Nudist Girl Scouts

Nudist Girl Scouts




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Nudist Girl Scouts
I Discovered I Was Bisexual At Girl Scout Camp
By heatherbarmore — Written on Apr 03, 2020
The first time I kissed a girl was at Girl Scout camp when I was 14 years old. Girl Scout camp, of all places! She was a short, red-haired girl named Bailey who I pecked on the lips in a moment of teenage experimentation.
I kissed her again in the parking lot in front of my rather prudish mother who stood by, ready to load me up into our minivan. In my periphery I could see her eyes widen and her face scrunch in disgust. “Let’s go,” she said curtly.
After kissing Bailey, I returned home and started my sophomore year of high school. I didn’t head through the doors of my small town school and proudly proclaim that I was contemplating my sexuality and possibly being a lesbian. A kiss was just a kiss, and a peck was my version of "we’ll see."
Although my parents were sexual beings by my estimations — I once found more condoms than any man could possibly need in a dish on my father’s dresser — they never spoke of the big "it" out loud. Since the Internet came of age, just as I did, instead of having "the talk" with my parents, I learned about sex via the World Wide Web. Thanks to Ask Jeeves (remember Ask Jeeves?), I learned about orgasms and the purpose of a clitoris.
From September to June, I admired (and attempted to approach) the boys in my grade and was quickly rebuffed. It seemed I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, popular enough for them. I simply wasn’t enough at all.
Come July, I officially switched to the other team, so to speak. Nothing serious, mind you, just casual flirtation and a willingness to be open and affectionate with women. 
But it was Girl Scout camp where my curiosity about women, bisexuality, and sexual orientation first piqued. It wasn’t simply the place I learned to tie a rope, build a fire, kayak and sail; it was where I learned to appreciate women as leaders.
I envied these women because they were able to be themselves and — as it seemed from my teenage vantage point — had been able to forge a path of acceptance in themselves and those around them. The women I met were creative, talented, and kind. They often wore their heart on their sleeves.
These weren't the girls I was forced to be around in my high school for nine months of the year — these were women. Real women. They weren’t mean or haughty, but adventurous and clever. These were the type of women I hoped to become.
Eventually, during my junior year of high school, I moved past personality traits and truly began to notice the female form of my fellow staffers, the way a woman’s body moved with hips and curves. At the time, I was a breast girl. An enthusiast, if you will, so I admired (clandestinely) the chests of those around me to compare and contrast to what I had to offer. 
I developed a lesbian crush on my friend Lindsay, but she was dating a fellow counselor. On one of our breaks, I brought Lindsay home with me before heading back to camp. My father was courteous, but later referred to her as "that dyke." It was then I realized that crushing on a woman and holding hands in the woods was as far as it could ever go.
Eleven years later, I stood in the bathroom of my apartment. My girlfriend at the time, Heidi, was taking a bath. I knew she had been dying for one, so I surprised her with a Lush bath bomb. I swirled the water around with my hand and asked how she liked it before receiving a kiss. Not a peck, not experimentation, but a full-on plant where she grabbed my face with her wet hands.
I got up from the edge of the tub and started to undress myself and prepare for bed. We had sex the night before — some of the best sex I've ever had — and she fell asleep wrapped around me so that I could feel her chest on my back.
Three years later, long after Heidi and I broke up, I was sitting on a friend’s rooftop with a group of girlfriends. While I hadn't inherited my parents’ reluctance to discuss sex, I'd been known to keep many intimate details to myself, namely the one where I openly say that I'd had sex with women and I'd probably do it again.
After a bottle of wine or two, it came up. Amid close friends, I nonchalantly mentioned an ex who happened to also have a vagina.
One friend simply said, “Oh, so you’re bisexual? How did I not know this?” and the conversation moved on. Another friend poked me in the arm, gave me a side-eye and said, “I told you no one cares.”
I'm bisexual. I'm attracted to people , full stop. For far too long, that was something I was reluctant to admit. Once upon a time, my parents sent me off to Girl Scout camp where I was imparted with a healthy dose of independence, and, more importantly, an ability to finally find women with whom I could form a bond. 
Perhaps it was finding that capacity within myself, in this world full of gray areas, that made it possible for me to eventually be able to connect to women based on friendship and acceptance. Over the years, I've found a natural lust for both women and men, and eventually a confidence to go after both sexes.
In a recent conversation with my once-prudish mother, I mentioned what camp did for me: how it turned me into a woman who loves people — all people — and I told her that she raised a woman who wanted to love (and be loved) by whomever.
I broached the topic carefully, waiting for disappointment. She smiled and said, “Good.” Nothing more, nothing less. Simple acceptance, which is really all I ever wanted.
Heather Barmore is a blogger, freelance writer and policy advocate. Visit her website or follow her on Twitter .
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DANIELLE wasn’t sure what she was getting herself into on a clothing-optional getaway. It turned out very differently to how she expected.
THE lump in my stomach grew as my boyfriend and I cruised down the highway into a land with few houses, filled with trees upon trees. The road turned to gravel.
“Five minutes away,” he said in an uneven tone. “If we hate it we’ll leave.”
“Oh god, what have we gotten ourselves into?” I replied.
We were heading to Two Creeks, a clothing optional campground in northern Minnesota.
We were neither nudists nor swingers, gays nor lesbians nor trans, the demographics the campground catered to. Despite my love of being naked when I please, you could say I was uneasy to say the least.
We were greeted by the owner at the front gate, ready but terrified for our tour of the immense 40-hectare property. It was divided into sections. The main areas were “Alaska”, the deserted area far from anyone on this slow weekend; the self-proclaimed “Homo Heights” section, with the name which says it all; and the “City”, where the residents tended to live.
We decided we would hide away in our tiny tent in “Alaska” just in case everything freaked us out and we just wanted to camp out in the beautiful trees.
The tour progressed and every person we passed met us with big smiles and invites to their pools, hot tubs, dinners. Whether naked or clothed, every person offered a bright smile, excited for newcomers, albeit the youngest ones there.
Having only snacks on us and an intrigue to see what the campground was like, we headed over to another area, so-called “Misfit Island”, for dinner. Many people had beautiful campers that they built decks onto, along with swimming pools, hot tubs, and amazing hangout areas. There was even a hall for dances for the busier weekends, whether an organised event was planned or the residents decided to open it up themselves.
Misfit Island welcomed us in the moment we stepped up, fully clothed among ten or fifteen naked people. They smiled and accepted our gift of chips and vodka as they passed us countless shots of Fireball and led us to the buffet of food donated by different residents.
No money was to be spent at Two Creeks, but instead, there was a beautiful system of exchange. Need something done around your trailer? Grab someone a case of beer. Hungry with no grub? Toss on over a bag of chips. Nothing at all to exchange? Don’t worry about it, you’ll be taken care of anyway.
As a storm started setting in, we decided to splurge and move out of the tent and into an old school bus that looked like it would be less than cozy from the black tattered outside. We held our breath.
Instead of a ratty old bus, we stepped inside to find a perfectly renovated and beautiful place, complete with bathroom, bed, drinking water, everything. Plus, we were next to Misfit Island and our first new friend.
After briefly settling in I stripped off my top, feeling comfortable among our new friends. Oh sure, dirty jokes roamed free, as we laughed and drank the night away. Though my boyfriend had no desire to go naked, no one pressured him.
The only rule at Two Creeks is no means no, a rule that is strictly accepted and followed. Hey, the swingers may sometimes be on the prowl, but everyone wants to feel comfortable in their own skin. Accept others, and you will be accepted.
Despite being the youngest visitors that weekend, we had a blast. Though they didn’t show it, I’m sure some residents were wary; who were these twenty-something-year-olds? Would we fit in? Or would we hide away, unsure of this lifestyle so many had been living for years?
By the end of the first night we were in love; the smiles, the jokes, and the true human connection were unparalleled. We had found the most free, most open place in the United States.
Naked, clothed, swinger or in a monogamous relationship, gay or straight, young or old, no boundaries existed here.
Sure, there was the sex aspect, but it didn’t overpower the rest. Above anything, this was a place to be yourself, something modern society often tries to suffocate.
After our two days were up, a feeling in the pit of my stomach arose, completely unlike the feeling I had prior to our arrival: the thought of leaving this land broke my heart. My boyfriend looked at me. “Should we stay another night?”
I smiled from cheek to cheek as I gleefully accepted.
While weekends have far more people partying the nights away (or quietly hanging out around a fire), the weekdays tend to be more calm with fewer visitors, though a few stick around.
The crowd thinned out as the weekend ended, and we continued to get to know the people there, growing closer and closer to them as our time at Two Creeks drew to a close.
Still, something nagged at us. How could we find heaven, a place of utter acceptance and connection, only to leave?
And so we rented the stationary bus for the year, able to return at any moment, and official residents of Two Creeks. Our new friends were ecstatic to have us, for this was a land where neither age nor sexual orientation nor lifestyle choice mattered; this was a place for all to call home.
Danielle is a self-described “crazy nomad” who’s been on the road for more than four years straight, finding new homes as she hitchhikes along. She previously wrote about her stay at a nude hotel in Mexico . You can check out her blog, Like Riding a Bicycle , follow her adventures on Ultimate Country Guides , or follow her on Facebook , Instagram , and Twitter .
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