Author:
Jeff
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Date Posted: 20:41:23 01/08/26 Thu
Author Host/IP: 76.195.201.31
I was fifteen, and a typical day at Cape Canaveral in the '70s meant heading to the surf with my friend’s mom and a group of kids. As soon as we parked, the boys, aged seven to nine, started stripping right there by the car. It was just rural Florida custom—swimming nude kept your clothes from getting ruined by salt and sand.
My friend’s mom looked at the stiff current and told me I was in charge of watching them. She told me to take my clothes off too, figuring if I was in the same state as them, they wouldn’t feel subconscious or act out against an older "babysitter." I didn't argue; I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped my cut-offs on the seat, leaving my clothes in the car.
We hiked over the dunes to find a spot. Once we settled onto the sand, Sarah, the 15-year-old girl with us, rolled the top of her one-piece down to tan. Standing there on the open beach, seeing her topless while I was totally nude gave me a few casual erections. Sarah just gave a little giggle and didn't hide that she noticed, but the younger boys completely ignored it, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I headed for the water to cool off, wading out to my waist to act as a human marker. I stood out there for hours, the salt water stinging my eyes as I watched the shore through the humid haze of the Space Coast, where the distant rockets on the pads felt like the only other things in the world. Because I looked just like them, the boys stayed between me and the shore. We finally hiked back, salt-crusted and tired, and piled onto the vinyl seats without towels. The younger boys handled the errands at the station, hopping out nude to grab ice and Cokes while the guy behind the counter didn’t even look up. In the '70s, as long as you didn't cause trouble, people let you be.
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