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A Week in the Buff - Simon - 12-30-2025
Part 1: A Conspiracy of Silence
There, among other gay men, we could openly show affection. Some, a visible minority, made rather too much of a show of it, indiscreetly and indiscriminately, particularly at the bar in the immense, barn-like Quonset hut near the entrance to the campgrounds. Why hide the fact? They certainly didn’t.
Most of us, however, the audible majority, confined our lovemaking to a single partner and the privacy of our tents. Walking past them late at night on our way to the showers or to lie back on the playing field and count the stars, and hearing, beneath the din of disco from the other side of the hill, the muffled grunts and sighs of their occupants, we’d smile happily, my lover and I, and tighten the grasp of our intertwined fingers. We’d come here for that too, but not just for that. We came for the camping and the volleyball and the swimming, cooking over an open fire and the company of men like us, to raise no eyebrows when we strolled as a couple and, when we emerged from our tent, not be subject to disapproving stares or remarks on how we offended everyone (meaning them). In short, we came to celebrate our family values.
That is not to say that we’d gone there intending to remain celibate all week. Our family values include having sex, having it often, and we fully expected to have rather more of it than usual during those eight days, but swapping, orgies and the like were not part of the agenda. We knew that quite a few, though by no means all, of the men there had come to have sex, to be watched having sex, to watch others having it, and perhaps to set a record for how many cocks they could suck in a week. Not us. One cock was enough, and we would suck it only as often as we felt like doing it.
Of course we checked the other guys out. Who goes to a museum and puts a blindfold on at the entrance? And we, too, were one of the exhibits. With nothing to hide, it felt right to shed our clothes and go about among men as naked as ourselves, basking in the sun’s warmth, our limbs as unconfined and unashamed as our spirits. Even Gabe, my lover, who was experiencing nudism for the first time and had been reluctant to come, found it natural, though he stayed close to me – out of shyness, not to keep an eye on me, though he could see that no one was sizing him up, as he had feared. Ours were but two unremarkable male bodies among many – old and young, pale and swarthy, squat and tall, hairy and smooth, toned and flabby, clad only in sandals, sneakers or hiking boots, with endowments shaped and sized as variously as their other features.
Sunday through Sunday, eight days of freedom from clothes and prejudice, eight days of letting it all hang out – our souls as well as our dicks. We arrived the evening before the official opening to secure a good camping spot. Others had come on Friday, but there were plenty of campsites left.
Had I come there alone, I would probably have done my fair share of fooling around. But I wouldn’t have come alone, and in my eyes no man there could compete with Gabe. Gabe is on the short side, slim and wiry, with an olive complexion, dark eyes and close-cropped, black curly hair – a Mediterranean type – and a tight, shapely ass you want to sink your teeth into. I couldn’t decide if the charming tattoo I’d talked him into getting flawed or enhanced it. The tattoo was relatively small, a line drawing in black ink about three by two inches, but very intricate, and had taken the artist over an hour to put on. As for his package, I suppose one would describe him as respectable, if unremarkable, but I never was a size queen. What matters to me is how it fits on the rest of the man. I loved seeing him naked all day long, and I took pride in showing him off surrounded by a throng of connoisseurs of male beauty.
Yes, promiscuity hung in the air like a cloud of invisible gnats. But for the time being they neither buzzed nor bit; there was no need to brush them away. We ignored them as they ignored us, not suspecting that by the end of the week their bite would prove so potent as to infect nearly everyone at the campgrounds.
* * *
The birds woke me. How do they know that a new day has come an hour before the sun rises? I lay on my side, my bent knee resting on the gentle rise and fall of his belly, my ankle bridging the space between his thighs, the mound of his soft sex cradling my calf, my hardness straining against his hip. I dozed, and when I opened my eyes it was light.
I lifted my knee from his stomach and sat up. With less pressure on his bladder, he relaxed and breathed more easily. I felt an urgent need to empty mine. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I put on my sweatshirt and sandals, grabbed my comb, toothbrush and a towel, and crawled out of the tent.
The air smelled of campfires smoldering to ash. We’d set up camp on a low rise at the edge of a wooded area. Here, beneath the trees, the chill lingered on and the dew had pooled on the fly, but you could see that the sun had already burnt it off the playing field beyond the trunks. The day would be hot and dry.
A dozen or so men who’d come as group had pitched four very large tents and an RV in a semicircle below us at the foot of the slope, on the lawn alongside the dirt road that separated them from the playing field. We’d wandered into their midst on our way back from the bar the evening before, when it looked as if the scene there would soon degenerate – I mean the word literally – into an orgy, and we spent a few hours drinking and chatting around their campfire. They looked like a wholesome enough crowd. A couple of them had nipple rings or a tattoo, but no egregious piercings. More people came and joined us as the night wore on.
They were all friends from the same naturist club, ranging in age from their late twenties to early sixties. No hard sex went on there – not in plain sight, that is – beyond some cuddling and a little casual groping between men who appeared to be in a steady relationship, but about half of them were at least half erect. That made us horny, and we left early, while the party was still going strong. We’d fallen asleep to the sound of their voices. Now, an hour or so after sunrise, not one of them was stirring.
The most direct route to the lavatories lay through their campsite. Still groggy with sleep and none too steady on my cramped legs, I decided to take the long way around and follow the car tracks – more than three times the distance – sooner than chance the loose dirt and uneven path down the slope. I crossed the clearing and headed in the direction of my erection. Only a long piss would wilt my morning wood. I walked past tents in which snores replaced the sex noises of the previous night, and made it about halfway to the lavatories before I had to relieve myself beside a tree.
The shower left me awake and alert. The sun was strong. I tied my sweatshirt and took the shortcut back to rebuild the fire and make coffee.
Off to the left, the radio was on at low volume in a one-man tent, alone in a treeless space, far from any others. I’d noticed it the day before, and figured that whoever it belonged to must be fairly unsociable, but no one else was up and I was in the mood for conversation.
It was Phil’s tent. That surprised me, because Phil was genial and gregarious, at least when he was buzzed. I’d met him at the party the night before, where he’d had quite a bit to drink. He was a tall, lanky man about twenty years younger than myself, with smooth, unblemished skin and short dark hair. I got the impression he would have liked to have slept longer, but he didn’t look hung over. I thought him quite handsome in the light, barefoot in front of his tent, soaking up the sunshine, arching his back to stretch the stiffness from his limbs, his hips thrust forward, his large, bony feet a yard apart, and, swaying limply between his legs, a penis that would do any man proud and looked even longer because like many men there he trimmed his pubes. One of the guys – Art, I think, unless it was Cliff – had made a friendly crack about it, saying that the name Phil suited him. It called my attention to the fact that we all – and there were nearly thirty of us – had one-syllable names and that, except for me and my partner, they were all words (Rob, Jack, Mark, Brad) or homonyms of words (Doug, Rex, Neil, Les, or, in his case, Phil).
“Hello!” I called out. “You’re up early. Leave shortly after we did?”
“No, I stayed till it broke up.”
“How long was that?”
“God only knows.”
“Doing what?”
“Drinking. Listening to you guys.”
I ignored his second remark and focused on the drinking. “I’m surprised you found your way back to your tent.”
“Someone helped me; I can’t remember who. I’m not sure I knew at the time.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“That much I know. Someone broke out some weed after you left. Good stuff. Everything after that is pretty cloudy, what with the dope and the vodka. I was counting on seeing who he was in the morning, but he must have left after I fell asleep. Well, I guess I’ll find out sometime today.”
“Hung over?”
He smiled dreamily, cupped his hand over his genitals and gave a squeeze.
“No, just tender. I wasn’t good for much else than kicking back and enjoying it, but he sure as hell knew what he was doing. I hope my being so unresponsive didn’t turn him off and he’ll come back tonight.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. With your looks you won’t lack for partners.”
“It’s not my style to hook up with a different dude every night unless the first is a loser. He wasn’t. Coffee? The water’s just about ready.”
“Thanks.”
We made some small talk – where we were from, or line of work, how we’d heard about the gathering, what we thought of the campgrounds. I asked why he’d set up his tent so far from everyone else.
“I didn’t. I was just about the first one here. It wasn’t worth the effort to move. Next time I’ll know.”
“Doesn’t it get hot inside with the sun beating down on it all day?”
“I’m only in it at night, and it’s nice that it’s still a little warm inside when I come stumbling back after midnight.”
I asked if his pendant, a large turquoise in a heavy silver setting he wore on a leather thong, was Hopi or Navajo. He didn’t know. “Are they any different? It’s just a souvenir I picked up in Arizona.”
The conversation lagged. We were miles apart politically. I said I’d better be getting back to my tent; my partner might be awake by now. I could see someone up and about where we’d partied last night. I hoped I remembered his name.
I did – it was Nat, the owner of the RV. He looked cold in his tee-shirt. The sun hadn’t yet reached below the trees. He greeted me with a “Morning, stud. I heard you two had a good time last night.”
Him too? Were we all that loud? “Just don’t say anything to my boyfriend, OK?” I said. “He’d drop dead of embarrassment.”
“Sure thing, but what’s the big secret? Everybody knew where you were going and why.”
Nat had just finished making coffee and offered me a cup. They’d brought a gas grill, so he didn’t need to light a fire. “Comes in handy,” he explained. “We always use up all our wood.”
There was no sign of Gabe at the top of the hill. I put my sweatshirt back on and sat down across from him at the picnic table littered with half-empty bottles and bags of chips. I enjoyed my second cup more than the first. This was real coffee; Phil drank instant.
“Looks like we’re the only ones up,” Nat said.
“Not quite. So’s Phil.”
“Already? I was sure he’d sleep all day. He got pretty wasted last night.”
“I’ll say. He doesn’t even remember who brought him home.”
“Shame on him! That was Pat. He’ll be plenty miffed when he hears he didn’t make much of an impression on the guy.”
“Oh, he left an impression all right! Phil remembers exactly what they did, he’s just not sure who with, and he’s dying to find out.”
“Then I’ll pass the word around not to tell him. Serve him right.”
Hank stuck his head out his tent. “Not tell who what?” he asked.
“You gotta hear this,” Nat said, and went on to tell him. He expected me to supply the details, but Phil hadn’t given many.
“That makes a lot of people to tell,” Hank said.
“Not really,” I explained. “We don’t have to tell everyone who was here. He knows it has to be someone at this campsite because he was the last to leave.”
Hank was incredulous. “Details like that he remembers, but he has no idea whose dick he sucked!”
“Apparently not.”
“Does he remember everyone’s name? Does he remember anyone’s name?”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t think he remembered mine, and he didn’t ask, so I can’t see him coming right out and asking who fucked him last night.”
“I’ve been listening to everything you said, and I think it’s a fabulous idea,” someone called from one of the tents.
“Who was that?” I asked Nat.
“Art. He’ll be taking charge now.”
“Bossy?” I whispered. I wasn’t sure which one Art was.
“Hardly. He’s just a natural-born organizer – Mr. Efficiency. See how well-equipped we are and how we landed the best campsite? That’s Art.”
“This whole weekend is his doing,” Nat continued. “It started out with just the batch of us friends, then got the idea to turn it into one big shebang. He did it all.”
“All?”
“All – made the arrangements with the owner of the campgrounds, advertised it on the Net, worked out the whole tickets in advance thing when we saw how big this was going to be.”
“How big is it?”
“Over three hundred people. There’ll be more next year.”
Art, an overweight man in his early thirties, stepped out of his tent buck naked. He didn’t seem to mind the chill. He was the one I remembered best, not because he was so much fatter than the others, but because he seemed to know all the guys who’d wandered in to join last night’s party. He was one of he three without a steady partner, and the only one who’d been married. “Hi, Ross,” he said. “I thought I recognized your voice.”
Nat and Hank looked relieved. I realized that neither of them had remembered my name.
As Nat predicted, Art took charge immediately. He started by pointing out that the most important one to tell was Pat, so he could play deadpan and lead him on all day.
“And at night?”
“Fuck him silly and see if he recognizes him then.”
“This is going to be fun,” Hank said. “It gives us something to do all day – keep Phil guessing.”
“Just so long as he doesn’t think it’s my idea,” I said.
“Maybe we can all have a go at him and let him figure out who’s who,” Nat suggested.
I told him to count me out on that one.
“Me too,” Hank said, and drew his head back into the tent.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“My guess is to tell Pat. It’s a three-man tent. Hank and Brad are a couple...”
“I noticed.”
“Pat’s the odd man out.”
The three of them emerged from the tent a few minutes later. “That bastard!” Pat grumbled. “He wasn’t that drunk when we paired off. You know, I wouldn’t half mind if all of us pounded his ass. He’d just better be able to tell which one was me.”
Nat assured him he was only joking.
“Ty wouldn’t find that funny.”
“He’d think it was hilarious. I just hope we can let everyone know before Phil works his way over here.”
“That won’t be for a while yet,” I said, “and he won’t ask who it was. He’s too embarrassed he forgot.”
Gabe came down the hill in a tee-shirt and lounge pants. “So this is where you’ve been,” he said. “Aren’t you cold?”
Nat handed him a cup of coffee. “Here, this’ll warm you up. You look like you need it.”
“I can’t wait for the game to start,” Pat said. “Look, I have to take a leak anyway. I’ll pick him up on my way back from the head. In the meantime you guys clue everybody in.”
“Sure you can keep a straight face?”
“You bet I can.”
“What’s this all about?” Gabe wanted to know.
We told him.
“That’s just plain cruel,” he said.
“We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t like the guy,” Art answered.
“I certainly wouldn’t have done what I did last night if I didn’t like him,” Pat cut in, and left to take his leak. The whole situation was too absurd and the scheme was too delicious for him to stay mad at Phil.
“Besides, what’s a little embarrassment?” Nat was saying. “It’ll give him something to tell his grandkids.”
“Fat chance he has of having any!”
“Now not a word to bring this up,” Art warned, “and don’t anyone pick up on any of the hints he drops.”
“Yeah, keep him on pins and needles. Make him squirm.”
“Make him hot under the collar.”
“He ain’t wearing one. None of us are!”
“Teach him another risk of anonymous sex,” Hank added. “If he hasn’t figured it out by tonight we can all take turns coming on to him.”
The air had warmed up considerably, and we were all back in our bare skins, except Gabe, who’d taken off his tee-shirt but kept on the lounge pants. Art and Nat made the rounds to get everyone ready, while Hank took the car to pick up a few more cords of wood before they ran out at the office, where they hadn’t expected so many people to show up for the event.
It turned out that Phil had not been the last to leave. To no one’s surprise, at some point during the party Curt and Les had picked up two guys for a foursome in their tent. Theirs was, as they put it, a very open relationship, and I learned that just about everyone there, including those in a long-term relationship, had slept with one or both of them at one time or another. A fling with Curt and Les evidently didn’t count as an infidelity.
The four men came out of the tent, rubbing their eyes and grumbling about being woken up so early. Although they were about the same age as Art, Curt and Les looked the youngest in the group, and were by far the best-looking, in build, face and endowment. Les even worked part-time as a go-go dancer, which is how they met – Curt’s old partner had dragged him to a review at a gay disco and lived to regret talking Les into going home with them. (“Just for the hell of it,” according to Les. He swore he only took money for dancing. They’d been promiscuous together for over ten years.
When Les and Curt heard what was up, their annoyance turned to enthusiasm, and they were all for everybody having a go at Phil to let him pick out the right one. Just the thought of it was enough to make them hard again.
Art nixed the idea: “That wouldn’t be a joke. It would be a gang bang.”
“What’s wrong with a gang bang?” Curt asked with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s one of the few things we haven’t done.”
“Does that include putting on a show?” I asked.
“Do private showings count?”
“By invitation only or open to anyone who happens to stumble in?”
“Friends and friends of friends.”
“Then it doesn’t count.”
“I’ve made a couple of videos,” Les said.
“The two of you together?”
“Both of us, together and separate,” Curt specified.
Nat shrugged. “Pooh! Who hasn’t made a video?”
“I haven’t, for one,” Art chimed in.
“Videos that anybody can rent?” Les asked. “Videos that a million guys must have seen?”
“No, I meant a live show in front of a live audience,” I stipulated, “with hundreds of men you don’t know looking on.”
“That would be a first too.”
“If you want to put on a show for the whole campgrounds, go right ahead. I’ve seen your shows, and they’re innocent enough.”
“Innocent? I take that as an insult.”
“If you like I’ll spread the word; just set a time. But no selling tickets. It has to be a freebie. And leave Phil out of it.”
Nat thought that Curt and Les putting on a show would distract Phil from trying to find out who he had sex with, but Art brushed his objection aside.
All the time I was keeping my eye on Gabe. He was shy with strangers and didn’t say much in company, so I couldn’t tell what he thought of all this or the trick we were planning to play on Phil. Of the others, only Rob, some fifteen years older than anyone there (except me), didn’t like the idea. He argued that sex wasn’t just an amusement.
“I agree,” Art said, “but this isn’t sex, except for Pat and Phil, and they’ve already had sex together. For the rest of us it’s exactly that – an amusement.”
“And the Curt and Les sex show?”
“That’s their business. Christ, they’ve been together ten years! Don’t you believe they love each other?”