Bare & Laughable
A Fictional Story by thisguyagain74.
I’d been curious about nudism for a while. The freedom of it, the body positivity — or so the websites claimed. Everyone’s welcome, everyone’s accepted, nobody judges. That’s what they all said. And I believed it, mostly because I wanted to believe it. Because beneath the curiosity about the lifestyle was something else. Something I didn’t fully admit to myself until I was already there, standing naked in the sun with my cock hanging out for the world to see.
I wanted to be seen.
I wanted to be looked at.
And I got exactly what I wanted.
—
I’m about 4.7 inches hard. Soft, I’m maybe an inch and a half. On a cold day — or a nervous one — closer to an inch. Uncut. The foreskin hangs past the head when I’m flaccid, making it look even smaller, like a little nub barely poking out from my pubic hair. I keep the hair trimmed, but not shaved, which probably doesn’t help. Everything about my soft state screams barely there.
I’ve known this since I was a teenager. Locker rooms taught me. Porn confirmed it. And every sexual partner I’ve ever had has reinforced it in ways both subtle and not-so-subtle — the way they’d wrap a hand around me and have fingers to spare, the way they’d shift to get more friction, the way they’d eventually suggest we try other things because this wasn’t quite doing it.
But nudism was supposed to be different. Nudism was supposed to be about acceptance. About bodies as they are, about freedom from judgment.
I packed my bag on a Friday morning and drove three hours to a resort I’d found online. It was nestled in the hills, surrounded by trees, with a pool, a hot tub, hiking trails, and a cluster of small cabins. The website showed smiling people of all ages, all shapes, all sizes. Nobody looked like a model. Nobody looked like they were hiding. It seemed perfect.
I checked in at the front desk — fully clothed, still — and the woman behind the counter, maybe mid-40s, gave me a map and a wristband and pointed me toward the changing area. “Clothing optional everywhere on the grounds,” she said. “Most people go bare within the first hour. You’ll get used to it.”
I nodded, took my bag, and found the changing room. It was a simple structure — wooden walls, a bench, some lockers. I stood there for a long time, holding my shirt, staring at the locker.
Then I stripped.
All of it. Shirt, shorts, underwear. I folded everything, put it in the locker, and looked down at myself.
There it was. My cock, soft and small, nestled in its patch of trimmed hair. My balls, tight from the air conditioning in the changing room, pulled up close to my body. I looked… underwhelming. I knew it. But I also felt a thrill — a dangerous, electric thrill — at the idea of walking out like this. Exposed. Visible. Assessable.
I took a breath and pushed the door open.
—
The first hour was uneventful. I walked the grounds, got my bearings, tried to act natural. There were people everywhere — couples, singles, families — all naked, all going about their day like it was the most normal thing in the world. I saw bodies of every type. Big, small, saggy, firm, hairy, smooth. I saw dicks of every size — some impressively large, swinging like pendulums as their owners walked, some average, some small like mine.
Nobody stared. Nobody pointed. The culture of the place seemed genuinely non-judgmental, and for a while, I relaxed. I sat by the pool, read a book, let the sun warm my skin. I even let myself forget, briefly, that I was naked in public.
Then I went to the hot tub.
There were four people already in it when I arrived — two men and two women, all in their 40s or 50s, chatting and drinking from plastic cups. I climbed in on the opposite side, nodded hello, and settled into the water. It felt good—the heat, the bubbles, the weightlessness.
One of the women — dark hair, tanned skin, a thick body with large breasts that floated slightly in the water — glanced at me when I sat down. A glance. Down and back up. The kind of glance that’s supposed to be invisible, that’s supposed to say I’m looking at the new person and nothing more.
But I saw her eyes drop. And I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
She looked away. Looked back at her conversation partner. Said something I couldn’t hear over the bubbles. But that twitch — that tiny, suppressed micro-expression — stayed with me. She’d looked at my cock, visible through the clear water, and something in her face had reacted.
I felt the first stir of arousal. Not enough to get hard — not yet — but enough to feel a pulse, a warmth, a tightening in my groin that I had to suppress consciously. The last thing I needed was to get an erection in a hot tub at a nudist resort. That would be a whole different kind of attention.
I stayed in the tub for another ten minutes, then got out. As I climbed the steps, water streaming off me, I caught the woman looking again. This time, she didn’t even try to hide it. Her eyes went straight to my crotch, stayed there for a beat too long, and then she turned to her friend — the other woman — and whispered something.
The friend looked. Her eyebrows went up, just slightly. Then she looked away, pressing her lips together.
I walked to my towel with my heart pounding, and my cock shriveled to its absolute smallest from the combination of arousal, embarrassment, and the cool air hitting wet skin. I was probably at an inch. Maybe less. A nub. A button. A joke.
I lay face down on my towel and willed myself to calm down.
—
The rest of Friday passed without major incident. A few glances here and there. A couple of smiles that might have been friendly and might have been something else. I couldn’t tell, and I told myself I was being paranoid.
Saturday was different.
I’d spent the morning hiking one of the trails — naked, of course, with just a backpack for water and snacks — and I came back to the main area around noon, ready for lunch. The dining area was a large, open pavilion with picnic tables and a buffet line. I grabbed a plate, sat down at an empty table, and started eating.
A few tables away, two women were sitting together. They were older — early 60s, I’d guess — and they had the kind of easy, confident energy that comes with decades of being comfortable in your own skin. One was blonde, going gray, with a lean, weathered body and small, sagging breasts. The other was darker, heavier, with wide hips, a round face, and a loud, carrying laugh.
I noticed them because they were loud. Not obnoxiously so — just the kind of people who project, who fill a space with their presence. They were having a good time, clearly drinking wine, eating, talking.
I wasn’t paying attention to them until I heard the laugh.
Not a giggle. Not a chuckle. A laugh. A full, open, head-thrown-back laugh that cut across the pavilion and made several people glance over. I looked up from my plate and saw the darker woman pointing — not at me directly, but in my general direction, gesturing with her wine glass — while the blonde woman covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
They were looking at me.
I was sure of it. The angle was right. There was no one else behind me, no one else in their line of sight. They were looking at me, and they were laughing.
My face went hot. I looked down at my plate, my appetite vanishing. I could feel them looking. I could hear them looking — the laughter continuing in bursts, punctuated by murmured words I couldn’t make out. I risked another glance.
The blonde was leaning across the table, whispering something in the darker woman’s ear. The darker woman’s eyes went wide — delighted, scandalized — and she burst out laughing again. She looked directly at me, her eyes dropping to my crotch — which was visible under the picnic table, my small cock just sitting there, doing nothing, being nothing — and she slapped the table.
“Oh my God,” she said, loud enough for me to hear. “Oh my God, Carol, you’re right.”
Carol — the blonde — was laughing too, that helpless, breathless kind of laughing where you can’t stop. She wiped her eyes and nodded.
I looked away. My hands were shaking. My cock — that pathetic, tiny, useless cock — was completely shriveled, pulled in on itself, barely visible. I was probably at less than an inch. The smallest I could be. And two women in their 60s were having the time of their lives looking at it.
I should have gotten up. Should have walked away. Should have gone back to my cabin and locked the door and waited for the weekend to end.
I didn’t move.
Because underneath the humiliation — underneath the burning face and the shaking hands and the desire to disappear — there was something else. Something hot and tight and electric in my stomach. Something that felt dangerously like arousal.
I was hard. Not visibly — I was too shriveled, too small, too compressed by the embarrassment — but I could feel it internally. That pull. That ache. The knowledge that these women, old enough to be my mother, were laughing at my body, at my inadequacy, at the fundamental smallness of me — and that it was doing something to me.
I sat there for another five minutes, not eating, not looking up, just absorbing it. The laughter came in waves. Sometimes it would fade, and I’d think they’d moved on to another topic, and then it would kick up again — one of them would glance over, see me still sitting there, still small, still pathetic, and crack up all over again.
Eventually, I got up. I threw my plate away, grabbed my backpack, and walked toward the trail. As I passed their table, the darker woman looked up at me, smiled — a big, friendly, completely unself-conscious smile — and said, “Enjoying your weekend?”
“Having a great time,” I said, my voice steady, my face on fire.
“Good,” she said. “Good for you.”
And then, as I walked away, I heard the laughter start again. Louder this time. Uncontained.
—
I spent the rest of Saturday in a fog of arousal and shame. I hiked. I swam. I sat in the sun. And everywhere I went, I was aware of being looked at. Not by everyone — most people at the resort were polite, or oblivious, or simply uninterested — but by enough. Enough women. Enough glances. Enough smiles that lingered a beat too long, enough looks that dropped below the belt and came back up with something new in them.
A woman at the pool — maybe 35, fit, with short brown hair and small, perky breasts — was lying on a towel near me. I caught her looking. Not once, but several times. Each time, she’d look away quickly, but the last time, she held my gaze for a moment, then looked down at my cock, then looked back up at my face — and smiled. Not a friendly smile. A knowing smile. The kind of smile that says I see you, I see what you are, and I find it amusing.
I smiled back, weakly, and she turned over on her towel, her back to me. But I saw her shoulders shaking. She was laughing. Quietly, privately, into her towel.
Another woman — older, maybe 50s, with a thick body and graying hair — was in the shower area when I went to rinse off after the pool. The showers were open and communal, with no partitions. She was soaping up under one nozzle, and I took the one two down from her. She glanced over, looked at my body, looked at my cock, and did a double-take. Her eyes went wide for just a second, and then she turned away — but I saw her reflection in the wet tile. She was biting her lip and suppressing something.
She finished quickly and left without a word. But as she walked away, I heard a short, sharp sound — half cough, half laugh — escape her mouth.
By Sunday morning, I was a wreck. Three days of being naked, of being seen, of being looked at and smiled at and laughed at — it had wound me up so tight I could barely think. I was in a constant state of low-grade arousal, my cock fluctuating between its tiny soft state and partial, embarrassing semi-hardness that made it look even more pathetic — not big enough to be impressive, not small enough to be invisible, just this sad, in-between thing that drew attention for all the wrong reasons.
I went to the morning yoga session. It was held on a large deck overlooking the valley, led by a woman in her 40s who was, like everyone else, completely naked. There were about fifteen people in the class, mostly women, a few men. I unrolled my mat near the back and tried to focus on the poses.
But yoga involves a lot of bending forward. A lot of spreading legs. A lot of positions where my cock — small, shriveled, barely there — was on full display to anyone who happened to glance my way.
And people glanced.
The woman on the mat next to me — early 30s, blonde, with a lean runner’s body and a completely smooth pussy — kept looking over during the poses. Not at my form. Not at my alignment. At my crotch. During downward dog, she was in the same pose, her head down, her eyes forward — and forward was my crotch. She stared openly for a full five seconds, then looked away, her mouth twitching.
During happy baby — legs in the air, knees pulled toward the chest, everything exposed — I caught two women across the deck looking at me and exchanging a glance. One raised an eyebrow. The other pressed her lips together and shook her head, like she was trying not to react. But she was smiling. They both were.
After class, as I was rolling up my mat, the blonde woman next to me said, “Good class, right?”
“Great,” I said.
“You’re pretty flexible,” she said. Then, quieter, with a look that was either sympathetic or amused — I couldn’t tell — “You should try the afternoon session too. It’s a smaller group.”
I didn’t know what to make of that. An invitation? A warning? A suggestion that I was entertainment and should provide more?
I went to the afternoon session.
—
By the time I left the resort on Sunday afternoon, I was vibrating. Not literally — but close. Three days of exposure, of glances and smiles and laughter, of being the smallest man in every crowd, of knowing that every woman who looked at me was seeing something inadequate and finding it funny — it had built up inside me like pressure in a sealed container.
I was horny. Desperately, achingly, furiously horny. The kind of horny where your whole body feels like a live wire, where every thought circles back to sex, where your cock — tiny as it is — won’t leave you alone, twitching and thickening at the slightest stimulus.
I needed to cum. I needed it badly. But I didn’t want to do it in my cabin at the resort, with thin walls and people walking by outside. I wanted — needed — something more.
That’s how I ended up at the adult bookstore.
—
I’d seen it on the drive to the resort — a small, unmarked building off the highway with a neon sign that said “ADULT VIDEO” and “BOOTHS OPEN 24 HRS.” I’d noted it, filed it away, told myself I wasn’t going to stop. But now, driving home, wound up and desperate, I pulled into the parking lot.
Inside, it was exactly what you’d expect—fluorescent lights, rows of DVDs and toys, a clerk behind the counter who barely looked up. I walked past the merchandise, past the racks of lube and the walls of lingerie, to the back. A sign said “VIDEO BOOTHS” with an arrow pointing through a doorway.
I went through.
The booth area was a large, dim room — bigger than I expected — with maybe a dozen booths along the walls. Each booth was a small partitioned space with a screen, a chair, and a bill acceptor for tokens. The partitions came up to about chest height, open at the top and bottom. And — this was the thing that made me pause — none of them had doors.
No doors. No curtains. No privacy. Just open partitions, open at the front, facing into the room.
I stood there for a moment, reconsidering. This wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d imagined private booths — small, enclosed, safe. A place to watch porn and jerk off in peace. This was something else entirely. This was a space where anyone could walk by, look in, see what you were doing.
But I was too horny to leave. Three days of frustration had overridden my better judgment. I found an empty booth in the corner, fed some bills into the machine, and scrolled through the video selection until I found something — a straight porn, a woman getting fucked by a guy with a massive cock, the kind of cock that made mine look like a pencil stub.
I sat down, unzipped my pants, and pulled my cock out.
It was hard. Fully hard, which meant about 4.7 inches, thin, uncut, the head barely poking out of the foreskin. I started stroking, watching the screen, trying to lose myself in the fantasy.
Within a minute, I heard footsteps.
A man appeared at the opening of my booth. He was middle-aged, average-looking, dressed in jeans and a jacket. He stood there, looking in, watching me. I ignored him. I wasn’t there for him. I was there for the video, for the release, for the privacy I thought I’d have.
He looked down at my lap. At my hand. At my cock.
I watched his face in my peripheral vision. He studied me for a moment — my cock, specifically — and I saw the recognition. The assessment. The measurement. He was looking at my hard cock and seeing what every woman at the resort had seen: something small. Something underwhelming. Something that didn’t measure up.
He turned around and walked away. No word, no gesture, no acknowledgment. Just gone.
I kept stroking. The video played. The woman on screen was moaning, taking that huge cock, and I was watching, my hand moving on my tiny erection, trying to stay in the moment.
A few minutes later, another man appeared. Younger, maybe 30s, thinner. He stood at the opening, looked at me, looked at my cock. His eyes lingered for a second — not with desire, not with interest, but with the same flat, evaluating look the first man had given. He looked at my cock, registered its size, and turned away. Walked off. Silent.
This happened again. And again. And again.
A third man. Older, heavy-set. He looked, saw, turned, left.
A fourth. Tall, slim, young. He paused longer than the others, his eyes on my cock, and I saw something cross his face — not amusement, exactly, but something adjacent. A flicker of that’s it? He left without a word.
A fifth. He didn’t even fully stop. He walked by, glanced in, his eyes dropped to my lap, and he kept walking. But I saw his head shake slightly. A tiny, almost imperceptible shake. No.
A sixth. He stood at the opening and watched for a while — a full thirty seconds — and I tried to ignore him, tried to focus on the screen, tried to pretend I was alone. But I could feel his gaze on my cock, on my hand, on the small, hard, inadequate thing I was stroking. Then he exhaled — a short, quiet sound, almost a sigh — and walked away.
Six men. Six men who had come to the booths looking for something — someone to watch, someone to join, someone to fuck — and all six had taken one look at my cock and decided it wasn’t worth their time. Not a word from any of them. Not an approach, not a comment, not even a rude gesture. Just the look, the assessment, the silent verdict, and the departure.
I sat there, my hand still on my cock, which had somehow gotten harder from the experience — not bigger, never bigger, just harder, more rigid, more insistent — and I felt the full weight of the weekend crash down on me.
Three days at a nudist resort, where women had smiled and laughed and whispered and pointed. Two women in their 60s who had laughed so hard they could barely breathe. A yoga class where my exposed cock had been the source of barely suppressed amusement. A poolside smile that said I see what you are. A shower double-take. Dozens of glances, dozens of micro-reactions, dozens of moments where my smallness had been noticed and found wanting.
And now this. An adult bookstore where six men — men, not even women, men who were presumably looking for other men — had looked at my hard cock and walked away without a word. Not because they weren’t interested in men. Because they weren’t interested in me. In this. In the small, thin, unimpressive thing between my legs that couldn’t even attract attention in a place designed for attracting attention.
Adding insult to injury. That’s what it was. Three days of being laughed at by women, followed by an evening of being dismissed by men. My cock — my hard, straining, desperately horny cock — had been judged and found inadequate by everyone who’d seen it all weekend.
I came anyway.
I came hard, my hand pumping my small cock, my eyes on the screen where a woman was being destroyed by a cock twice my size, my body shaking in the open booth where anyone could see — and anyone had seen — and the orgasm ripped through me with an intensity that bordered on painful. I shot onto my hand, onto my thigh, onto the floor of the booth. A small amount, as always — a few weak spurts, nothing impressive, nothing that matched the force of the feeling.
I sat there afterward, panting, sticky, empty. The video kept playing. The booth was silent. The room beyond was silent. No one was watching anymore. No one was coming by. I was alone with my small, softening cock and the echo of every laugh, every glance, every silent walk-away.
I cleaned up with napkins from my bag, zipped my pants, and left.
On the drive home, I felt it again — that thing, that pull, that heat. Not arousal, exactly. Not yet. But the memory of arousal. The shape of the humiliation, still warm, still present, still doing something to me.
I was already thinking about going back.
The End.
*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.