Catherine Townsend: Sleeping Around

Your support helps us to tell the story

Support Now

My recent work focusing on Latino voters in Arizona has shown me how crucial independent journalism is in giving voice to underrepresented communities.

Your support is what allows us to tell these stories, bringing attention to the issues that are often overlooked. Without your contributions, these voices might not be heard.

Every dollar you give helps us continue to shine a light on these critical issues in the run up to the election and beyond

Eric Garcia

Washington Bureau Chief

Find out more

I recently found myself stripping down to a black, lacy thong before walking into a room full of naked men. But this wasn't an orgy, it was a naturist club night. The whole thing started out as a dare. My friend Victoria and I were discussing her upcoming wedding, and the fact that we hadn't been clubbing in ages. We'd heard about the naked disco in south London, and always said it was something we'd love to try, just for a laugh.

Having found the club, we paid our £15 on the door and headed for the changing room, where I was a bit annoyed to see that Victoria had worn Bridget Jones-style pants that covered everything. Women, you see, are allowed to wear underwear or bikini bottoms, while men have to be completely in the buff.

So there I was, in a thong and a pair of four-inch heels – you have to wear shoes. Yet Victoria was insisting that I take off my underwear, for the sake of "journalistic balance".

I'm a Hollywood wax fan, so I was really hoping that the website's claim of very good heating was true. I was petrified, and in desperate need of a drink. There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide – except behind a bit of body glitter I'd brought along.

Still, we were determined to hold our heads high – even if our breasts lacked such support. Momentarily at a loss for where to stash money for drinks, I stuffed a wad of cash down Victoria's pants.

We got a couple of drinks and realised that, sadly, other than a couple of beautiful gay men, the rules of nudist beaches seemed to apply here, too: the people who strip completely are never the ones you want to see naked.

I can't say that watching skinny guys in trainers with their bits bouncing around on the dance floor was a huge turn-on, but everyone seemed to be having a brilliant time. We chatted to several regulars, mostly guys in their early- to mid-twenties, and Victoria and I had to try very hard not to have our eyes wander downward – though we saw very few erections all evening.

The best part, though, was that because mobile phones were banned, there was no phone-number swapping, and the music was too loud for cheesy chat-up lines.

After three drinks, I stopped covering my nether regions with my hands. Two drinks after that, we hit the dance floor.

I'm not sure if it was the booze or the boldness of everyone else around me, but I've never felt less body-conscious in my life. Victoria and I danced until after midnight, and it was worth the wicked hangover – even though, a week and several showers later, I was still picking off the body glitter.