ominously forewarning me, grabbed me on the way home from school to steal a

kiss. Indignant and incensed, I told my mom, who called the school. Well, the
school official suspected that I was the one who’d been the aggressor,
considering that one episode made me incorrigible. My mum decided to believe
I can not entirely blame my
Mom here, because in kindergarten at an alternate school I ran a “witch gang”
of girls who grabbed the boys for me to kiss. The teacher, the principal and my
parents believed we were horrid, but it was howling good fun at the time.
But when a worse circumstances arose two years after this fifth-grade kiss, it
never happened to me to tell anyone because I’d burned an important bridge
What happened is this: two
boys, Jack and Britt, ages 15 and 14, came to my house early one morning when I
was alone and still in my shortie pajamas. I had opened the door because my
Pal Peggy had only telephoned to say she was coming over. (Jack was her
boyfriend, and Peggy liked to draw pictures of dick, presumably his. Drawing
them with her was another example of curious indifference on my part.) Jack and

Britt had visited before, so although I was uncomfortable about it, I let them
in and started off to my room to get dressed. But they followed me down the
Jack grabbed me from
behind, wrestled me to the floor, place his hand between my legs and I froze at
that second. Britt, standing over us, said, “Hey, she enjoys it!” I believe my
obvious and extreme mortification was what prevented it from going any further.
But it went far enough to quite effectively short circuit the connection between
my genitals and my brain for several years. as soon as I lost my virginity, I had to ask,
“Is it in yet?” and I don’t think it was only the big amount of alcohol I’d
consumed that had dulled my senses.
A couple of years later another
fifteen-year old lad tried much the same thing with me, but this time on the
sidewalk of a deserted road at night. Having already been desensitized,
literally, was much less traumatic. Better still, I had the enjoyment of
Capturing him myself, with a little help, and presenting him to the authorities.
So, how in the world was I
able to become a fkk? Well, if nudity were predominantly sexual, or somehow
asexual or anti-sexual, or less than invigorating and delightful, I probably never
would have. And if young family nudists hadn’t wanted revolutionary change in my life I probably would
have gone on as I was, but more slowly. As it was, I coped and made progress.
By the time I was thirty,
I ‘d finally overcome disgrace and frigidity to the point of being able to totally
Love sex, as long as my partner demonstrated he could be trusted
unconditionally. This meant that sex had to be taken fairly seriously. My first
Union had failed, partly for sexual reasons, and in between was bleak. The
girl who ran witch gangs and experiments wrote dry-as-dust computer programs,
wore suits, talked little, and dreamed too often of spiders and 15-year-old lads
and their grins.
Well, I managed to locate
someone I could trust and adore, and did so for a few very happy years,
until he died unexpectedly of a heart attack. The grief overwhelmed me for quite a
while. And then a good friend — a jolly, bearded guy who organized the
after-hours shifts of co workers who babysat until I was prepared to leave for my
empty house — motivated me to see a spot in the Santa Cruz mountains called
“Getting In Touch.” This was aa massage school and fkk getaway, now defunct.
And this was where I began to recover, partially because I ‘d to, and partially because
the surroundings made a start practically inescapable.
My first visit was for a
weekend massage workshop. I arrived early and there was no one available to show
me about or get me oriented. I was perfunctorily escorted to the locker room
and invited to relax a little while at the pool or hot tub. I believe not making a
big deal about it, supposing that I could handle getting nude in public for the
first time with no guidance, actually made it easier than otherwise. I stripped
down, alone in the locker room, stepped out the door and Wham! Two blink of an eye
miracles: no part of me was divided from another and the breeze in my pubic hair
tickled deliciously! I wished right then that I hadn’t made a point of having my
legs waxed, another new experience, the day before.
This felt so great, with no
intimation of shame whatsoever, it was simple to dare the next move. So I traveled
around the building and took the long, long walk across the yard to reach the
pool. When I got there, I discovered one young man nearby in the hot tub, not
looking my way. Thus far so good. But then there was the issue of making the
transition from a standing posture to a reclining posture on the sofa. And
not knowing what was acceptable. I mean, there are rather inscrutable rules
about not showing some of our clothing — our underwear — when we are dressed,
so maybe there were equally inscrutable rules about not exhibiting some of our
bodies while naked.