Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
My First Skyclad Wedding
I'd been to my share of skyclad rituals before, but this was to be my first among non-pagans.
Both the bride and the groom had grown up in the naturist movement, and wanted to get married at their naturist club.
“What about your parents?” I asked, curious.
Their parents were members, too.
“Grandparents?”
Turns out Grandma also belonged.
Together the three of us planned a nice, tight little ceremony. Finally I popped the obvious question.
“Uh—did you want me to be naked too?”
“That's up to you,” they say.
The day of the wedding came: beautiful, sunny. What the heck? I thought. When at home, do as the homos do. I stripped off with the rest, and the ceremony went swimmingly.
(Feeling that, naked or not, I needed something to mark me off as the officiant, I settled for my biggest, showiest torque. It did the job very nicely.)
Afterward, I stood around with the rest having a cocktail. The groom sidled up to me and slipped an envelope into my hand.
“Hey, we're going to start taking photos,” he says. “Would you like to be in them?”
I smile. Going native takes you only so far.
“Thanks, not today,” I say.
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