Watercolors Turned Us Into Naturists

How did I become a nudist? That is a difficult question. I am still not completely sure I can seriously call myself one. Maybe I am only on my way. But my first steps have already been taken — cautious, funny, a little embarrassing, and very pleasant.

It all started last summer, when I met Andrew. He suggested we go to a secluded river beach somewhere in Czechia, a place hidden away from crowded tourist spots, where meeting strangers was almost impossible. At first, we planned to go with a bigger group, but in the end there were only three of us: Andrew, me, and my friend Alice.

Alice is a beginner artist. She always carries a sketchbook and looks at people as if she is already turning them into lines, light, and shadows. Knowing how much she loves drawing, I brought her a small gift — a set of watercolor paints. I thought I would give it to her in the evening by the water. I had no idea those paints would become almost the main event of our trip.

Alice and I prepared for the picnic: we bought food, took large blankets, and wore new swimsuits. Andrew was already waiting for us at the bus stop and, of course, gave us a short lecture about women being late. Then came the bus ride, the heat, the dusty road, and several miles on foot.

The farther we walked, the less clothing we had on. Andrew was the first to take off his T-shirt and tie it around his head against the sun. Alice and I also took off our T-shirts and walked on in skirts and bikini tops. It was so hot that I wanted to throw everything off and run straight into the water.

When we finally reached the public part of the river beach, I was dreaming only of cool water. But Andrew did not stop there.

“Just a little farther,” he said. “I’ll show you the real place.”

We walked along the river, past quiet cottages, then turned onto a narrow path between bushes and trees. Finally, we came out onto a small green clearing by the water. It was quiet, almost wild. The kind of place where you instantly feel you can be a little braver than usual.

We threw our things onto the grass, quickly got rid of everything unnecessary, and ran into the water. It was cool, clean, and almost life-saving after the heat.

Andrew and I came out first. He wiped his face, looked at me, and suddenly asked:

“What if I take off my trunks? I want an even tan.”

I pretended to think. In truth, I did not mind. The only thing that embarrassed me was Alice. I knew she might blush, get offended, start lecturing us, or simply pretend she no longer knew us.

But Andrew did not exactly wait for permission. He took off his trunks and lay on his stomach, completely pleased with himself. To be honest, he looked so relaxed, as if he had spent his whole life coming to hidden river beaches and sunbathing without a single stitch on.

I waited for Alice’s reaction like a verdict.

She came out of the water, saw Andrew, and froze. Her face looked as if she had accidentally walked not onto a beach, but into someone else’s dream. But to my surprise, she said nothing. She simply tried very hard to act as if everything was normal and lay down beside us.

So there we were: Andrew lying nude and completely relaxed, while Alice and I were still in our swimsuits, but no longer feeling quite so confident in our “properness.”

After a while, Andrew invited me to walk a little farther, behind the bushes. There he kissed me and quietly said:

“Take everything off. There’s no one here.”

Honestly, I had already been thinking about it. My swimsuit was sticking to my body, leaving pale marks, keeping the sun away from my skin. But Alice was nearby, and I felt that if I undressed, it would almost be a betrayal of our little female solidarity.

But behind the bushes, that solidarity quickly lost to curiosity.

I took off the top. Then the bottom. And immediately I felt that strange, exciting sensation: as if my body had suddenly become freer, brighter, more alive. The sun touched the skin where there had been fabric before. The air touched all of me. I was shy, yes. But that shyness was not heavy. It felt warm, alive, mixed with pleasure.

We lay on the grass and started playing cards. Then Andrew called Alice.

She came almost at once. She saw me — already completely nude — and became even more embarrassed than she had been with Andrew. I felt a little awkward, but, to be honest, not awkward enough to put my swimsuit back on.

“Don’t be so serious,” Andrew told her. “There’s no one here. Take it off.”

Alice shook her head so firmly that you would think he had asked her to rob a bank.

I understood her. The first time is never really about the body. It is about the barrier in your head. But at the same time, I was lying on the grass, feeling the sun on my whole body and thinking, “God, how good it feels without all that fabric.”

Then an older couple arrived by the river path. A man and a woman calmly laid out their things and walked straight to the water — both completely nude. Their bodies were far from perfect, but they had so much calmness and natural confidence that it was almost disarming. They were not trying to look beautiful. They were simply being themselves.

And somehow that affected us even more than Andrew’s boldness.

When we went swimming again, Andrew refused to put his trunks back on. Out of sympathy for Alice, I pulled my swimsuit on again, though I did it almost angrily at the fabric itself. But after swimming, when we returned to our clearing, Andrew silently took off my wet swimsuit and dried me with a towel.

I stood among the greenery, nude, wet, warmed by the sun, and felt unbelievably alive. Somewhere deep inside, a trace of shyness was still there, but it no longer controlled me. It had become part of the game. A small spark that only made the feeling of freedom stronger.

Andrew tried to “save” Alice from her swimsuit too, but she jumped away from him so quickly that we both laughed. She called us terrible corrupters and declared that “an artist should observe, not participate.”

That was when I remembered the watercolors.

I took out the little paint set and handed it to her.

“Then observe professionally. This is for you.”

Alice’s eyes changed immediately. The artist inside her woke up at once. She opened the paints, touched the brushes, looked at the water, the grass, at us — and it was obvious she was already imagining something.

Andrew smiled slyly.

“Let’s do this. You paint us. First her, then me.”

Alice narrowed her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“In an artistic, naturist, very cultural sense.”

I added:

“But there is one condition.”

She became suspicious.

“What condition?”

“You paint while nude. Otherwise it isn’t fair. We are all models here, and you are still in uniform.”

Alice looked at us as if we had finally lost our minds. Then she looked at the paints. Then at my skin, where the sunlight lay warm and even. Then at Andrew, who was clearly enjoying the situation.

“You are manipulating my professionalism,” she said.

“Of course,” I answered. “And rather successfully.”

She resisted for another five minutes. She said it was silly, that she was not going to do it, that “an artist does not have to undress together with the model.” But her fingers were already working at the ties of her swimsuit. It was clear that curiosity had defeated embarrassment.

When Alice finally took off her swimsuit, she stood very straight, far too serious, and completely red with shyness. We did not laugh at her. We only smiled. In that moment she was very touching — frightened, stubborn, and beautiful in her awkwardness.

“Just don’t look at me like that,” she said.

“We’re not looking,” Andrew replied, although of course he was.

She took a brush and came up to me. At first, her movements were cautious, almost professional. She drew a cool wet line over my shoulder, then along my collarbone, then painted a green line down my arm. I shivered in surprise and laughed.

“Don’t move, model,” she said sternly, and that finally made all of us laugh.

Little by little, she relaxed. Leaves, waves, and small golden lines like sunbeams appeared on my skin. Then she painted a funny little flower on my hip and announced that it was “a symbol of my moral fall into naturism.”

When Andrew’s turn came, she was already enjoying herself. She painted his back, shoulders, and chest, trying to look like a serious master, although she kept smiling. Andrew stood patiently, but sometimes moved on purpose and got tapped on the arm with the brush for it.

The funniest thing was that after half an hour Alice had completely forgotten she was nude. She argued about colors, asked us to turn toward the light, stepped back to judge the composition, frowned, corrected lines. The professional instinct had truly taken over. At some point she was no longer an embarrassed girl without a swimsuit, but an artist at work.

And perhaps that was her first real step.

When the sun began to set, we decided to take one last swim before leaving. Andrew and I walked to the water nude, holding hands. The water was softer now, the air warmer, and the evening sky reflected in the river.

We stepped in up to our waists and looked back.

Alice was standing on the bank, completely nude, with traces of watercolor on her fingers and a very serious expression.

“I just want to check how the water washes off the paint,” she said.

Of course. Purely professional interest.

We laughed so loudly that I think even the fishermen somewhere in the distance could hear us.

We returned home tired, sun-kissed, a little dusty, and completely happy. It was our first real experience of resting without clothes in nature — accidental, awkward, very funny, and unexpectedly beautiful.

I do not know whether I became a “real” nudist after that. But I know for sure that I no longer want to be afraid of my own body. I like the sun on my skin. I like water without a swimsuit. I like that mixture of shyness, freedom, and gentle boldness when you stop hiding.

And Alice now says that naturism is strange, of course, but “from an artistic point of view, interesting.”

This summer we are already making new plans. We want to go to the sea, try night swimming without clothes, arrange a big body-painting photoshoot, and maybe give Alice the brushes again — only this time, she is already suggesting ideas herself.

It seems each of us began our own acquaintance with nature.

Andrew through an even tan.

Me through freedom.

And Alice through watercolor, nude models, and a very questionable but inspiring “professional necessity.”