The last time I went to the nude beach, I got there around 5:30pm — just as the UV dropped. The light was mellow and golden, the perfect time to arrive. I hit the sand and, without hesitation, stripped off my clothes and shoved them in my bag. No better feeling. The release of fabric, the brush of breeze against bare skin, the faint thrill of public nudity that doesn’t feel performative — just freeing.

It was about 34 degrees that day. Warm enough that plenty of people were still hanging around. Couples nestled under umbrellas, little clusters in the shallows, solo men wandering up and down with vague purpose. There’s a particular kind of rhythm at a nude beach — people stroll with a sense of comfort, of familiarity, but you can feel the low hum of observation beneath it. The gentle dance of being seen and seeing.

I followed my usual routine. Straight to the water, toes sinking into the wet sand, the tide teasing at my ankles. Then I started walking, slowly, letting my gaze drift across bodies and water and stone. Down past the rocks, where the beach curves and narrows — that’s where any action usually happens, if it’s going to. I’m always ambivalent about that. I don’t go expecting anything. Most of the time, I just want to be naked, to soak in the sun, to feel my body untethered.

I set up my towel and walked back into the water. The temperature shift from warm to cool and back again does something to me every time. It’s not even about arousal — just sensation. A kind of soft ache, like static or fuzz, warming my cock and balls in a way that makes me feel proud of what I’m showing, even if I’m not hard. Confident, in a quiet way.

There were a couple of solo guys wading nearby. Close enough to acknowledge, far enough to avoid conversation. I never push. If someone wants to talk, they’ll talk. Otherwise, I let the space be what it is.

I returned to my towel, the air licking droplets from my skin. I lay on my back and opened my book. The sun was still warm enough to be comforting, but no longer aggressive. My skin drank it in without worry. No sunscreen, no fear. Just heat on bare skin, the wind occasionally lifting the corner of my towel. There’s something deeply right about reading naked in the open, not for anyone else, just for yourself.

People kept wandering by — the usual parade. A few I’d seen on previous visits. Some doing the same lazy loop up and down the beach. Solo men, mostly. Sometimes I wonder what brings each of them here. Are they hoping to see something? Find someone? Or are they just, like me, content in their skin?

At one point, I stood and stretched — half out of boredom, half out of curiosity. A man nearby was packing up his things, sliding his towel into a canvas bag. He looked up at me, paused, and said, “You’re beautiful.”

I wasn’t prepared for it. Not those exact words. Not spoken so directly. I laughed awkwardly, unsure what to say — thank you? you too? It wasn’t a line. Just a statement. Honest. Simple. A little surreal. We chatted. He was clearly more practiced in this space — confident, gay, playful. He told me about the regular crowd, the rhythms of the beach, how often he played and how he stayed safe. I asked questions — not to pry, but out of genuine curiosity. I told him what I was open to, what I avoided, how I’m cautious and careful. It was a good conversation. No pressure, just shared notes on desire and boundaries. Then he left, and I stayed — alone again, but not lonely.

Sometime after the first guy left, I checked my phone and saw a message from someone in the chat — a casual, half-hearted “who’s still around?”. I replied, said I was there, offered that they could come pull up a towel if they wanted.

Eventually, he arrived. Slightly older, bigger build — rounder in the middle but smooth-skinned and confident. Friendly face. He waved as he approached, a quiet kind of energy to him. We didn’t waste time — just settled into easy chat. No pretence, no pressure. Mostly beach talk at first. Work. Where we were from. What brought us out today.

He mentioned his partner pretty early on — a woman who knew he played with men on the side. Not only that, but she apparently enjoyed it, especially watching him get blown. That’s not something I could help him with — not that night, anyway — but I appreciated the openness. There’s something really freeing about talking about sex in a space that doesn’t demand it. We swapped stories. Spoke about boundaries. Shared thoughts on our bodies, tattoos. The things we liked about ourselves, the things we didn’t. Honest, curious, unguarded.

Normally, by this time of day, the slow migration would have begun — solo men gathering towels, glancing around, making their way down past the rocks where things sometimes happened. There’s a tacit choreography to it. Nobody talks about it out loud, but everyone knows. A rising tide of quiet intent. But this time, there was a snag in the rhythm — a pregnancy photoshoot unfolding right in the middle of the action zone.

I’d seen the photographer before — a woman, always fully clothed, always calm and in control. She seemed to love the light here, the rawness of it. Her subject was stunning — glowing and round-bellied, starting out in a flowing dress and then slowly revealing more skin as the shoot went on. The contrast was gorgeous, honestly. Her body full of life, soft curves and maternal gravity, against a backdrop that often held very different kinds of tension.

Still, it meant the usual suspects had to hold off — there was a visible hesitance in the way men lingered at the edge of the rocks, waiting. Not exactly leering, but definitely paused in limbo. Nobody wanted to be the guy jerking off thirty metres from a maternity shoot. At least, I hoped not.

My new friend and I decided to take a walk. It felt oddly liberating, doing the same long naked stroll that the solo guys do — except now I wasn’t alone, and somehow that shifted everything. It didn’t feel like prowling. It just felt like walking. Like being part of something human, not transactional.

We wandered up and back a few times, commenting quietly on the crowd, on bodies, on posture. I’m always fascinated by people’s shapes, in both sexual and non-sexual ways. The slope of a shoulder. The way someone holds their gut or adjusts their towel. The tension in a thigh when someone bends to pick something up. I find myself imagining what it feels like to be in that body — not just to touch it, but to inhabit it. How it must feel to stand there, naked in public, aware of your shape, your marks, your hang-ups. And how all of that might shift depending on who’s watching.

There are very few body types I feel no attraction to at all. Even when I’m not turned on, I’m curious. There’s something sacred about people letting themselves be seen like this — not just by lovers or partners, but by strangers. I love the mix of pride and vulnerability in it.

Eventually, we made our way back to our towels. The sun had dipped behind the cliffs, and it was practically dark. The photoshoot was still going, the photographer crouched low to the sand, her lens catching the last blush of light on the pregnant subject’s skin.

There was a small cluster of naked men gathered at a respectful distance, waiting. Not quite awkward, but definitely a little stuck. A bottleneck of bodies, all on pause. The tide had shifted, but no one could quite make the next move.

Eventually, the photoshoot wraps up. The pregnant woman slips back into her robe, and the photographer packs away her gear. They wander off together, chatting quietly, oblivious or maybe wilfully unaware of the ripple they’ve held back all this time.

And just like that, the energy shifts.

It’s almost comical the way it happens — this slow, polite migration of naked men, all beginning to drift in the same direction, pretending they’re just going for a sunset stroll. No one approaches each other directly at first, but there’s a quiet urgency in the way the group moves — a clear and shared intention hanging thick in the air. We’re all here for the same reason, even if no one says a word.

My friend and I follow, not rushing, but certainly not dawdling either. The temperature’s dropped slightly, but the energy is warmer now — heavier. The unspoken rules of the beach have started to bend. The lid is off.

By the time we make it down to the far end, it’s on. Most of the guys are hard, or halfway there, casually touching themselves as they linger near one another. It’s not a frenzy, not yet — more like a gathering storm of attention and arousal. Everyone performing a little, watching a little. Feeling each other out.

I let myself take up space.

Standing somewhere in the middle, I stroke myself slowly, not too eager, just enough to grow into my full size. I like the way I look like this — exposed, but proud. Compared to most of the others, I feel big. And I like that. My friend, surprisingly, is quite the grower. He looked small earlier, but now he’s filling out, impressive in a different way — heavy and full, low-hanging.

People start to drift a little closer, like orbiting planets shifting toward gravity. Not touching yet. Just watching. A few of them are clearly waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him — a smaller Asian man I’d clocked earlier in the afternoon. He’d passed us a few times while we were walking, always a beat slower when he moved past me, his eyes sneaking down, not lingering long enough to be obvious, but definitely clocking me.

Now, here in this dimming light, he’s closer. His gaze isn’t subtle anymore. He’s staring directly at my cock, transfixed. And fuck, it does something to me. That feeling — to be wanted like that, clearly, hungrily, without performance or pretence. My cock twitches at the attention, swelling harder in response. I let him watch. I meet his eyes once — not long, just enough to let him know I’ve noticed, that I know. And then I go back to stroking.

My hand slow and deliberate, the air cool on my thighs, the sand shifting under my feet. I’m not even thinking about where this might go. I’m just enjoying the heat of it, the slow burn of being seen.

He makes the first move.

It’s so subtle, so respectful, but there’s no mistaking the intent. He steps just slightly into my space and runs a hand up the middle of my back. His touch is soft, almost reverent — not grabbing, not groping, just touching. And it sends a quiet shiver down my spine. There’s something deeply sexy about that — someone so clearly full of desire, and yet choosing something as gentle and grounding as skin-on-skin contact. His hand glides lower, warm and careful, moving down over the small of my back and resting on my bum with a kind of quiet awe. I can feel his breath close now. His small, earnest cock is fully hard, pointing up towards me with an intensity that belies its size. His touch seems to give permission to the rest of the circle.

As if on cue, another man steps forward. His approach is different — no hesitation. His hand closes firmly around my cock, and I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. It’s a good grip, confident. His own cock is thick and proud, almost a mirror of mine, and I reach for it instinctively, wrapping my hand around its length. We find a shared rhythm quickly — slow at first, just feeling each other out, then stronger. Deliberate.

The first guy doesn’t leave — he stays close, off to the side, his hand never leaving my skin. Still gliding up and down, now along my waist, over my bum again, fingertips brushing the inside of my thigh. At times, he presses in, gently, affectionately — I feel his leg hook lightly around mine, and his cock press into my hip. He moans, quietly, more breath than sound. He’s still stroking himself, but the contact seems to be as much for his reassurance as mine. Like he wants to feel that I’m real. That this is happening.

Then I feel my friend — the one I’d walked the beach with — step back into the scene. He’s in front of me now, eyes lit with curiosity and hunger. His hands go straight to my chest, stroking and squeezing, mapping out my body with a kind of casual affection. One hand cups my balls, the other slips around to squeeze my bum — both firm and gentle. He’s touching himself too, lazily, like he knows there’s no rush.

For a moment, I float out of myself. I pause and try to imagine what this scene must look like to anyone watching — four men, different shapes, different kinds of hard, hands on each other’s skin, bodies overlapping, shifting and sharing. I think: Anyone who’s not part of this would just be jealous.

The man with the firm grip is still there, still focused. His hand slides smoothly up and down my shaft, taking his time, but moving with growing confidence. He’s tuned in, responding to the little sighs I make, the way I press into him, the slight arch of my back. I don’t have to tell him I’m loving it. It’s obvious. I am lost in it — in the contrast of bodies, the blur of skin and breath and quiet hunger. And still, the first guy’s hand doesn’t leave me.

With one man’s steady hand stroking my cock, another’s fingers lightly playing across my chest, my walking friend still gently squeezing and palming my bum, and the quiet, reverent presence of the Asian man pressed into my side — it’s all a lot. Add to that the sensation of cool air rolling in off the water and ghosting over every inch of my naked body, and it tips into something close to sensory overload.

I hold both my friend’s and the Asian man’s cocks in my hands — not moving, just holding, grounding myself in the moment through the feel of warm skin and steady pulse. And in that space, the rhythm of that firm hand on my cock continues — slow, deliberate, focused — as if he knows exactly how to keep me on the edge until it’s time to let go.

And then I do.

My body tightens, my back arches just slightly, and I groan — not polite or muted, but loud and real. I can feel hands on my body in response, like they’re coaxing the orgasm out of me, stroking my skin and squeezing me with this quiet kind of reverence. The firm grip doesn’t waver as I come hard — a sharp, hot burst that lands messily in the sand.

Somewhere beside me, someone lets out an appreciative mmmmm, and it makes me smile.

There’s something strange and honest about the moment. The pleasure has peaked, and there’s not much left to do. No script to follow. Just this gentle unravelling, the quiet shift in atmosphere. But I like that part. I like that I can step away without guilt, without awkwardness — leave the scene exactly as I entered it: on my terms.

I pat my friend’s back, grinning, and murmur, “Alright — next man up.” He chuckles, and I don’t even look back to see who steps into the newly vacant space.

I stroll off slowly, through the shallows, the water cool against my ankles and calves. The sky is dimming, stars faint above, and the moonlight catches the edges of the waves and — I imagine — the curve of my back, the wet trail down my legs, the soft swing of my now-limp but very satisfied cock, still flushed and happy in the warm air.

I take the long path back toward the carpark, breathing it all in — the salty air, the low hum of night, the buzz still singing quietly in my skin.

There is no better feeling.