| I was 12 years old and about to take a bath in the early evening when I was overtaken by a compulsion to see if I could fit into our white wicker basket clothes hamper. I shed clothes, rested the hinged lid against the wall and stepped in, shifting and cramming this and that into the narrow wooden opening� Suddenly the bathroom door burst open revealing L.J. Eubanks, a reddish, stiff-faced, crewcut-conservative home contractor who had stopped by to survey our newly built house. He caught me in mid wedge. I froze. He froze. Then with jaw locked, he said, �Oh, excuse me,� and quickly shut the door. Overwhelmed, I scanned a shelf full of assorted emotional responses for the perfect fit. I settled on silent screams of horror and embarrassment sent into a nearby bath towel. My 12-year-old mind attempted to wrap around, not only being seen naked by a man for the first time, but being seen naked and, undoubtedly, depraved. It was a horrific but exhilarating thought and it branded my young psyche with a giant exclamation mark! Perhaps it was manifested in hours spent showering, pretending to be a jungle maiden discovered by Tarzan while bathing in a waterfall. I expanded the fantasy in my uncle�s private lake, pulling down the top half of my stretchy little one-piece and letting the lake water lap (Only the minnows were impressed.) I didn�t even admit it at slumber parties. It was my destiny to enter college in 1969 when so many of my peers found themselves drawn by cosmic urges and, with glassy eyes, fashioned Devil�s Towers of sex, drugs and rock �n� roll in their perspective mashed potatoes. The field was fertile. Flower-you-ain�t-heavy children surrendered all shame and only pubic lice threatened the pure in heart. Decisions were easy�Bone�s Farm or Mad Dog. Skinny-dipping in the moonlight in East Texas lakes with college friends was blissful and brought about more an intimacy of hearts than bodies. Add some primo reefer and the galaxy was the limit. No one gawked, but looking was optional and without apology. In 1971, I entered the world of Austin. I was one of the first Hippies at the Hollow�where all the cool people went to be naked and swim. For a time it was a glorious place without threat of (serious) crime or (serious) lechers. The mood changed as word got out. Then boaters hawked the Hollow to feast on the scenery. Perhaps the most notable Austin experience occurred on private land near the famous Hamilton Pool. About six of us trekked down to a small grotto with small pool with waterfall. We lugged a keg of Shiner beer (just available on the market) and other hippie gear. All day long we scaled the caves, swam in the pool and lazed on the bank�totally in the buff�while the keg grew lighter and lighter. Come the Texas sundown, we were pissing where we lay. The events that transpired in the first few hours of darkness are hazy. I remember a boy�s hands on me and his surprise to discover two sets of hands on him. The extra set turned out to belong to his weird friend Henry. All of a sudden there was an explosion. BLAM! �Y�all get out of there!� BLAM! �I said y�all get out of there. This is private land,� he bellowed in a man�s voice punctuated by a shotgun blast. We scrambled for wits and clothing but could find neither. We did, however, locate the keg of Shiner because we had a $50 deposit. In only a shirt, I made the mile trip through brush and over sharp shale rocks and wild burrs to the safety of our VW van. We yelled confirmation or our retreat in the gun�s direction, stopping only to shift the Shiner or pull stickers out of cut feet. We were 20 and happy to be alive.In the later part of the �70s, I decided to atone for my fund and forsook the good life for the Good Book. But after nine years of prudish perfection, I took a job as a deejay at an Austin-area radio station. I was met with temptation at every turn. I soon found out the only thing a Texas deejay finds more enjoyable than talking to thousands of people at a whack was standing naked in front of someone who was talking to thousands of whacking people, or whatever� I heard dozens of war stories about memorable moonings�who�s done what to whom and when. But it didn�t stop there. One day, in the middle of the half-hour Expanded news at 5, the program director stepped from behind the (a la) cart machine au natural, and without socks. OK, I�d been had, but it wasn�t enough for him. Sometimes daily he would sneak into the control room (after the office staff had gone home), hide behind the cart machine and surprise me. Like a big pink rooster with a mustache, he would strut and preen, grinning broadly under a large beaked nose. He was not at all scary. In fact, he reminded me of a large, naked Groucho Marx, but the cigar was in the wrong place. |
| Nekkd in East Texas! |
| Adrianne remembers |
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