No Shirt, No Shoes, No Pants

I was visiting Winter Park, Colorado, on a ski trip. It was late December, right after Christmas, and very cold, with lots of snow in the forecast. I was traveling alone and had a room at the Alpenglo Lodge on US 40, which doesn't have a swimming pool but does boast a hot tub.

After my first day of skiing, I decided to visit the hot tub, which was in a separate building only a few yards away from the hotel. Accordingly, I put on my baggy swim trunks, an Oxford shirt, and my sneakers, grabbed a couple towels from my bathroom, walked out of my room, and headed down the long second-floor corridor and then down the flight of stairs to the first floor and the back exit.

The sun sets early in December, so it was already dark as I stepped out the back door and walked the thirty or so steps over the snowy sidewalk to the spa building.

Like most buildings in ski towns, it was intended to look like a rustic cabin, with lots of knotty pine, and inside was nothing more than a long bench for laying out towels and clothes, and the jacuzzi itself, which was large and could accommodate about twelve people. Tonight it was pretty full, with lots of middle-aged skiers sipping drinks and soaking their sore muscles. I stepped down into the hot water and sat quietly listening to several different conversations in English, Japanese, and something that may or may not have been Russian. There were mostly men, and the few women seemed to be with their spouses or boyfriends, and, not feeling particularly sociable, I laid my head back and closed my eyes. A drop of cold water splashed onto my forehead and, looking up, I saw that the high wood ceiling was covered with condensation, which fell in continual drips onto the hot tub users. It was a shock at first, but it felt good once you knew to expect it.

At one point a man who sounded to be Australian stood up and got out of the tub, revealing his very tiny Speedo-type bikini swimsuit. Nobody seemed particularly bothered by this, and I wondered about the fact that the United States is one of the few nations where the men are more or less condemned to wear modest swimwear.

It was not always thus. If you look at beach and swimming pool photos from the 1950s, for example, you'll see a lot of men wearing skintight briefs. Yet despite the subsequent sexual revolution and a brief period in the 1970s, somehow American men are once again expected to wear frumpy board shorts to be considered normal. The one exception to this is if you are a competitive or recreational lap swimmer, or maybe on a water polo team. Strange.

This set me to thinking. I've learned in recent years that I'm a bit of an exhibitionist - not a nudist, necessarily, but I've always had a fantasy about being seen in public in my underwear. I'm not even sure there's a name for this. It was a prominent fetish in my youth, and later it was superceded by others, but in recent years, this odd peccadillo of mine has resurfaced.

As a typical middle-aged American, I don't own a Speedo, but I do have several pairs of bikini underpants, and I had brought along at least one pair in my suitcase. I wear boxers normally because they're more comfortable, but when I'm feeling a bit daring or expecting some action, I will occasionally don briefs or boxer briefs, and if I'm really up to no good, I'll put on bikini briefs. 



If I were to go back to my room and change into my bikini briefs, I could just possibly fulfill my fantasy of being seen in public in my underwear in a socially acceptable way. If I had the nerve.

I pondered this and the more I thought about it, the more the idea consumed me. I've heard enough American women complain about Speedos to know that most of them regard seeing a man in a skimpy swimsuit as borderline indecent and something to be avoided. But I live in southern California and will modestly profess to having a slim, tan body and a hairless chest. I've done some modeling and been told that I could do more if I wanted to. I figured I might be one of the few men in Winter Park, Colorado who could reasonably get away with wearing a Speedo-esque garment. And somehow the idea of being seen in a 'swimsuit' that women might disapprove of only made the idea hotter to me. The allure of the forbidden, I suppose. 



With that, I got up out of the whirlpool bath, dried myself off, put my shirt and shoes on, and went outside.

The walk to the hotel was brief, and I had heated up enough that the frigid weather didn't bother me at all. I decided I probably didn't need to wear as much the next time I visited the hot tub. I went up the stairs, walked back down the corridor, went into my room, stepped out of my swim trunks, hung them up in the bathroom, and showered. Then I dried myself off, went to my suitcase, found my tiniest pair of bikini underpants, and slipped them on. They were light blue with white piping, very brief, a single unlined layer of 80% nylon and 20% Spandex, and very revealing. But they could conceivably be argued to resemble a very skimpy European swimsuit.

A bit cold now, I laid down on the bed. Within seconds I was asleep. 



When I awoke I looked at the bedside clock. It was 11:17 PM. I was dry, well-rested, and warm now, though my calves and lower back were sore from skiing. I got out of bed and walked stiffly over to the bathroom mirror. Looking back at me was a pretty good-looking fellow in a very brief pair of underpants, or a slightly obscene Speedo, if one were to push things a bit. I liked what I saw, but the idea of going out in public like this, while stimulating, was also still a bit intimidating. I was going to need a bracer of some sort.

I went to the little fridge and looked inside. There were a couple of beers I had bought at the market up the road, so I opened one now and drank it down in five or six long draughts. Cold beer may not be what one usually craves on a cold winter night in Colorado, but the alcohol, combined with the altitude, was doing its job (or perhaps it was a placebo effect?), and I was feeling less self-conscious. That Australian guy had seemed to have no problem nonchalantly swaggering into the hot tub, so why shouldn't I be able to do the same? I was certainly in better shape than he was. I was going to do it, by God.

But I wasn't going to allow myself to chicken out at the last minute. No, I would bring no clothes, I decided, and I wouldn't even bring a towel with which to cover up. I would go out wearing only my underpants. 



Fueled by liquid courage and feeling my very own Rocky Mountain high that was a combination of sexual arousal and inebriation (I'm a lightweight), I walked over to my room door, opened it, looked both ways down the hall and, seeing no one, stepped out.

The heavy door closed behind me with the finality of a jail cell door slamming shut. I was committed now. There was no going back. I turned to my left and marched determinedly down the carpeted corridor toward the stairs. I had nothing in my hands and no pockets to hold anything.

Not even a room key, I realized suddenly.

I paused and turned around. I thought of running down to the lobby to get a replacement key, but, feeling self-conscious about my undressed state, I hesitated. What if the front desk clerk were a woman? Horrors!

Some exhibitionist, I thought, smiling grimly at what I knew most world citizens would consider absurd American prudery. Well, I decided, there were probably extra towels in the hot tub hut. I could grab one of those when I was done soaking and, if I was still feeling shy, wear it into the lobby and ask for another key. Fair enough.

Turning back toward the stairs, I walked past door after door, expecting at any moment to see one of them open. None did, however, and reaching the end of the hall, I went down the stairway and paused momentarily at the back door, peered out through the glass. It was snowing heavily now. Gritting my teeth, I opened the door and stepped out into the seven-degree Colorado mountain air.

The hydraulic door closed behind me with a thud as I forced myself to walk at a sedate pace, despite the wind and the immediate full-body chill that enveloped me. It was only a ten-second walk to the spa. I grabbed the door handle and pulled, but it didn't budge. The lights inside were turned off. The door was locked. It was at this point that I realized that I had forgotten to ask the front desk about the spa hours. Why, I wondered, should there be hours for a hot tub in a separate building? There was little chance of disturbing sleeping guests.

Oh, well, I thought. At least I tried. I turned and ran back the way I had come, only to find that that door too was now locked. They must lock it after hours, I thought.

Crap! I'm outside in my underpants and I have no room key! I've read about situations like this. I've seen them in movies and TV shows. It usually happens to a beautiful woman, but here I have actually gone and put myself in this position. I now have to go to the front desk dressed like this and ask for a new key. The thought of this terrified me as much as it aroused me, but the practical fact that I was freezing kept my erotic impulses to a minimum.

I looked around for something to cover up with, but there was nothing. Just snow, trees, and parked vehicles. My bare feet were very cold. With no other options, I sprinted the length of the building toward the lobby. 


I burst into the lobby and found that it contained about ten guests in various states of bundled-upness, with none even close to being as naked as I was. A few looked up in surprise at the sight of a middle-aged man running into a hotel lobby wearing, well, maybe a skimpy swimsuit, but it looked an awful lot like underpants. A television blared a college football game in the background. There was a party of Asians sitting at a table looking at a map, who stared at me openly; there were several men and women standing around the drinks machines getting cocoa or hot water for tea, who glanced at me curiously but were polite enough to look away again; there was the woman behind the front desk, who was focused on a couple checking in; and then there was me, wearing only the briefest of briefs.

Channeling the confidence of my Australian inspiration, and with as much dignity as I could muster, I walked over to the front desk and stood patiently behind the couple checking in. They were wearing boots, jeans, sweaters, ski jackets, stocking caps, gloves... and I was wearing a pair of tiny underpants.

I found myself unsure what to do with my hands. Should I put them behind my back? Let them hang naturally at my side? Put a hand on my hip or stand contrapposto like the statue of David? I looked down and my bulge looked enormous. It was apparent to anyone who cared to look that I was circumcised. The couple in front of me, who thankfully managed to ignore me entirely, were taking forever, and my embarrassment was increasing by the second. I could feel myself beginning to get a nervous erection.

Okay, that solved what to do with my hands. Grabbing a nearby brochure from a local Episcopal church, I held it in front of me like a codpiece. My peripheral vision was working overtime, and I could see several of the guests in the room glance at me furtively and, I imagined, perhaps a bit lasciviously?

No, more like disapprovingly, I thought. I was probably the only one who thought this was sexy. That's the thing about exhibitionism. If you're a female exhibitionist, you have an eager and virtually limitless audience, whereas if you're male, the odds are that the only one who finds the situation arousing is you. Well, at least it was warmer in the lobby than it was outside.

So there I was, trapped in a hotel lobby, surrounded by strangers, wearing only my skimpy bikini underpants. No keys to get into my room or my car, no ID, no money, no shirt, no shoes, no pants... just me and my underwear.

Finally the couple got their keys and it was my turn. Setting the brochure onto the counter for some unknown reason, I said, "Hello." 



I will say this for the people in Winter Park; they are exceptionally nice. The attractive sixty-something woman behind the counter, whose name tag read 'Sue,' said cheerfully, "Yes, sir! You look cold!"



"May I have a towel?"

She turned and reached out to where the stack of towels normally sat, but there were none. She turned back apologetically. "I'm so sorry. I guess the towels are all in the wash at the moment. If you give me a few minutes, I can go down to the laundry room and see if I can find one that's dry enough for you."

"No, that's okay," I said, and feeling the need to explain my semi-naked state, added, "I went down to use the hot tub, but it was closed."



"Yes, I'm so sorry, sir. Our hot tub closes at ten."

"I forgot to bring a towel," I said, rather lamely.

"Yes, I see that," she said demurely. The entire room was now either looking at me or listening discreetly while pointedly trying to NOT look at me.

Well, you wanted this, I thought. You and your damned exhibitionist tendencies and your lack of impulse control. This is what you get.

As nonchalantly as possible, I said, "I, uh, also left my key in the room. Is it possible to get another one?"

"Certainly," she said, eyeing me up and down, her gaze lingering momentarily on the prominent bulge in front of my underpants. Her voice now had jut a hint of suspicion. "What's your room number?"

"Two-oh-five," I said. 

I looked over at the others in the room. A blonde woman dressed almost entirely in black smiled at me in a friendly, sympathetic way. Her CEO-looking husband appeared to be unamused.

Sue looked down at her computer screen and typed in a few keystrokes. "And the name?"

Just as I was reciting my last name, there was an audible pop from outside, and the lobby suddenly went black. It was very quiet for a moment as the sounds of the heater, the television, and the various drinks machines in the room all suddenly came to a stop. A few of the guests in the lobby murmured in surprise. Looking out the windows, the lights of the businesses up and down the strip had all gone dark.

"Oh, the power's out," announced Sue, stating the obvious. "Snow must have taken down a line somewhere." 



A couple of emergency lights came on, bathing the lobby in harsh overhead light, but the television and drinks machines remained silent. 



"Oh, good," she said, "the backup generator's working." She looked down at her dark computer screen and up at me again. "I'm so sorry, sir, but I can't make you another key until the full power comes back on."

"Of course," I said, resignedly.

"And then the computer will have to reboot, so it'll take a bit. If you wouldn't mind waiting, I'll go try to find something for you to cover up with." Addressing the room, she asked, "Would one of you folks be willing to lend this poor gentleman something to put on?" 



A woman took off her stocking cap and held it out by the pompon, letting it dangle in front of her tantalizingly, her eyebrow arched coyly.

And with that, the entire lobby erupted into laughter. Okay, I thought. Maybe I'm not the only one enjoying this.

Sue disappeared into the back room with a flashlight, and one kind gentleman did finally offer me his ski jacket, which I gratefully accepted. At no point did anyone offer me their pants.

I slipped the jacket on but I didn't zip it up. To tell the truth, I wasn't that cold. The lobby was still pretty warm. And I wasn't that distraught. Everyone had already seen me, so what did it matter at this point? Yes, a part of me wanted to cover up, but at the same time, another part of me (the ego? the id? I wish I'd paid more attention in psychology class) wanted to be seen. It was very strange. I wondered whether I had subconsciously intentionally forgotten my room key so I could artificially create this situation.

Not knowing what else to do, I walked over to the hot chocolate machine and tried to figure out how to work it. A pretty brunette helped me, and I thanked her.

"No problem," she said, her eyes glancing down at my crotch.

Cup of cocoa in hand, I wandered over to a couch and sat down and waited.

I both feared and hoped that the power would take a while to come back on.