Percy Saltzman - No More Nudies
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No More Nudies
All my long life I have doted on the female form divine. It’s a sort of madness, an all-consuming passion, persisting now into my tenth decade.
I welcome the frenzy. It maketh the juices to flow, the mouth to salivate, the throat to tickle and tighten, the eyes to glitter and bulge, the crotch also, the pulse to race, the heart to drum like an all-steel band.
It all began when I was three. On that sunny Sunday morn, I caught my mother and father in flagrante delicto making the beast with two backs (thank you, Willy boy).
It seems in retrospect awfully premature of me but I swear I realized in a flash the awesome beauty and sacred privacy of the occasion. I crawled away in some confusion, but the image of love in full bloom has never dimmed across the decades.
Of course, it was not a succulent topic for table talk, so I never mentioned what I saw then or since to ma and pa until their dying day.
Many many years later my junior son Paul in the full maturity of his fumbling adolescence burst into our bedroom when Rose and I were beavering away at the beast with two backs, and I was highly resentful of his boorish behavior.
He knew, or ought to have known, what goes on behind closed doors, but he was born a boor beyond belief. I feel he did it with malice aforethought and I resent his intrusion to this very day. Not that I ever mentioned it. It was not a succulent topic suitable for idle table talk.
As I myself grew into addled adolescence, hormonal surges drove me into an unremitting sexual frenzy, and with no natural female outlet handy, I took myself in hand, hardly the most satisfying of solutions. Definitely second hand.
It was not until my wedding night, I then at the inept age of 20, that I did taste for the first time the raptures of the deep, and I have never been the same since.
Her scent of a woman penetrated the very depths of my soul. I walked around for days in a daze. I kept savoring that first flush, repeatedly smelling my five fingers. I refrained from washing my right hand for days. It was, after all, the primal culminating fulminating cataclysm of my life.
It was also my wife’s introduction to the primal experience and it was not a happy one. She suffered severe pain. She was a virgin with as it happened a case-hardened maidenhead made of solid steel. There was no way I could penetrate despite urgent and repeated thrustings. I could not force entrance, and the result was impotence, frustration and bitter disappointment. So much so that she was forced to flee the nuptial bed and seek surcease in her mother’s comforting arms.
Thus passed the night of our dreary nightmare. Soon thereafter our doctor performed the defloration with the swift nick of a steel scalpel, a procedure we should have insisted on before the first night, but we were innocent babes in arms, and stupid withal.
As the many years of our marriage passed, we managed to slake our thirst a thousand times, not always with satisfying results for my wife, for she suffered my ejaculatory incompetences with steely stoicism.
Now flash forward a few decades and I am invited to my first visit to a nudist camp. I accepted with alacrity at the prospect of mass female pulchritude, and I wondered over and over if my public image would be harmed by my walking around in broad daylight with a semi leading the way. I knew it would be impolite to point, but could I help myself?
After all, all my life I had difficulty controlling my erotic urges, easily provoked by a whole host of stimuli, not limited to poetry, music, dancing, dreams, trim ankles, pendulous breasts, round little tummies, bulging buttocks, and even the passing parade of fully clothed females in shameless attire.
I talked it over with my wife who very reluctantly agreed to accompany me but who firmly declined to disrobe. I too wondered whether I would have the nerve given that I was a well-known public figure, prominent in the public eye owing to my many years of exposure on the boob-tube. Moreover, I was not a fully-fashioned prime example of the Atlas type. Showing my short-comings would hardly add to my fandom. On the contrary, I feared opening myself to public ridicule.
Be that as it may, as we drove up to that den of sin, and I parked the car, even at that last moment before disembarking, I was consumed by a turmoil of doubt. Would I or wouldn’t I? To strip or not to strip, that was the question.
But not for my Rose. For her it was a no-brainer. Strip she would not, come what may.
In any event, no sooner had I parked the car, and stepped outside, then a frenzy overtook me, and I stripped to the bone, in an instant, ready to take on all comers, and be one myself. To this day I do not understand what overcame me. It was as if I had been pitched into automatic, autistic overdrive, a prisoner of my manifest destiny, not unlike the feeding frenzy of a horde of circling sharks eager for the delights of the kill.
We entered the gates where money was demanded but I hardly noticed for the cashier was a buxom, strapping, statuesque bimbo with all the marvelous accouterments readily manifest beneath a clear see-through plastic robe. I gaped and gawked, frozen and transfixed by my first fully fashioned female nude in all its magnificence.
And as we spent the lazy afternoon wandering around the grounds of this modern Garden of Eden, wonders of wonders, I had no trouble from down under. I had wondered in the run-up if I would disgrace myself. I was worried and feared the worst.
But I need not have worried a whit. I wonder to this day why it was so. How could it be, horny as I was, (and still am) highly arousable by even the faintest sexual stimulus, that I had not risen to the occasion at all. Mind you, all the lovely sights, as round above as they were below, gave me a semi- permanent buzz. My mind was pleasantly guddled. The flesh was not. Curious. A minor miracle.
And as I perambulated, taking in the forbidden fruit, as so much eye candy, I was thunderstruck by the infinite variety of shape and size and figure and configuration the female flesh is heir to.
But I was also repelled by the immense variation in the disfigurations and deviations from norm. So much of what I saw was frankly ugly, off-putting, disgusting even. A panoply of purulent pustules, of warts and moles and disfiguring discolorations.
Too many pimples on too many bare bums (my own included). Too much ugly hair in the wrong places. Too many unappetizing vistas, as when a lady upslope from me on the grassy incline hoisted herself from a prone position to present me with a stunning view of her gaping rear. Man, the horn drained right out of me.
Or the flapping of flaccid tits as the gals bumped up and down playing volley ball in the buff. I feared mass trauma.
From a lifetime of endless fascination with the female form, I was confronted with a suffocating superfluity. From a famine hereto, now suddenly a choking feast that stuck in my craw. Too much, too satiating. Massive engorgement. It was to vomit.
I now fully for the first time thoroughly appreciated the beauty of the semi-clothed, the artfully concealed, the fleeting glance, the teasing glimpse, the mere hint of sweet treats to come. Not a plethora of pulchritude, thrown into the face like a pail of slop.
Ah, the dance of the seven veils. How much more arousing. Let the perfervid imagination do the excoriation of the ecdysiast.
Meanwhile, all the while I had been lost in thought, my wife, mirabile dictu, had quietly stripped, piece by piece, right to her rugged bottom. She amazed me.
And you know what, of all the ladies presented to my greedy gaze, she was the most alluring. Her finely crafted face and figure, her milk-white perfect skin, her shapely breasts and bum, her beautiful slender legs, her thick black head of hair – her crowning glory – her breath always so fragrant and fresh, her clear uncluttered gaze – all, all roused me more than all the other ladies combined, and I hastily retreated into the folds of my bath towel, just in the nick of time.
The memory of her light and tantalizing kisses all added to the allure. I fell in love with her all over again. I had to go to a nudist camp to learn that the best body of all had been in my own bed and bedroom all along.
Many years later, after the death of my sweet Rose, I took my wife Audrey to visit Nude Beach at Hove Actually, near Brighton in England. There were loads and loads of lovely ladies scattered up and down the strand, only a few steps away, but I was so pooped, so drained, I had not the oomph to saunter over for a free peak. Imagine, turning down such a surfeit for sore eyes. But I had to. I had no strength, no desire to move a muscle. What’s more, I didn’t even want to look.
Where had all my flowers gone? What happened to the old horn of yesteryear? Gone, gone with the wind. Born a generation or two, too soon. I had missed the boat. The old goat had missed the boat. It is to weep. I wept.
All my long life I have doted on the female form divine. It’s a sort of madness, an all-consuming passion, persisting now into my tenth decade.
I welcome the frenzy. It maketh the juices to flow, the mouth to salivate, the throat to tickle and tighten, the eyes to glitter and bulge, the crotch also, the pulse to race, the heart to drum like an all-steel band.
It all began when I was three. On that sunny Sunday morn, I caught my mother and father in flagrante delicto making the beast with two backs (thank you, Willy boy).
It seems in retrospect awfully premature of me but I swear I realized in a flash the awesome beauty and sacred privacy of the occasion. I crawled away in some confusion, but the image of love in full bloom has never dimmed across the decades.
Of course, it was not a succulent topic for table talk, so I never mentioned what I saw then or since to ma and pa until their dying day.
Many many years later my junior son Paul in the full maturity of his fumbling adolescence burst into our bedroom when Rose and I were beavering away at the beast with two backs, and I was highly resentful of his boorish behavior.
He knew, or ought to have known, what goes on behind closed doors, but he was born a boor beyond belief. I feel he did it with malice aforethought and I resent his intrusion to this very day. Not that I ever mentioned it. It was not a succulent topic suitable for idle table talk.
As I myself grew into addled adolescence, hormonal surges drove me into an unremitting sexual frenzy, and with no natural female outlet handy, I took myself in hand, hardly the most satisfying of solutions. Definitely second hand.
It was not until my wedding night, I then at the inept age of 20, that I did taste for the first time the raptures of the deep, and I have never been the same since.
Her scent of a woman penetrated the very depths of my soul. I walked around for days in a daze. I kept savoring that first flush, repeatedly smelling my five fingers. I refrained from washing my right hand for days. It was, after all, the primal culminating fulminating cataclysm of my life.
It was also my wife’s introduction to the primal experience and it was not a happy one. She suffered severe pain. She was a virgin with as it happened a case-hardened maidenhead made of solid steel. There was no way I could penetrate despite urgent and repeated thrustings. I could not force entrance, and the result was impotence, frustration and bitter disappointment. So much so that she was forced to flee the nuptial bed and seek surcease in her mother’s comforting arms.
Thus passed the night of our dreary nightmare. Soon thereafter our doctor performed the defloration with the swift nick of a steel scalpel, a procedure we should have insisted on before the first night, but we were innocent babes in arms, and stupid withal.
As the many years of our marriage passed, we managed to slake our thirst a thousand times, not always with satisfying results for my wife, for she suffered my ejaculatory incompetences with steely stoicism.
Now flash forward a few decades and I am invited to my first visit to a nudist camp. I accepted with alacrity at the prospect of mass female pulchritude, and I wondered over and over if my public image would be harmed by my walking around in broad daylight with a semi leading the way. I knew it would be impolite to point, but could I help myself?
After all, all my life I had difficulty controlling my erotic urges, easily provoked by a whole host of stimuli, not limited to poetry, music, dancing, dreams, trim ankles, pendulous breasts, round little tummies, bulging buttocks, and even the passing parade of fully clothed females in shameless attire.
I talked it over with my wife who very reluctantly agreed to accompany me but who firmly declined to disrobe. I too wondered whether I would have the nerve given that I was a well-known public figure, prominent in the public eye owing to my many years of exposure on the boob-tube. Moreover, I was not a fully-fashioned prime example of the Atlas type. Showing my short-comings would hardly add to my fandom. On the contrary, I feared opening myself to public ridicule.
Be that as it may, as we drove up to that den of sin, and I parked the car, even at that last moment before disembarking, I was consumed by a turmoil of doubt. Would I or wouldn’t I? To strip or not to strip, that was the question.
But not for my Rose. For her it was a no-brainer. Strip she would not, come what may.
In any event, no sooner had I parked the car, and stepped outside, then a frenzy overtook me, and I stripped to the bone, in an instant, ready to take on all comers, and be one myself. To this day I do not understand what overcame me. It was as if I had been pitched into automatic, autistic overdrive, a prisoner of my manifest destiny, not unlike the feeding frenzy of a horde of circling sharks eager for the delights of the kill.
We entered the gates where money was demanded but I hardly noticed for the cashier was a buxom, strapping, statuesque bimbo with all the marvelous accouterments readily manifest beneath a clear see-through plastic robe. I gaped and gawked, frozen and transfixed by my first fully fashioned female nude in all its magnificence.
And as we spent the lazy afternoon wandering around the grounds of this modern Garden of Eden, wonders of wonders, I had no trouble from down under. I had wondered in the run-up if I would disgrace myself. I was worried and feared the worst.
But I need not have worried a whit. I wonder to this day why it was so. How could it be, horny as I was, (and still am) highly arousable by even the faintest sexual stimulus, that I had not risen to the occasion at all. Mind you, all the lovely sights, as round above as they were below, gave me a semi- permanent buzz. My mind was pleasantly guddled. The flesh was not. Curious. A minor miracle.
And as I perambulated, taking in the forbidden fruit, as so much eye candy, I was thunderstruck by the infinite variety of shape and size and figure and configuration the female flesh is heir to.
But I was also repelled by the immense variation in the disfigurations and deviations from norm. So much of what I saw was frankly ugly, off-putting, disgusting even. A panoply of purulent pustules, of warts and moles and disfiguring discolorations.
Too many pimples on too many bare bums (my own included). Too much ugly hair in the wrong places. Too many unappetizing vistas, as when a lady upslope from me on the grassy incline hoisted herself from a prone position to present me with a stunning view of her gaping rear. Man, the horn drained right out of me.
Or the flapping of flaccid tits as the gals bumped up and down playing volley ball in the buff. I feared mass trauma.
From a lifetime of endless fascination with the female form, I was confronted with a suffocating superfluity. From a famine hereto, now suddenly a choking feast that stuck in my craw. Too much, too satiating. Massive engorgement. It was to vomit.
I now fully for the first time thoroughly appreciated the beauty of the semi-clothed, the artfully concealed, the fleeting glance, the teasing glimpse, the mere hint of sweet treats to come. Not a plethora of pulchritude, thrown into the face like a pail of slop.
Ah, the dance of the seven veils. How much more arousing. Let the perfervid imagination do the excoriation of the ecdysiast.
Meanwhile, all the while I had been lost in thought, my wife, mirabile dictu, had quietly stripped, piece by piece, right to her rugged bottom. She amazed me.
And you know what, of all the ladies presented to my greedy gaze, she was the most alluring. Her finely crafted face and figure, her milk-white perfect skin, her shapely breasts and bum, her beautiful slender legs, her thick black head of hair – her crowning glory – her breath always so fragrant and fresh, her clear uncluttered gaze – all, all roused me more than all the other ladies combined, and I hastily retreated into the folds of my bath towel, just in the nick of time.
The memory of her light and tantalizing kisses all added to the allure. I fell in love with her all over again. I had to go to a nudist camp to learn that the best body of all had been in my own bed and bedroom all along.
Many years later, after the death of my sweet Rose, I took my wife Audrey to visit Nude Beach at Hove Actually, near Brighton in England. There were loads and loads of lovely ladies scattered up and down the strand, only a few steps away, but I was so pooped, so drained, I had not the oomph to saunter over for a free peak. Imagine, turning down such a surfeit for sore eyes. But I had to. I had no strength, no desire to move a muscle. What’s more, I didn’t even want to look.
Where had all my flowers gone? What happened to the old horn of yesteryear? Gone, gone with the wind. Born a generation or two, too soon. I had missed the boat. The old goat had missed the boat. It is to weep. I wept.
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