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.
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