Right. Awkward Question… What Do Naturists Actually Do?

I have another question nobody asked me to investigate.

It started with an itch.

It has somehow ended with me worrying about the cheeseboard.

Welcome to my brain.

I saw something earlier about the ridiculous things we do when we have an awkward itch in public, and naturally I started thinking about it.

When we’re dressed, we have options.

As a woman, I know the tricks.

You sit on your foot.

Cross your legs.

Uncross them.

Do that enormous stretch-and-yawn manoeuvre where apparently your entire body needs repositioning at precisely the same moment.

Shuffle slightly.

Stand up.

Sit down again.

Pretend nothing whatsoever has happened.

We’ve basically developed an entire vocabulary of movements that say:

I definitely did not just have an itch.

But then my brain went:

Hang on. What do naturists do?

Because clothes give you plausible deniability.

You can adjust a waistband.

Straighten something.

Move a seam.

Blame your underwear.

When you’re naked, there is nowhere for the explanation to hide.

If you scratch something, you scratched it.

If you adjust something, you adjusted it.

There is no waistband available to provide an alibi.

And THAT is when my brain made everything considerably worse.

Because suppose you do just scratch the itch.

Fine.

Perfectly normal human behaviour.

But then somebody wanders over with a bowl of crisps.

Oh.

OH.

Well now surely we’re washing our hands?

And suddenly I’m imagining the entire sequence.

Scratch.

Kitchen.

Soap.

Wash.

Dry.

Return.

One crisp.

Sit down.

Another itch.

For goodness’ sake.

And what if it’s watermelon?

Or worse…

the cheeseboard.

You cannot approach a communal piece of Brie with questionable hand history.

There are standards.

Naturists, in my experience, are actually extremely good about hygiene. We put towels down before sitting. People shower. Shared spaces are looked after. There’s generally far more practical awareness of hygiene than somebody who has never experienced naturism might imagine.

We have rules and customs for all sorts of things.

But I have never once encountered:

The Naturist Protocol for Unexpected Itches and Necessary Adjustments.

Have I missed a leaflet?

Is there a flowchart?

Is the itch above the waist? Proceed to section B.

Is food expected within the next ten minutes?

WASH YOUR HANDS IMMEDIATELY.

Because I know what I would do.

I’d probably sit on my foot.

Or stretch.

Or yawn.

Or perform some increasingly elaborate sequence of movements until the itch either disappeared or everybody around me thought I was attempting beginner’s yoga.

But then I started wondering about men.

What do YOU do?

Women at least have generations of experience in disguising uncomfortable adjustments as completely unrelated movements.

We can turn almost anything into a hair adjustment and a yawn.

But men?

You haven’t even got the hair excuse half the time.

Do you just scratch?

Do you wander off?

Do you have your own secret repertoire of movements that women have somehow never noticed?

And if you do make an adjustment, does your brain immediately go:

Right. Handwashing before the watermelon.

Because mine absolutely would.

This is the problem with my brain.

Twenty minutes ago I had absolutely no opinion whatsoever about naturist itch etiquette.

Now I think we need a national consultation.

So I’m throwing this one open because I genuinely want to know.

When you’re naked around other naturists and get an awkward itch or need to make an adjustment, what do you actually do?

Scratch and carry on?

Employ the strategic shuffle?

Disappear for thirty seconds?

Sit on your foot like me and hope for the best?

And, most importantly, are we all agreed that whatever happens…

hands are being washed before anybody touches the cheeseboard?

Please tell me other people have thought about this.

Actually, no.

Don’t.

I suspect it was just me.

Until now.