This is a guest post by Magnum Chlenov, a Russian-American computer programmer living in St. Louis. In addition to being a sex-positive nudist, he is a fan of Doctor Who, Harry Potter and the Big Bang Theory, a stamp collector, an amateur author, an alternate historian and a fantasy hockey manager. He is happily engaged to a fellow sex-positive nudist. His Twitter account is @MagnumChlenov.
If you think that America is a hopelessly puritanical, censorship-mad and sexually repressive society, you might be right.
Then again, it only proves you have never lived in the Soviet Union.
I have. I was born and raised there.
Imagine being a hypersexual male teenager and having virtually no sexual outlets. No porn or erotica. No adult movies or magazines (not even for actual adults). The most one could hope for was a rare second-or-two-long boobshot on a TV screen. And there was no TiVo or even a VCR to record these precious moments for later use. I had to actually wait for these boobs to appear on a TV in our living room, and prepare myself (hand in pocket) for the big moment, so that the boobshot would coincide with the happy ending in my underpants. Ah, the childhood memories…
However, summertime always brought new possibility. My brother and I were lucky enough to spend every summer vacation on the Baltic Sea coast in what is now the Republic of Latvia. We quickly discovered that changing rooms generally had wall holes. And, while changing, it waspossible to peep and observe awoman in the next room. Looking at all these forbidden private parts was very thrilling and exciting, yet dangerous.
While nudism didn’t officially exist in good old USSR, we did hear some unofficial rumors. Apparently, some men and women (which wasespecially important) sunbathed naked… somewhere.
In 1990, I left the Soviet Union and came to the United States. Now, I had access to adult magazines, Playboy Channel on TV and porn movies. Then, the Internet. Needless to say, I was in a masturbatory heaven.
But back to nudism. Once, I saw a nudist magazine. It was called N, or Nude and Natural. The magazine was located in Borders. Not next to Playboy or Penthouse. Just in one of general magazine sections, surrounded by boring travel publications. Nude and Natural, however, wasn’t boring at all. It featured many black and white photos (and a few color ones) of men and women playing sports, relaxing in the sun or just walking around — in the nude.
I bought the magazine, took it home and… yes, I did exactly what you think I did. Afterwards, I bought more magazines and found some nudist websites online. Even though the pictures did not contain any sex, I still found the photos of nude womenarousing and exciting. In fact, the pictures looked much more natural that the staged ones in porn mags, which only added to my excitement — and I was only too happy to find a new erotic niche for my self-satisfaction.
And then, after the orgasm, I would often actually read the articles. Some of them were quite interesting. They claimed nudism was totally asexual, natural and pure. “Yeah right.” I would normally smile. “Asexual. Of course. If you say so…”
After all, who was I to argue? If all these kind and generous publishers didn’t realize I was merely exploiting their supposedly asexual photos for my own sexual pleasure, why would I want to reveal my dirty secret?
Of course, sometimes I would also fantasize about actually going to a nude beach in person. After all, adding a “live” dimension to my viewing pleasure did sound quite exciting. However, I realized that my extremely self-conscious wife would never agree to something like that. And going by myself sounded quite unthinkable. Since nudity and sex were still inseparably intertwined in my dirty mind, such a trip sounded almost adulterous.
On the other hand, each time we had a new fight, and I felt that she might leave me, I would tell myself again and again:
“Nude beach. Think nude beach”.
And a possible breakup didn’t sound that bad anymore.
Meanwhile, more and more time passed by. In 2010, my brother and I finally decided to visit the Old Country — namely, Russia, Ukraine and Latvia.
Since my wife didn’t accompany us on our trip, I thought that our journey could also be a good opportunity to visit some nude beaches. No, not as nudists. Just as pervyonlookers who would finally, ala Beavis and Butt-head, “see naked people”. I shared my idea with my brother. He wholeheartedly approved.
As awesome as our trip turned out to be, our ignoble side goal proved to be quite difficult. In St. Petersburg, the weather turned out to be too cold. We did travel to the nude beach anyway, but found very few people there, and they all were fully dressed.
In Moscow, it rained so hard that we didn’t even bother going. In Kiev, Ukraine, the weather was borderline OK, and the sun did shine a bit — but it was Monday, and the only naked people on the beach were… two men. So, technically, the “see naked people” goal was achieved, but only technically.
The last stop was Riga, Latvia. Or, rather, the nude beach in a small town of Vecaki, about half an hour away by train. This time, we finally succeeded. We walked to the regular beach, then turned to the right, then walked about a mile along the seacoast… and there we were.
We finally saw the nudists, who were sunbathing with no clothes on. And not just men.
We saw their tits, asses and pussies.
It was neither a TV screen nor a computer monitor. It was live nudity. The ultimate naked visual aid.
“We did it. We saw naked people!” My brother exhaled triumphantly. I couldn’t help but share his feelings. However…
However, our pleasure didn’t last long. We felt something else, which was rather unpleasant. Many of the nudists were looking at us with almost open animosity. As if we were doing something wrong.
Suddenly, it hit me.
We were indeed being in the wrong. In fact, we were being indecent. No, not because we were looking at nude women. But because we ourselves were clothed.