Naked Truth

Today after mat Pilates class (don’t you just adore me for my trendiness?), I stuck around to talk for a while with C (whom I know well) and M (whom I just met today). The topic of discussion was Turkish/______ (I forget) baths.
M mentioned a spa she went to that included a a set-up consisting of three steam rooms/saunas/whatevers and a pool of near-freezing water situated in the center. Apparently the participants go from one place to the next, varying between the extremes in temperature. M said she did it and found it quite exhilirating. I delicately deemed the mere thought of it “absolute fucking torture” and my indulgence in the actual physical implementation a complete impossibility.
I told them I had no desire to do something like that because I don’t like heat under any circumstances. I loathe hot weather, and the few times that, for whatever reason, I subjected myself to saunas and/or steam rooms, I questioned my sanity for voluntarily indulging in an enclosed, indoor version of something that I despise in the wide-open outdoors. Anguish, indeed. No thank you. I’ll pass, avoid passing GO, and pay you $200 if you don’t make me do it.
“So what do they wear,” I said, distaste already curling my upper lip, “when they’re doing this … this … this thing … running back and forth between the hot rooms and jumping into the icy water? Are they — oh god please don’t tell me, no &#151 nude?”
C looked at me and grinned impishly. Even her eyes smiled. She knows how I feel about floppy body parts flapping en masse like a flock of seagulls escaping the maniacal chase of a Fudgie-Wudgie-faced three-year-old on the beach. She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. (I, you, he/she/it, we, they laughed.)
All right, so only she and I laughed. M did not.
“Yes,” M said, somberly. “They’re nude.” (At least she didn’t pronounce it “nyooood”.)
“Oh god, please. So never mind even more then!” I said. “No thank you!”
M looked at me as if I’d said, “I hate this thing they call breathing. It’s such a bother, isn’t it? I mean, oxygen schmoxygen!”
C laughed again. I said, “C knows how modest I am. She knows I’m not into the big group nudity thing.”
M looked at me as if I’d said, “I would like to eat a puppy for lunch. Shall I order you your own, or would you just like an appetizer?”
I think she said something about how marvelous it was. I don’t know. I stopped listening. I sat there wishing she would just vaporize into thin nude air. Silently mocking her as I pretended to listen. Picturing her nude. Tits flopping, little “belly” jiggling, ass jumping. A big, tangled, out-of-control “bush” scurrying like a crazed forest creature. All with a very serious face. Running around, tits-a-poppin’, saying, joyously, “My woman energy extends out into the universe and back to me!”, her arms raised above her head, and then leaping into the air and plunging ass-first into the icy water. And dying immediately from the shock.
You see, here’s the thing. I don’t mind nudity at all. I am not a prude in the least. (I can produce quite a few witnesses if necessary.) I just think most people look better with their clothes on. (I can produce Exhibits A through ZZZZZZZZZZZZ.) I also think that no matter what anyone says, a nude body is still regarded sexually. Anyone who tells you that he can play a game of nude volleyball and not think about his dick or the effect the nude woman who just spiked the ball (THE ball, not HIS) had on his dick is lying. Anyone who tells you he can have a conversation with a topless woman without getting a good gander at her jugs is lying. And this goes for the ladies too. Please. (Just so no one accuses me of generalizing about men.) (For the so-called “record”, women are just as “bad” as men are.)
Nudity is, above all, hilarious. Especially considering the variety of parts involved, none of which I care to discuss but all of which make me laugh when they stare me in the eye or elsewhere. It’s all FUNNY.
So of course when M went into the changing room to get back into her street clothes, I didn’t avert my eyes as she removed her yoga pants and T-shirt. She gabbed about something, and I didn’t hear a word she said. I pretended to listen, but all I could picture was me as a three-year-old chasing after a flock of seagulls.
And then I ran out of there. I just ran. (I ran so far away.)