Naked as I Came

on encountering the goodness of a purity-culture-warped body in a nude Oregonian hot spring

Note: I started writing this essay a year ago after my dear friend

K.J. Ramsey

and I returned from a glorious westbound road trip. Just weeks after that trip, K.J. became horrifically, terrifyingly sick. I paused writing this essay for months, ignoring it until nearly a year later when the memories weren’t so tinged with fear, worry, and grief. This essay is about an evening we spent at an Oregonian “commune” during a “penis-free” Ladies Night. It’s about releasing inhibitions, trusting a friend, trusting myself. It’s about the continued work of affirming the goodness of body (something I’ve written about a few times here already). Fair warning, this is the third time I’ve referenced Barbara Brown Taylor’s naked prayers in an essay format (please forgive me—it’s just so damn good).

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“I know where we’re staying tonight,” K.J. said almost too gleefully as she turned her phone screen in my direction, revealing what looked like a commune in middle-of-nowhere Oregon. “And guess what?” She continued. “Tonight’s Ladies’ night!” It turned out, Ladies’ Night meant the campground’s hot springs were clothing-optional for women of all ages and sizes to gather safely in what the website called “a penis-free environment.” We joked this was the sort of place we would have prayed over and doused in oil 10 years prior. Our friendship was young but we shared the traumatic bond of Christian fundamentalism and a purity-culture-warped view of body. 

I am 35 but my body remains a secret I’ve kept hidden from the world, covered by residual childhood shame. No one but my husband and I know its true shape. The mass of me increases with each passing year. Age attracts a collection of fat particles on my ass and thighs like barnacles on a ship’s hull. I’ve never been the sort who enjoys the feeling of being naked, who can walk comfortably around a locker room with breasts and butt bared to sweaty strangers. I’m embarrassed by every pap smear, no matter that my gynecologist has seen a million vaginas. For years, I’ve had a recurring dream of that I’m naked in a crowd of friends and family. In the dream, I’m always alone in my nudity, unphased by it until right before I wake up. The slow fade from dream state meets me with relief and lingering mortification.