Adventures In Nekkidness: Naked Hippies

To See Or Not To See

When I was 10, I had a horny comrade in arms named Shawn. We were, unfortunately, too young to take arms against a semen of troubles. Nevertheless, we enjoyed building up our arsenal by looking for pictures of female arses (and other parts) in his mom’s magazines.

And speaking of moms . . . I so desperately wanted to see my friends’ moms naked. Twas a consummation devoutly to be wished. Why couldn’t our moms have just left their bathroom doors open when they were bathing? Sleepovers would have been so much more enjoyable. And informative.

At any rate, Shawn’s mom figured out what we were up to with the magazines and helped us find the now-famous Life Magazine coverage of Woodstock. Wow, naked hippies, frolicking in mixed company!

Oh what outrageous fortune that Shawn’s dad learned of our quest for flesh and presented us with a Playboy magazine. Oh, the joy! The wonder! The giggles! Glossy, crisp, well-lit photos of naked adult women. Twice our age. Yep, that old! Happy, smiling, looking straight at us, blushing, eager to show us their boobs and butt and everything else except — damn it all to hell — no bush!