Agde Memories No.3

My last posting on Agde memories reached the point where I’d made a public nude debut as far as the pool and back. I’m still some distance from being a confident naturist, The days were long, and Sylvia and I would be tired on our return to the apartment we were sharing. The following gallery paints a rather idyllic picture of apartment life and a round of lazy coffees and pillow fights. In reality it was decrepit, two teenaged girls finding out about a rather more low-rent existence than we were used to.

Hot water…sometimes. No air-con. A couple of camp beds and our ‘wardrobes’ were the suitcases we’d arrived with. But it was OK in the sense that we didn’t have to stay there for much of the day, it was really only for sleeping, or washing clothes -initially- that we returned to it.

Our day finished when we’d done the dishes and prepared for the next day, and we quickly learned that the washing machine went on to do tea towels, dish clothes etc, so by the second week, when the shutters went down, we’d actually strip naked in the cafe’s kitchen, throw our clothes in there, and do the last of the washing up while naked. We were still bringing a change of clothes for the walk back to the apartment at this point.Sylvia then decided that it was a great idea to wash our clothes, hang them up to dry in the tiny back yard area, and walk home nude. Then, the following morning, we could simply roll out of bed, have a shower, dry in the morning sun and walk nude back to work.

The kitchen after closing time? Yes, it was something very much like this.

Which is precisely what she did for the next week or so, while I still wandered back and forward in a T shirt and shorts. I could serve naked people all day, but still didn’t have an enormous amount of self-confidence about my own nudity.

Sylvia always seemed cooler and fresher for her nude walk to and from the cafe each day, while the sweat was trickling between my shoulder blades. It might have continued like this until a leaky bottle of olive oil dribbled into my bag one night, and my fresh clothes, for walking home in, were left swathed in oil. I could walk home wearing them, put on my still wet clothes out of the washing machine, or follow Sylvia’s lead. I followed Sylvia’s lead.

Walking home nude at midnight

You have to remember that, after dark, naturists often dress for dinner, and so naked bodies on the streets are rather rarer than they are by day. But there was something about the cover of darkness that gave me a little more confidence.

Once again, the photos above show a bustling Cap D’Agde, while in reality our near midnight walk was along much quieter, almost deserted streets. Almost anyone we encountered would be clothed, but because anyone we encountered was almost certainly naturist, no one blinked an eye. Besides, we found a route away from the main thoroughfares which meant we could get back to the apartment most nights without encountering a single person. We weren’t doing it to be coy. It was simply that taking the back streets was the most direct route to our apartment.

The cafe opened at 1000am, and we had to be there at 900am to set the tables and chairs out again and set the cutlery. The sun would be long up, and people moving around, naked, by the time we left for work, heading for cafes and breakfast, already making moves in the direction of the beach and so on. Agde was waking up to another naked day in paradise, and now I was part of it!

I surprised myself at how quickly, during that second week, that nudity became normal, comfortable and natural, and by now I was looking forward to our next day off. Of course, we still had to dress while serving coffees, croissants and baguettes. Right across the street from our cafe was a shop that sold sundresses, pares and such like. Having been paid for our first week I splashed out on a couple of sun dresses that were more comfortable than shorts. For one thing, they allowed me to go without underwear, and a cool breeze made working more comfortable with…certain parts free to that breeze!

By week two I’d enough confidence that I’d have happily served nude, inside the cafe or out on the terrace, but the proprietor insisted on clothes being worn, mainly for hygiene purposes, so a sundress, without underwear underneath, was the second best option.

By the time our second day off rolled around, I felt like a happy, confident, contented naturist, such was my rapid acceptance of the lifestyle. All thoughts of shame or embarrassment had evaporated.


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