The Walk by the Lake (NUDE DAY 2025)
It had been Howard's idea. At least, that was how we'd agreed esoterically to remember it.
We were driving north from Albany in a rented convertible that felt too open, too loud for the quiet, hesitant plans forming inside me. I wore a long, white summer dress that floated against my knees in the breeze, a sunhat I didn't need, and under it all: nothing. That had been his request. I'd agreed with a theatrical roll of the eyes, though part of me had shivered in anticipation.
Howard, of course, was trying very hard to appear relaxed. Sixty-five years old, still charming, still sharp, but wrapped in the soft armor of someone who hadn't dared anything in years. He had packed for the day with care--books, towels, sunblock, wine. He wanted us to explore this so-called "naturist path," as if it were simply another forest trail, just with a dress code.
I had read about it--twice. Once in a travel blog written by a pair of yoga instructors from Montreal, and then again in a local Vermont lifestyle magazine. It wasn't a campground, not officially. It wasn't a resort. It was a stretch of woodland around a small, secluded lake, where clothes were optional and discretion expected. There were no signs, only word of mouth.
We parked by a grassy verge just off a gravel road. No other cars. I sat there, staring into the trees. The air was warm, humming with early summer.
"You still want to do this?" Howard asked, casual as tea.
I didn't answer at first. I was aware of the way my thighs stuck to the leather seat, of the slight tension in my belly, of the flutter that had followed me all morning. Then I nodded.
"We can always turn back," I said. "If it's awful."
He smiled and reached over to touch my hand. It was warm. Familiar. Safe. That was the problem, maybe. It was all too safe.
We changed there by the car. Or rather, Howard changed.
He stripped off with a kind of awkward cheerfulness, folding his polo shirt, stepping out of his shorts, exposing his pale, soft skin with an almost defiant shrug. His body was that of an aging man: loose in the belly, soft at the thighs, with hair that had once been golden but was now mostly silver. He looked, suddenly, like someone else's idea of an old professor on holiday.
I hesitated.
The wind moved through the trees. I glanced around. No one. I slid the straps of my dress off my shoulders and let it fall to my waist--but I didn't take it off. Just reached behind, unhooked the bra I wasn't really wearing, and pulled it through the armholes.
Now I wore a dress with no bra. Still in sandals. Still too dressed. Still too much me.
Howard looked at me. "You look beautiful."
I laughed softly. "I look confused."
We walked into the trees.
At first, the trail was overgrown and hushed, and I was hyper-aware of every twig underfoot, every shift of breeze across my thighs. The fabric clung lightly to me. I wasn't used to feeling this much of myself when I moved.
Howard's buttocks bounced a little as he walked ahead of me. I thought of saying something witty. I didn't.
After maybe fifteen minutes, the path widened and sloped down. And there--suddenly, strikingly--was the lake.
It was more beautiful than I had expected. A long, narrow crescent wrapped in trees, with water that shimmered like glass. A dock jutted into it on the far side, and in the distance, near a cluster of large stones, I saw them.
Two people. Naked. Sitting comfortably, elegantly, as if the world had never required clothing at all.
We didn't go to them. We found our own small clearing and spread a blanket. I took off my dress. Quickly. As if by doing it fast enough, I could outpace the shame.
The sun touched my skin like breath. I sat cross-legged, then lay back, arms above my head.
Howard sat beside me, a book in his hand he wasn't reading. I closed my eyes.
Time passed differently like that. We spoke only little. At some point, I rolled to one side and propped myself on an elbow. I saw the couple again.
The man--tall, lean, darker hair. The woman--elegant, toned, with dark skin that gleamed. She turned slightly. Our eyes met.
Her smile was effortless. Her gaze stayed longer than it needed to.
A slow wave moved through me.
Howard chuckled softly. "They're quite something, aren't they?"
I nodded. My skin felt too alive to answer.
I didn't realize I had stood until I felt the moss under my feet.
"Walk with me?" I said.
He rose. We wandered along the lake's edge. I was naked now, truly naked, the way I hadn't been in years. Not just undressed, but exposed. Aware of my breasts swaying slightly, of the coolness between my thighs, of the curve of my hips under the sun.
I saw her again--Lenore. That was what I would learn her name was.
She stood at the edge of the water, brushing sand from her calves. Avery sat behind her, watching her like she was something eternal.
She saw me again. She raised her hand, not a wave, just a greeting. A recognition.
I returned it.
And something inside me stirred, deep and warm and waiting.
The Blanket and the Touch
The sun was higher now, the light slower, thicker. We had walked back from our wandering, a slow drift through pine and low birch, back to the blanket we'd claimed earlier. The forest hummed around us. Somewhere, water lapped gently against a dock.
Howard sat with his back against a rock, eyes half-lidded from wine and warmth. His book had slid onto his belly. He smiled at me vaguely, content, and closed his eyes.
And then they came.
Lenore and Avery.
Not abruptly, not like people intruding. They appeared through the light and leaves as if conjured. As if they had always been coming to us.
"Mind if we share the spot?" Avery asked, voice soft and rich.
Howard stirred, blinked up. "Not at all. Please."
Lenore spread their blanket beside ours, closer to me than to Howard. Her limbs moved with slow grace, like she was made of sun and sea. I couldn't look away. Her body was pure invitation, without asking. She smelled faintly of wild mint and lakewater.
I sat up. My dress was folded beneath me. I didn't reach for it.
They opened a bottle of something rosé and passed it between us without glasses. Lenore handed it to me last. Our fingers touched. I drank. My throat was dry and tight and eager.
Avery and Howard began talking--books, I think. Poetry. Something harmless and intellectual. I wasn't listening.
Lenore was watching me. Not overtly. Not rudely. But watching. Her gaze lingered on the hollow of my throat, on the curve of my breast where the sun had left a pink glow.
"You look radiant," she said, softly, without ceremony.
I smiled, awkward. "I feel... strange."
"Strange good, or strange nervous?"
"Both."
She didn't speak again. She just shifted a little closer, slow as dusk.
Her thigh brushed mine.
My skin jolted. Not visibly. But inside, it was as if someone had opened a window into heat.
Howard and Avery kept talking. But Lenore and I became our own orbit.
She touched my wrist lightly, pointing at a bird above us. The gesture was nothing. But the contact was everything.
I felt myself lean toward her. Barely. Like a plant tilting toward light.
Lenore saw. She always saw.
Her hand slipped down from my wrist to my palm.
"You're trembling," she whispered.
"I know."
