Naked Lies

For some folks, going to a clothing-optional space can be liberating and empowering. People of all shapes, ages and sizes are walking around comfortable in their own skin. Tall and stort, svelte, curvy, gaunt, rotund, smooth and folded all spend time together paying more attention to what's inside their frames than what's on the surface of them. 

A year ago, I was one of them. I doffed my clothing and patiently explained to folks that I prefer male pronouns despite the obvious discrepency of my form. It was a lot of work, and I'm sure I didn't catch every onlooker. The novelty of the freedom of motion and sun on my skin was more powerful than any reservation I may have had about going bare.

However, this Sirius Rising festival I found myself covering up: t-shirts and shorts, cloth to wrap around them, a harness to truss up the bobbling globes of flesh that contradict my best intentions toward sharing myself. While my friends new and old revel in not caring about the image projected by the ideosyncracies of their bodies, I find myself unable to escape the gravity of trying to let my personality speak more loudly than my anatomy. 

Despite my efforts, more people address me in feminine forms than remember to speak to who I am on the inside. The freedom to bare my skin does not feel nearly so free as it did when I had the energy to speak up at every turn. My body screams propaganda.

Are you comfortable with your body? What does your body say about you? Does it speak the truth, or does it lie about what kind of person you are on the inside?