I’m a fan of naked driving. Back in high school and college, on a nice spring day or night, I’d get in my car, strip down, and drive. Windows down, sunroof open, music blaring. There’s nothing more exhilarating.
One beautiful day, I decided to go to the beach. In Daytona Beach, where I grew up, you can drive and park on the beach. I pull up to the booth before the entrance and pay the fee to drive – it was like $6.00 or something. I turn onto the hard-packed sand and start heading south, driving very slowly. The speed limit is 10 mph. With people laying on the beach to your right and coming from the row of hotels, and running to the ocean on the left, you have to go slow and be very careful that you don’t squash a tourist. Daytona frowns upon that.
So, I’m going very, very slowly, almost idling, down the beach, as I start to disrobe. I pass the esteemed beach police in their sand buggy, going the opposite way. The officer stares at me intently, and I feel guilty even though he looks ridiculous in his shorts, sandals, and gunbelt. I shrug off the guilt and start getting nekkid. The shirt comes off first, very easily. We’re at the beach, nobody has a shirt on. Nobody will notice. I’m already barefoot, so that part’s not a problem. I unbuckle my belt, and start to slide my shorts down, off my ass, onto the floor. In order to get the leverage to do this, I have to raise my butt off of the seat, putting all of my weight onto my feet, while I take my shorts off. I also push one hand against the steering wheel to steady myself. The resulting blare of the horn simultaneously invites every man, woman and child within a 100-foot radius to look at my car while scaring the ever-loving shit out of me, causing me to jump up, which then elevates my entire crotch level with the window. A mother in her late 30s stares, her mouth hanging open while her hands scrabble to cover the eyes of her young children. Three teen girls to my immediate left point in horror. The eyes of the guy carrying his surfboard bug out to three times their size. Time slows to a crawl.
I recover quickly and drive off well in excess of the speed limit. I decide, at this point, that maybe naked driving on a crowded beach was not the smartest idea I’d ever had. I can see in my rear-view mirror that the police buggy has done a U-turn and is leisurely coming my direction. I drive faster, searching for a stretch of sand that is unpopulated.
Finally, I hit paydirt. There are no cars and no people on the right side of the beach, right where it butts against the black reflectlive back wall of the Daytona Beach Hilton. I park the car parallel to the wall and climb out through the passenger side. Standing in the hot sun bare-ass naked, I bounce back and forth a bit as my feet get used to the hot sand. I turn around and reach back into the car and pull out my clothes. The excitement of the whole situation may have given me some minor wood. I adjust myself for a minute, look at my reflection in the mirror-like black rear wall of the hotel while I adjust myself, and then quickly pull my clothes on.
Now, legally and safely clothed, I look up to see that the beach cops are still coming my way. Rather than even try to face them, I decide to go hide in the Hilton. I lock the car, and walk up to the back door of the hotel, which is propped open. I walk in.
The transition from the bright sun to the darkened interior makes me see spots for about 10 seconds. I close my eyes, and when I re-open them, I see what looks to be a wedding reception in full-swing. The bride, the groom, the parents, the musicians, the guests, the waiters – they’re all staring at me intently. I flush, about to apologize and quickly excuse myself from the room when I happen to turn around.
And behind me, I can see, sharp as day, every detail of the passenger side of my car through the darkly tinted windows that cover the rear of the hotel like a black, shiny wall.
Don’t forget! Go check out Postcard Hell and buy some postcards to send to your friends, enemies, and pastor!