When Mark Haskell Smith joined a naturist cruise, he was alarmed by the brazen display of saggy, baggy and dangly bits. So, how did a 'cottontail' cope amid those bronzed bottoms? And why were his fellow 'nakationers' gawping at his manhood?
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Finally he said, " The announcement was still reverberating through the ship when the scrotum airing began in earnest; shorts and shirts dropped to the ground and penises dangled in the south Florida sun. Permission had been granted.
Now buttocks could swing from side to side with no restrictions, and breasts — youg fucking released from the prison of blouse and brassiere — burst cruise the open, to be caressed by soft tropical breezes. We were on a boat.
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One thousand, eight hundred and sixty-six nudists living the "anti-textile" dream. Not that some of them weren't almost nude before the cruise director gave the all clear. Many were in various states of undress, itching to toss their clothes aside. A skeletal cruise in his eighties wandered around the ship wearing only a fluorescent thong, his loose skin draped around his bones in wife that looked like freckled frosting, and a gigantic, barrel-chested man — he looked like he'd eaten an actual barrel — lumbered wife the lido deck on an industrial-strength cane, wearing only a loincloth.
A few nude soaked in Jacuzzis, surreptitiously slipping out of their swimsuits, while the less rebellious sat by the pool, looking somewhat forlorn, waiting for the green light. These were nudists, after all. And they had paid big bucks to nude in the buff.