Chapter 1

My story really begins when I was twelve and my family lived in Savannah, Georgia. My father was a pilot for an air charter company, and my mother was what would now be called a stay-at-home mom. The summer after I finished sixth grade, we went on a vacation that would change my life forever.

My mother and father had always been very open raising my sister, Erin, and me. They didn’t flaunt themselves in front of us, but they didn’t hide their bodies when we’d come into their room, or any other time we might see them without their clothes.

My sister and I knew our parents slept in the nude, and they’d sometimes sunbathe nude in our fenced-in back yard. On family vacations, or at my grandparents’ lake, we’d all skinny-dip occasionally. But while nudity wasn’t a taboo in our family, there weren’t any times when we spent a long time in the nude.

In the summer of 1975, that was about to change.

That summer, our parents asked Erin and me what we thought about the family going to a nudist camp for our summer vacation.

I hated the idea immediately.

Mom and Dad told us that the camp (called simply The Pines Resort) was in South Carolina, and was run by a woman named Susan. If we decided to go, we were supposed to tell our friends from school that we were going to spend the summer at “Aunt Susan’s.” She wasn’t our real aunt, of course, but it was a useful fiction.

Our parents were fairly open with both of us, and we talked about the trip before we made a final decision. My mom and dad certainly seemed enthusiastic, and Erin was all in favor of the trip, especially when they started telling her about the camp.

They told us about the big spring-fed lake, the playground, the games, the sports, and all the other fun things to do there. When they told us that the camp was a “family camp,” and that there would be other kids our age, that seemed to cinch it for Erin.

She was two and a half years younger than me, and hadn’t entered puberty yet. Of course she would love to go; she didn’t have an awkward and slightly pudgy body just beginning to sprout all the usual hair.

At twelve, my body had just started changing, and the last thing that I wanted to do was take my clothes off for a month at a nudist camp! I was embarrassed enough at the changes my body was undergoing; I didn’t want the added embarrassment of everyone else knowing, too.

I sulked, in the self-centered way only a twelve-year-old can, and my parents wisely let me stew about things for a few days. Erin, on the other hand, constantly wheedled me. She obviously couldn’t fathom why I wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to go to such a fun place.

Indeed!

A few days later, my mom brought the subject up again, when we were alone in the kitchen. I guess she knew she’d have a better chance if Erin weren’t around to pester me.

When Mom asked why I wasn’t enthusiastic about going to the nudist camp, I shrugged and mumbled, “I dunno.”

I was worried about people—especially any girls my age—seeing my awkward body, and making me feel embarrassed. But I couldn’t tell her that. Nonetheless, I think she sensed that that was the problem. So she pointed out to me that there would be other boys my age there.

“So?”

“Well, you can meet other kids your age and make new friends.”

“I don’t want any new friends my age,” I said sullenly.

“You can meet older boys then ... or girls.”

Then, I Got It! I was so worried about girls my age seeing me that I completely overlooked the fact that if girls my age would be at the camp, then I could see them too.

I may have been a petulant twelve-year-old, embarrassed by my changing body and being a little on the chubby side, but I wasn’t stupid. A nudist camp meant naked teenaged girls! And at age twelve, I had discovered that girls weren’t as bad as I’d thought only a year before. My younger sister got on my nerves often enough, but older girls ... Now, older girls had boobs, and pubic hair, and other things that I knew I liked.

But even at twelve, I knew I couldn’t cave in as quickly as I wanted; at least, not without looking like an idiot. So I gloomily agreed.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said in my best faux-sullen voice.

Mom smiled at my change of heart. “You’ll have fun, honey. You’ll see.”

I’d like to say that my life changed dramatically during the summer of 1975, but the truth is much more mundane. The experience opened my eyes quite a bit, and set me on the road to a monumental series of events, but in the summer of 1975 those events were still in my future.

Despite my original reluctance, I really liked the camp. It was everything that my parents had promised; there were all sorts of things to do there, and enough kids my age that I always had someone to do things with. Once I got over my initial self-consciousness, I guess I forgot to be embarrassed. And after I got over my first day’s sunburn (having to wear a t-shirt in the lake so I didn’t get burned even worse is not my idea of a fun time), I enjoyed our time at the camp.

“Aunt Susan,” as it turned out, was about my parents’ age, and had two sons who were a few years older than me. In addition, there were many other families with kids. Some would stay for a week or two and then leave, some families stayed longer, and still others seemed to spend the entire summer there.

I certainly got my fill of looking at tanned and naked teenage girls. When you’re around nudity all the time, however, the naughty aspect of it all kinda wears off. I certainly had to hide my share of painful and unwieldy erections, but I got used to it. And it did provide me with some wonderful fantasy material for masturbating, whenever I could find the time alone; which was as often as I could, those first couple of weeks.

The four weeks that my family spent at the camp seemed to race by, and it was all too soon that we had to return to “the real world” in Savannah.

Every summer after that, we spent several weeks at “Aunt Susan’s.”

There was only one hiccup in our family routine over the next few years. In early 1977, my father was hired by a major airline in Atlanta, and my family moved. We were further away from the camp, but we stayed a full six weeks during the summer of ‘77. My father had to return to Atlanta a few times, to fly for several days at a time, but Erin and I largely enjoyed ourselves. I could tell that Mom missed Dad when he had to fly, but at fourteen, noticing things outside your own little world isn’t really a common occurrence.

The next year, 1978, Mom and Dad asked us if we’d like to spend the entire summer at Aunt Susan’s. We could get one of the small cabins for the summer, and whenever Dad needed to fly a trip, he could drive into Columbia, and then catch a flight to Atlanta.

Dad told us that he’d bid lines which had all their trips jammed into ten or twelve days at a time, and that he should be able to spend more time with us. When he was gone, he’d be gone for about two weeks at a time, but he’d only have to leave three or four times over the entire summer.

We thought it was a great idea, and decided to leave the day after school ended, which coincided with my fifteenth birthday. Happy Birthday to me! I looked forward to the camp like only a perpetually horny fifteen-year-old could.

By that summer, I’d survived the “awkward phase” of puberty. I’d had a growth spurt the year before, and I was currently a half-inch over 5’7”. At fifteen, that extra half-inch is important! But I was still a little pudgy. Mom and Dad both said it was just “baby fat” (a phrase I patently despised) and that I’d grow out of it. I’m sure that all sounds very comforting when you’re not the one who’s pudgy. But while I was no longer incredibly self-conscious about my body, I certainly wasn’t all that sure of myself yet. I don’t think a self-possessed fifteen-year-old exists.

By then, however, Erin had begun to develop. She had smallish breasts and a downy tuft of pubic hair, but she was still boyishly slim. She didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious, however (much to my consternation). After all, she had already spent several summers at Aunt Susan’s, and she and her friends seemed to take undue enjoyment in comparing their developing bodies.

I guess that’s just one of the many major differences between men and women.

But I digress...

Even though she was not quite thirteen, I could already see that Erin would look a lot like Mom. At thirty-six, I had always thought of my mom as old, but I was slowly realizing that she was a very attractive woman. She was attractive in a Mom-ish sort of way, that is. (And of course, as I write this, older than that age myself, I realize how very young thirty-six actually is.)

Mom, whose name was Beth, had dark blond hair and a well-proportioned, compact body. With the past year’s growth spurt, I’d finally surpassed her 5’4” height. While I didn’t know what size bra she wore, I did admire her nice, well-rounded breasts, which were topped by small brown areolas with pronounced nipples. I’d seen a lot of bare breasts over the past few years and realized that Mom’s were very nice.

In addition, she had an hourglass figure with a neat patch of darker pubic hair covering her sex. In retrospect, I realize that Mom must have trimmed her bush, but at the tender (and somewhat naïve) age of fifteen, I simply thought her pussy was neater and more attractive than those of other women. Mom also tanned easily, and was always a rich bronze color. Erin was the same way, and her lithe young body was always darker than mine.

Where Mom was ash blond with a dark tan, my father was dark-haired and fair. My dad, David, was big. At six feet tall, he towered over me. He was also powerfully built, and far stronger than I ever thought I’d ever be. And while my fifteen-year-old penis wasn’t as small as some of my friends from camp, I hoped that I would grow to be more like my Dad in that regard as well.

While I may have more of my Mom’s height, I’d certainly gotten my father’s dark brown hair and fair skin. Ever since our first year at camp, I’d had to make sure I didn’t burn my skin badly in the blazing South Carolina sun. All in all, I guess I looked more like Dad. In time, I would develop a build more like my father’s powerful frame, but in 1978, I was still short and had more than my fair share of “baby fat.”

So my family, in early June of 1978, was looking forward to the end of school and our imminent departure for Aunt Susan’s.

At Aunt Susan’s, we usually stayed in one of the motel-type rooms just up from the clubhouse. The “motel-type rooms” were actually a couple of rows of cinder-block buildings with rooms along both sides. Most of them had a queen-sized bed and either a twin bed or a set of bunk beds, with a dresser or small chest of drawers for storing personal items. Since it was a nudist camp, there wasn’t much need for clothes storage. Some rooms were bigger, some were smaller, but the contents were generally the same.

In 1978, since my family was staying the entire summer, we got one of the stand-alone cabins further back, up the hill from the clubhouse. When we got to the camp, things started out mostly the same. Little changed from year to year at Aunt Susan’s, and the camp was just as I’d remembered it.

The entire center of the camp was on top of a very large hill (more like a ridge). The crest of the hill was several hundred yards behind, and about eighty feet above the clubhouse, with a sandy road leading down the gentle slope into the camp proper. The sandy track led all the way—several miles—back out to the padlocked chain gate that protected the property. But once you crested the little rise behind the camp, South Carolina pines and sandy soil gave way to one-room cabins and small mobile-home trailers permanently parked on blocks and wired for electricity.

Down the hill, the cinder-block motel-type buildings were off to the left, and the clubhouse was on the right. The road continued for several hundred yards around to the left, down a bit from the clubhouse, toward a few of the permanent, regular-style houses occupied by the camp’s full-time residents, like Aunt Susan.

Where the road bent gently to the left to follow the brow of the hill toward the houses, the ground sloped off to the right more steeply until it leveled out before the large freshwater lake. While the lake was spring-fed, it was actually man-made. There was a natural—and much larger—feeder lake to the left. An earthen dam with a concrete spillway let water overflow from the feeder lake into the man-made swimming lake. The swimming lake even had a brick coping around the entire circumference, complete with wide concrete steps down into the deepest, tree-shaded end. The lake also sported a canvas-covered raft of Styrofoam and wood; being spring-fed, the lake was cold even in the heat of summer.

Down the hill from the clubhouse, on the side opposite the road, were shuffleboard courts and a sand volleyball court. Behind all that was a playground for the younger kids. The entire camp and surrounding woods were bigger than I’ve ever been able to explore, given over mostly to the pine tree forests and sandy soil that are dominant in that part of the country.

The clubhouse itself was often the center of life for the camp. There were several screen doors into the clubhouse, but I almost always used the side door next to the sandy road. Inside the cool confines of the large building, there were a few ping-pong tables, an old pool-hall-style pool table with the coin slots removed, and an air-hockey table (that always seemed to need repairing).

Toward the back of the building and to the right of the game tables, there was a big bathroom area with a wall of sinks and an open shower area. I know it sounds strange, but this was a nudist camp, so there really was no need for privacy in the showers. There was, however, a door off the shower area that led to a room containing several stalls and toilets.

Past the game tables and the wall holding the sinks and containing the bathing area, the bulk of the clubhouse unfolded. Off to the left, in the front part of the building, there was a large fireplace with almost a dozen couches to the sides and in front of it. None of the couches matched each other, and must’ve all been donated to the camp. Behind the couches and past the game tables—on the other side of the wall next to the bathing area—were all sorts of tables and chairs.

On the far side of the back wall was the kitchen. The kitchen area was fronted by a long counter, with curtained-off storage space underneath it. Behind the counter, on the back wall, there was a row of stoves, followed by several sinks, each separated by about a foot of counter. On the back of the bathroom sink wall, there were refrigerators. All told, there were probably a dozen stoves and half as many large sinks, as well as at least eight refrigerators.

Each family brought a couple of baskets (we used laundry baskets) full of food and drinks. Everyone picked out their own area under the counter and in the refrigerators, and it was mostly on the honor system. There were no names on stuff in the refrigerators, but most everyone had their family name on the food baskets stored under the counters. You just knew where your stuff was, and anything that wasn’t your stuff, you left alone.

Out the far side door of the clubhouse, the one opposite the side door near the road, was a large patio with steps leading down to the shuffleboard and volleyball areas. Out the “front” door of the clubhouse, in the wall opposite the kitchen area, there was a grassy lawn that stretched all the way down the hill to the lake.

That was the world of Aunt Susan’s camp, and my family was there for the entire summer. We pulled up to our new home away from home and all of us got out to stretch, stiff from the long drive from Atlanta. We also wanted to look at the cabin’s accommodations.

The cabin that we’d gotten was quite a bit larger than the motel-style room we usually stayed in, but it was still small. It still had the bunk beds, and one queen-sized bed, but it also had a cloth-covered couch and a pair of easy chairs. And best of all, it had a small but private bathroom, complete with a bathtub and hot water (courtesy of a small water heater in a closet on the back wall). The front of the cabin was a covered porch, with a pair of rocking chairs flanking the entrance. Inside, it was really one big room; the bunk beds were immediately on the left, the larger bed in the left rear corner, the bathroom in the right rear corner, and the sitting area off to the right of the door.

Once we’d scouted out the inside of the cabin—a tour that took all of thirty seconds—we began to unload Mom’s station wagon. We unloaded our folding lawn chairs and loungers first, and stacked them up on the front porch of the cabin. Next came the two large bags with bedding and pillows, bath towels, and the family’s beach towels. And finally, we unloaded our travel bags stuffed with flip-flops, bathroom stuff and other vacation items every nudist family needs (Frisbees, swim fins, masks and snorkels, and various other goodies).

Dad then drove us all down to the clubhouse to unload the food and drinks. When we got there, it was late in the afternoon, and there were few people around; mostly older couples who were year-round residents. Mom and Dad said hello to most of them as Erin and I began lugging in the baskets of food and drinks.

Her greetings finished, Mom came over to the kitchen area to supervise our unloading, and to claim an area under the counter and in one of the refrigerators. Mom would periodically have to drive back into town to shop for more groceries, but for the time being, we were set.

Once all the unloading was completed at the clubhouse, we all piled back into the car and drove back up the hill to the cabin. Dad parked the car around behind the cabin while Mom, Erin, and I all went inside to unpack.

Erin and I opened our suitcases and simply dumped the contents on our bunk beds. By long tradition, I took the top bunk, and I simply slung my suitcase up there after extracting my towel and flip-flops. Erin was doing much the same thing.

The unpacking completed finally, we all shed our clothes. After we’d gotten our clothes off, Erin and I made a beeline for the screen door. Mom called out from across the room, where she was unpacking on the larger bed.

“Whoa! Stop!”

Erin and I pulled up short of the door and looked back at Mom.

“Paul, come here,” she said, extracting the sunblock from one of her bags. “You go on, Erin.”

I sighed and started walking toward her. It was a familiar routine, and while I hated getting a sunburn, I also really wanted to get down to play in the lake. When I got to her, I turned around to present my back and shoulders. Erin gave me a triumphant, nasty-little-sister smirk and bolted through the screen door.

She always tanned better than I did, and never got sunburned. Sometimes, there ain’t no justice!

Mom squirted the cool cream on my back and shoulders and began to rub it in. She rubbed down the tops of my arms as I obediently stood before her. When she was done, she closed the top of the brown bottle and swatted me on the behind.

“Go on, have fun!”

I raced out the screen door with a quick “thanks Mom,” thrown over my shoulder as I went.

The first week of summer went by quickly as Erin and I swam in the lake, played volleyball with the grown-ups, and generally had fun. While there were a fair number of people at the camp, not many of our friends’ families had shown up yet. We decided that things would pick up in a week or so, and the year-round residents confirmed our suspicions.

About that time, my father had to take the car and drive into Columbia so he could catch a flight back to Atlanta and fly two weeks’ worth of trips. Mom put on her clothes and drove to town to pick up enough groceries to tide us over for a week. She’d have to go to the grocery store again before Dad returned with the station wagon, but she could make the trip with one of the other women from the camp.