I started going commando full time in the summer of 2010. At the time, we were still living in the trailer and there’s only so cool you can get a metal box when it’s well over 100° F. So, when my son wasn’t home, which was quite frequently because he was usually with his girlfriend, I practiced indoor nudism.
Naturally, it took me a bit longer to answer the door and I had to be very, very careful when frying anything to eat, but I was much cooler. Since it was much quicker to get dressed without putting on any underwear, I did that if I had to go out. I figured there was also much less chance of getting arrested with pants and no underwear than if I chose to wear the underwear and go without pants, if not for indecent exposure then for incapacitating vast numbers of people with hysterical laughter.
I also learned to be very, very careful about zipping up my jeans. Even more careful than when I had switched from briefs to boxers.
At first I felt a bit risqué, daring, and avante-garde, but that quickly changed to just simply feeling a lot more comfortable going without than with. That initial feeling was a bit over-the-top anyway, since I’m not exactly John Holmes, or even Ron Jeremy.
So, that’s why I do it. For comfort. That and the fact that knowing it turned my then-girlfriend on, even though she’d already seen the full monty over Skype. A little easier for me to do than for her since both her daughters were living with her and usually home at night in Paris and she could sit with the screen facing out the window of their 29th floor apartment in Grenelle.
There were a couple of incidents from that summer that were more than a little amusing, one of them more so in hindsight.
In the early part of that summer, before my Parisian émérite chérie (amica emeritus) and I had gotten together, I was talking on Skype to a good (female, but strictly platonic) friend of mine who lived in Tehran, Iran, and happened to mention I was completely naked to escape the heat. She challenged me on that. My coffee had just finished brewing, so I spun my swivel chair around so that my back was to the webcam, stood up, began pouring coffee.
Immediately I heard a shriek from my speakers. “Oh my God! You’re naked!”
I sat down, spun back around facing the webcam, and asked, “Did you think I was lying?”
A week or so later, a good friend of mine in Baku, Azerbaijan, sent me a request for video chat while I was posting news to my Wall on Facebook (this was in the good ol’ days before the staff of the social network inflicted Timeline on all of us). I didn’t even have time to go grab a pair of jeans or a T-shirt, and I was too embarrassed to tell her my clothing-challenged condition. So I sat close enough to the webcam that just my head and neck showed. Naturally, this was the day she picked to introduce me to her mother, her father, her grandmother, and her two much younger cousins.
Before posting this, I did let my friend in Baku know, and she had been wondering why that day I had been sitting so close to the webcam.