part of himself bound in tight, wet cloth; and that he could tell by the snorkelers’ carefree demeanor, as well as by their uniformly tanned skin, that they had not gone missing any such wrappings. He verified with a few glances that all the other beachgoers in view did in fact sport on their persons some arrangement of textiles purportedly designed for swimming. But just then, it became apparent from their gestures that the snorkelers, whose conversation could not be heard over the surf, had drifted along the current from some point along the beach to Christopher’s left. As they took their bearings they had no doubt perceived the singularity of their unclothed condition, but they continued without sign of alarm or embarrassment and made no attempt to cover themselves as they began walking casually back down the beach toward an outcrop fifty yards to the east. Some of the people they passed gawked at them openly, while others dissimulated, and no one spoke to them at all.

After strolling some distance away from the last of these clothed beachgoers, and as if to continue what seemed to be their general philanthropy of anatomical edification, the couple stood back to back, locking elbows, and the man leaned forward, hoisting the woman up onto his back, her hair spilling down over his head while her breasts rolled to the sides. Showing off his strength, the man held the position for a good minute, rocking his partner left and right as she laughingly protested. Then he set her feet down on the sand, and squatted for her to mount his shoulders. They slowly stood as if one creature, and played at weaving and wobbling through the waves as he held her above the spray, eventually disappearing behind the outcrop.

Christopher shook his head back and forth, recalling an aphorism by Paul Tillich. Astonishment is the root of philosophy, he thought. A smile formed on his face, the banner of a call to action. And I am astonished. Therefore, I am at the root, the threshold, of philosophical inquiry. I am a philosopher, and my mission is to question why we do what we do and think what we think.

And before he had even finished the thought he stood up and tugged at his swimsuit, tempted to yank it off but too keenly aware of the collective gaze of the suited persons in his proximity. He fumbled with the drawstring, fretting about undoubtedly pale buttocks and unpredictably aroused genitalia. Frustrated, angry, surprised by his anger, he felt surge within him the determination to follow the snorkelers. He grabbed his towel and his belongings and flip-flopped the gauntlet through the amused and concerned stares of the bathing suit-clad.

As he rounded the outcrop, which he could see served as a natural beach divider, he hoped to find some indication that he was entering a designated nude area. He saw no such sign, but what he did see made him catch his breath: there were easily a hundred people here, some with sunglasses, sandals, or hats, but most wearing nothing at all. The sun generously illumined for his avid attention the shapes and sizes and colors all around him, the unsuspected limits of his prior understanding of humanity. Big, small, or big here and small there; tanned, pale, or tanned here and pale there; hairy, bald, or hairy here and bald there; each body was, quite literally, a revelation, yet in another sense no one body stood out prominently from the nude uniformity.

Except his. He knew he needed to undress quickly and soon, or his intentions could be misunderstood. And although he cast himself in the role of the curious observer, alert for more corporeal epiphanies, he realized the need for restraint even as he wanted to shout, such a singular and beautiful moment he was witnessing, like finding an entire beach full of endangered seals.

He began the search for an inviting stretch of sand to place his towel and things, guided only by the cardinal rule of no staring. He passed a group of nine or ten people congregated around a beach umbrella and a huge cooler: some were fat, some were wrinkled, but all were uniformly tanned. They were nude beach regulars, Christopher surmised, and they were talking, laughing and drinking. As he walked on, feeling more textile-oppressed with each step, he saw a multicolored beach ball roll by, chased by an undressed child. A young woman arose from her towel, leaving her sunglasses—her only covering—behind, and walked down the beach to join another young nude woman already in the water.

Christopher could no longer tolerate the ridiculous expanse of his bermudas; here, even a speedo was superfluous. He flung out his towel where he could, dropped his book and bag, and pulled off his trunks. An instant arousal overcame him, as he had predicted, but he knew, too, that it was an involuntary response to the sensual overload of the moment. He sat, forcing himself to concentrate on a few pages of his book, and discovered, as he read, that even though he did eventually relax, the sea breeze through his legs produced a heightened sensation of body-consciousness that undermined any habituated shame of wrongdoing. 

Laughing at his continued astonishment, he shook his head and pinched his thigh. I knew such places exist – why hadn’t I done this before? What else have I been ignoring about my body’s sensations? Under the sun newly released from behind the clouds, here he sat thanking his genes that he had at least filled out his thighs and chest with more than a rudimentary muscle definition. Yet as he surveyed the expanse of his fair but darkening skin, he thought about how his birthday suit had aged: balding patches above his ankles and on his inner thighs, the slight promontory of a paunch, the pockmarked scars from acne on his upper arms, a hint of gray along his temples, the glasses sliding down his sweaty nose.

He had not removed his watch. Covering his left wrist with his right hand, he glanced at the now cloudless sky and guessed about a quarter past four. When he moved his hand away he confirmed 4:16 on his watch, and with this little game he felt more confident and centered. He stretched out his legs and breathed deep as he felt the sun opening his pores and roasting his bones.

Among the flesh of a hundred people all around him—of all ages and statures and hues, their sundry adiposities unanimously exposed—there appeared a pale, middle-aged man who wasn’t exactly nude, although to say he was clothed would be an exaggeration. He wore only a fishing hat and a blue t-shirt. Like an old friend, this man approached the two snorkelers with an effusive greeting, but they turned and moved away. So the man, pressing down on his hat as if resisting a strong wind, looked around and decided to amble toward Christopher.

There was no wind. Christopher stood up to confront the partially dressed man, now very near, and when he saw himself reflected, naked from head to toe, in what he thought was the man’s hatband, he felt his body flush its blood from his core out to his skin. It was a blush that rekindled the shame he had overcome to be where he was at that moment, fusing it with anger and an unexplored self-confidence. He could even see his skin redden on his reflection as he took a few steps back, confirming his mirror image’s retreat, and he kept moving backward, feeling taller and more expansive with each step, until his tiny likeness disappeared inside the hat, framed by the miles of white sand and the mutual calm of sky and sea.

Christopher felt the hair on his neck bristle as his voice dropped an octave. Let me see that hat.

The shirted man opened his mouth to speak but his voice fell under the shouts of a trim, redheaded youth striding toward them: Hey, you! Look, we know what you’re doing. Hand it over.

Before the partially clothed man could react, his hat levitated, plucked from his head by the tattooed arm of an older, bearded man who had approached him from behind. Strapped precariously inside the flimsy hat was the digital camera, its lens aligned with a hole in the band. The bearded man glared at the photographer while the younger man reached for the hat. But the cameraman abruptly ripped the camera from its Velcro webbing and sprinted off toward the distant parking area, sand spraying up behind him.

Let’s Play a Guessing Game

Christopher shook his head. No permission.

Nope, said the young man. They never ask. Do you want this hat? I’ve already confiscated quite a few.

Happens that often?

Yeah. Some people just don’t get it. They think the minute you take off your clothes it’s all about sex. Fair game for somebody else’s fantasy.

Or they think we’re all exhibitionists, said the bearded man. They refuse to accept that we’re just normal folks, with jobs and families, who like to spend time outdoors in the buff. We don’t want some pervert trafficking nude photos of us on the net. Might ruin somebody’s career.

Christopher nodded nervously.

I’m Alex, the young man said, and this is Tucker, he added, planting a hand on the older man’s shoulder above his Asian-styled dragon tattoo.

Christopher introduced himself and shook hands. Are you the beach patrol?

Yeah, I guess so, said Tucker. "La Rioja Beach is property of the U.S. Navy, but it’s unmarked, and besides they never do anything with it. Our group has been meeting here au naturel for some ten years now. The word has spread, as you can see. But technically we’re all trespassing on military property. Every few weeks the top brass will send out some MPs to give us warnings or, once in a while, arrest us."

You’ve…been arrested before? Christopher smiled to hide his concern.

Yeah, once. Tucker twice, right?

Three times now. They just throw blankets on us, handcuff us and haul us to the city precinct. The MPs have an agreement with the city police. Whole thing takes a couple hours. The funny part is they release us right in the middle of downtown...

Hey Dr. Ross! Fancy meeting you here!

Christopher cringed. Fighting the urge to cover himself, he turned to recognize a student from a course the previous semester. To his immense relief, she wore no more clothes than he did. Hey, good to see you. Guys, this is …

I’m Renee! Don’t you remember me?

…one of my most expressive students, Christopher finished, flustered by forgetting her name.

"Don’t be shy, Dr. Ross! Oh – this must be your first time here, don’t you feel nervous standing out here buck naked?" Renee giggled and winked at Alex and Tucker.

Well, I, uh, I…yes. It’s certainly taking me some time to adjust, but it’s great to feel the sun all over...

You’ll get used to it, real quick, she assured him. It’s really popular. People come here from all over, you know. I even heard that the State Tourism Office is promoting the place.

The State Tourism Office? asked Tucker. Just what we need…more snowbirds. This beach used to be the best kept secret on the Gulf...

C’mon, Tucker, the more the merrier, said Alex.

Too many people know about the beach now, you’re right, said Renee. People like that cameraman? They ruin the place. Who did he think he was fooling? That disgusts me. People like that give nude beaches a bad name.

Happens once or twice a week, said Alex, from what I’ve seen, anyway.

Renee’s eyes widened. You mean that guy comes here all the time?

Actually, I had never seen him before, but people like him.

I think I saw that same guy a couple weeks ago, said Tucker.

Well, I’m glad he’s gone. Don’t worry, Dr. Ross! Let me tell you guys, this man is one funky teacher. In our philosophy class, he’d always be telling us, ‘Let’s play a guessing game,’ and then he’d disguise a common thing with some bizarre description, you know, so we’d have to think about it in a different way.

Huh? Like what? asked Alex.

Like when we had to guess that an arm-shortener is an elbow. Or, what was it, feet coffins?

I know that one, said Tucker, wriggling his toes in the sand. That’d be shoes.

So let’s play now, Renee, said Christopher, pleased at the chance to mount a familiar soapbox. You guess what I’m doing here.

Okay, I guess…that I shouldn’t be surprised to see you on a nude beach, because I remember so many times you encouraged us to debate that wording in the Declaration of Independence, about ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’

That’s what I’m all about, said Alex, the pursuit of happiness!

With respect for other people’s rights, don’t forget, said Tucker.

Christopher warmed up to the discussion. So, is that your guess?

Yes. You’re here doing what you’d probably call ‘research.’

You’re right, but only in part. I was over on the—what do you call it? Clothing beach? I was over there reading when suddenly these nude snorkelers came up from the ocean. It was very impressive how nonchalant they were, and how they never looked anything but immensely pleased. And so I followed them over here. You know, in research, you’ve got to follow your lead, no matter where it may take you!

Renee looked disappointed. That’s it?

Well, if you prefer, I can add a little something about being inspired by Diogenes, Franklin, Thoreau, and other great thinkers that come to mind who exposed themselves to the elements. But really it was a snap decision. After those snorkelers made their entrance and crossed the beach like a great stage, I looked around with a new interest. I saw people covering pieces of themselves with synthetic scraps and swaths, out of ignorance. And philosophers, well: we philosophers detest ignorance. I decided to live this experience, to challenge social conventions.

Sounds deep. And, coming from just about anybody else, suspicious. But you, I can believe, said Renee. So just exactly what have you learned from your ‘research,’ Dr. Ross?

I’ve learned that I never would have guessed how much I still have to learn about anatomy!

Tucker cleared his throat. What do you mean by that?

Color, shape, movement…look, I don’t want this to come out the wrong way. I’m not gawking or spying, or camera-fishing like that intruder. I’m just struck by the variety of what people look like and how they move.

I’m a regular, so I don’t think I notice that so much anymore, said Tucker. But it’s true you see all kinds of people out here.

Let me show you what I mean. Look at the ice cream vendor over there.

Señor Espinoza? He’s a great guy. Been here for years, longer than me, maybe, said Tucker.

He’s a walking anatomy lesson. Just look at him pushing that cart through the sand. See how he pushes low, lining his back up with his legs? He gets all the power from his lower body that way.

Yeah, you can tell he’s been moving that thing down the beach for a long time now, said Alex. Just look at his massive quadriceps and glutes!

Or look over there, toward the hotels, said Christopher. See those two people walking this way, right along the shoreline?

The one on the surf side is a little taller? asked Tucker.

Right. See, I can’t tell their sex, you know what I mean? This is my point. If they had swimsuits on, we could tell from an even greater distance whether they’re both women, or both men, or one each, or whatever.

It’s one woman and one man…no wait, they’re both men, said Tucker.

Sure, now they’re close enough you can see, said Renee. It’s only natural. Everybody checks people out, whether they’re wearing clothes or not.

That’s funny, said Alex. They’re naked and that actually makes it harder to tell who’s what sex.

Only you would think of something like that, Dr. Ross, Renee said. OK, so now it’s your turn. Guess why I’m here today.

Chin in hand, Christopher stared into Renee’s eyes. I guess you’re here on a dare. It couldn’t be to work on that tan, right? He regretted such a lame joke the second it fell from his lips.

She laughed. "Yeah, good one, Dr. Ross! I couldn’t be any darker, now, could I? No, but I’m here with some friends from Ricky’s, who are working on their tans."

Christopher raised his eyebrows. I didn’t know you’re a stri…

Exotic dancer. It’s good money—helps pay tuition—and I’m comfortable with my body, so... Renee paused while she held her arms out wide and lifted her face to the sun, her wavy hair plunging down her back, ...here I am.

That’s what this beach is all about, accepting your body, said Tucker. And other people’s bodies.

Alex nodded, unashamedly appraising Renee’s fit physique. You really take care of yourself.

Thank you, she replied. Listen, I came over here to tell you we’re setting up the volleyball net. Y’all are welcome to come play.

Thanks, said Alex. That’d be great.

Tucker declined, stretching his chin to point out the group of regulars sitting around their cooler. I’m gonna have another beer. You care for one, Chris?

Christopher delayed in responding, partly because he was still getting used to natural conversation while nude, and partly because he didn’t like being called Chris. It’s tempting, but no thanks. I’m going to keep reading here for awhile. I’m working on my lesson plans. Classes start next week.

Don’t remind me, groaned Renee. Okay, see you later, Dr. Ross.

Walking away, she turned back and called, Oh yeah, Dr. Ross? You better take off your watch or you’ll have a funny white stripe around your wrist!

Christopher grinned and waved as Renee and Alex joined other young women and men setting up their game. Among them he recognized the snorkelers he had followed, and he recalled them now fondly as the catalyst for his new research. Several players began to jump and stretch and serve and volley in preparation. It was a heavenly vision: beautiful young nudes, like Greek gods sporting on the beach, the whole shimmering scene pierced by crystalline slivers of sunshine. Playing volleyball! No clothes!

Setting up the volleyball court, a fit young woman was flexing her thighs and buttocks, drawing her right foot over to her left to trace the boundary lines in the sand. Christopher watched her for a short time, and although he was thinking about boundaries, he felt himself surprised by the faintest and most involuntary beginning of an erection. He immediately sat down on his towel and drew his knees tight against his abdomen.

Still watching the young woman set up the court, he shamed himself remembering the covert cameraman, and wondered how to mark the line between the natural and the perverse. What’s out of bounds? To some extent, don’t we all come to the beach, any beach, as voyeurs? Don’t we come to celebrate bodies, our own and others’? And wouldn’t my reaction have been the same if the woman were wearing a swimsuit? He reasoned that the physical, bodily manifestation of his arousal was a perfectly natural reaction to the immediate context, but that photographing the nude beach-goers without their consent, and then using those photos for blatantly sexual purposes, presented a much different situation because it set up an artificial or un-natural context, once or even several times removed from the original environment. He repeated to himself, for the umpteenth time, one of his trademark classroom phrases: Context is everything.

He debated the possibility of ever completely filtering out the erotic, and the desirability of that condition. If he were over there playing volleyball, he reasoned, he’d be thinking about the game, more than about unclothed bodies. Physiologically, blood would be shunted to his muscles, not his genitals. But to some extent— socially conditioned, and perhaps a great and pleasurable one—while playing volleyball he would still cherish the sensuality of the abundance of skin, of marble-dust sand clinging to buttocks, of bobbing breasts. He rolled over to lie face down, feet toward the volleyball players, and focused on The Veiled Truth: Human Beauty in the Visual Arts in the Proceedings of the Twenty-Fourth International Conference on the Philosophy of Aesthetics, Vienna 1998:

Draped over the reclining nude, the veil reveals as much as it hides. Opaque or translucent, it accents the body’s contours even as it covers them. The extended veil, like the entrance to Plato’s cave, filters our perception of the illuminated world and draws our gaze to silhouettes projected beyond the sun’s reach.

At times the veil provides a welcome relief by shielding us from the unbearable power of Truth. This is because we cannot view Plato’s Forms in their pure state, rather only the filtered images of them. Moreover, the pure state is unalterable, inexorable, whereas veils allow us the pleasure and the diversion of variety in context.

As Christopher read these opening paragraphs he heard the game begin: the deep, hollow thump of service; some sharp, higher hits as the volley was returned. He struggled with a few more lines but could no longer resist watching the game, enraptured by the bouncing bodies, women and men flexing, tensing, turning, twisting in unrestrained freedom. His penis still felt somewhat thick against his abdomen but he decided it was nothing obscene, nothing to hide. Would a panther hide his skin? Or a bear, or a python? Why hide anything under the cloudless dome, this naked sky, this unveiled heaven? Hearing animated conversation from Tucker and the other regulars, he decided to accept that beer after all.

When he stood up, a growing breeze enveloped the front of his body. And as he walked toward Tucker’s group he gradually became aware of a parched silence, a void that was too quickly being filled by an alarming hum. Christopher spun around and faced the abandoned volleyball net. He watched three black triangles further down the beach, looming ever larger as they turned into uniformed men riding dune buggies with enormous wheels.

The Demons Approacheth

He cringed at his birthday suit’s suddenly overwhelming vulnerability. Tucker and his cronies had stopped talking, but they remained seated calmly on their coolers and towels. Most of the other people had run off; Christopher regretted not having done the same. The riders, their badges reflecting concentrated sunlight, stopped their buggies but left the motors running.

Tucker yelled Turn off your engines already! and amazingly, they did.

In the renewed stillness Christopher observed the military policemen, armed with clubs, stone-faced behind their shining mirror shades. An officer’s walkie-talkie conversation broke the silence: Yeah, there’s about a dozen of ‘em. Bring the big one.

Alright now don’t go runnin’ off, another MP said. Y’all are under arrest for trespassing and public nudity. There’ll be a van here in a few minutes to take you to the precinct.

A middle-aged, somewhat portly woman stood up and swaggered over to the MP. Well isn’t that sweet. Y’all really look out for us. But while we’re all waiting, wouldn’t you like to change into something more comfortable?

Tucker laughed. Sure is hot out here, huh Chris. Chris? Isn’t that right, Chris?

Yeah, said Christopher, hopping from one foot to the other while he rued the damage the arrest would cause his career. It sure is hot out here.

That’s enough now, said the MP. Y’all know this beach is property of the United States government.

A twenty-something man with orange hair and a hoop earring spoke up. Yeah and you all know that we’re out here sunbathing in the buff all the time, and we don’t cause any problems. So why are you after us today? Somebody piss in sarge’s coffee?

No, said Tucker, snapping his fingers. It must have been that delinquent with the camera. He ratted on us! He’s got connections or else he wouldn’t have been taken seriously.

Well he’s probably an MP, don’t you think? asked a deeply tanned young woman.

Christopher thought that in fact one of the MPs did look something like the t-shirted cameraman, but it was hard to tell with the uniforms, caps, and mirror sunglasses. Wait a minute, Christopher said. How can you charge us with public nudity when we’re supposedly trespassing on private land?

The officer with the walkie-talkie grinned. Y’all aren’t trespassing on private land, you’re hanging out butt nekkid on PUBLIC land, U.S. Navy property. That’s called PUBLIC nudity.

Hey I pay my taxes so this is my land, right? How come I can’t do whatever I want on it? demanded the orange-haired man.

Yeah and isn’t there some law about the coastline being everybody’s property? You can’t own the beach...

Save it for the precinct! yelled another MP. Pick up your stuff. And put your damn clothes on! The van is on the way.

While they waited for the van, a different arrival interrupted the tension. From the other end of the beach, toward the hotel area, came a progression of several dozen people clothed in pants or pantsuits and long-sleeved shirts or blouses, some wearing suit jackets and ties, marching behind a robed man bearing a large cross and two others carrying a banner with a proclamation that the nude beach regulars recognized even before it was close enough to read:

CHILDREN OF THE LORD OUR GOD FUNDAMENTALIST CONGREGATION.

The banner was affixed to poles that the carriers pushed into the sand just beyond the Navy base boundary. Then the banner carriers helped the robed man erect the cross in the sand next to the banner. Somebody produced a bible, and soon the nudists and police officers could hear fragments of the group leader’s predications on the breeze:

And the serpent said unto the woman…and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons…And the Lord God called unto Adam…I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.

Jesus Christ, muttered an officer. Now we’ve got to deal with these loonies, too.

They always come over here right after church, dressed in their Sunday best said the portly woman. They’re going to steam like tamales.

Hast thou eaten of the tree, continued the preacher, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

I’ll be just a moment, Tucker said, strolling over to the protesters. Christopher followed him.

The preacher broke from the text and raised his hands. Shield thine eyes! The demons approacheth!

Tucker stopped on the other side of the Navy boundary and addressed the preacher. Hi, Sean.

Sean made a great show of turning