Beach Boy

The gay urge to be naked near a body of water is, I find, quite indomitable.

We’ve been known trudge through marshes or even cross high-speed rail tracks to reach secluded shores where we can ditch our textiles (and our inhibitions).

I am not immune to this most homosexual of desires. The summer heat, which has been especially brutal in Milan lately, only amplifies the impulse.

That’s how I found myself, on a recent Sunday, en route to a clothing-optional slice of heaven.

It was a small beach, if you can even call it that, on a thin and shallow river outside the city. What it lacked in infrastructure, it made up for in queer delights.

After setting up a beach blanket in a cozy alcove shaded by trees, I wasted no time disrobing and sashaying down to the river, where a sociable group of gays was alternately standing, splashing and lounging in the slow current.

I don’t often swim in rivers, and I forgot how lovely it was to feel the smooth flow of the water pass you by. I dunked myself under, securing myself on a couple of rocks and letting the current glide right over my body, my head floating just above the surface.

Sufficiently refreshed, I toddled back onto the rocky shore and toward my blanket, where I dried off and applied sunscreen. But I would not remain there for long.

See, there was still more to explore. In the trails that threaded along the river and into the neighboring fields, more than a few naked men were on the move—or, more accurately, on the cruise.