Naked Fear

Howard kept his eyes downcast, watching as the sun-warmed sand crunched under his timid steps, tumbling over his toes and dusting his bare feet in a layer of soft, gentle white. It wasn’t that the sand was particularly interesting. It was the view that awaited him—should he lift his eyes—that had his vision glued to the ground. He clutched his complimentary robe tighter about himself and shuffled along, step by nervous step, wondering if he could really do this, knowing he couldn’t.

     “Come on now, Howard,” Martin whispered. “It’s going to be okay. Trust me.”

     “Trust you?” Howard asked Martin’s liver-spotted feet, because he was unable to bear raising his head enough to talk to Martin’s liver-spotted face. Or the other liver-spotted bits of the old man. “I trusted you for five years, and look where it’s gotten me.” 

     “I’m only trying to help you.”

     “I’m starting to doubt that.”

     “I’m your friend.”

     “You’re a crazy man.”

     “Now, now. That’s my line.” Martin was smiling.

     Howard didn’t have to look to see it. He could feel it in the man’s words.

     Martin cleared his throat before he added, “And besides, hands-on therapy is good for the psyche.”

     “Hands on!” Howard’s heart raced at the thought of someone actually touching him. It was bad enough being seen like this. “You said it was all look and no touch!”

     “Calm down. You know what I mean.”

     Howard supposed he did. But still … “None of that changes the fact that you’re a crazy man.”

     “That’s as it may be; I’m also your therapist. Now lift your head and look around.”

     “No.”

     “Come on. At least take off that robe. You look silly with it on.”

     “I can’t.” Howard’s lip quivered. And where there was lip quivering, tears were bound to follow. Which was par for the course, he supposed. Only he would end up in tears on a gorgeous beach in the middle of summer on such a beautiful day.

     And all because he was afraid to be nude.

     No. It was more complicated than that.

     Howard Straw wasn’t just afraid of his own nudity, he was terrified of it. His was a commonly misunderstood condition, often misclassified as someone ashamed of his naked self, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Physically, he knew he was normal for his age, with nothing to be ashamed of: normal weight, height, build and, from what he had been told, he was blessed in certain anatomical areas. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to expose this normality to others, or himself. Even alone, in the shower, in the bed, he always wore something, anything, to keep from being totally naked. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with others being naked, but just the mere thought of someone seeing him in the buff sent him into a cold, sweaty panic.

     “Howard,” Martin begged.

     “I can’t do it,” he said.

     “Of course you can. Here. I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll go first.”

     Howard’s eyes widened to saucer proportions when he heard the telltale slither of the old man’s dressing gown slip open. He watched in horror as Martin’s robe—the only thing that kept the doctor’s wrinkled rear from facing the rest of the world—slid down his calves and pooled at his bare feet like the shed skin of some terrycloth coated animal.