By Will Shonbrun

Like all of you I was born totally immodest. For a few years there I didn’t care who saw, or for that matter handled, my so-called private parts. Naked came we and propriety be damned.

Then we learned that was b-a-d; we were not to go flouncing our nakedness about. We were to stay covered up, at least the naughty bits, and stay that way until cultural mores told us otherwise. Beaches and bikinis were summer time-outs, and same-sex spas and showers were okay places to strut our stuff, but no public pubic parading, especially in mixed company was to be brooked.

That is until airport security geniuses, pervert free of course, changed the rules rolled out by our pilgrim forebears some 400-years ago.

Again, like 99.9 percent of you, I learned modesty and shame in more or less equal doses at an early age. The thought of being seen naked by the opposite sex, before the age when that’s all one fantasizes about, was absolutely horrific. What could be more embarrassing during adolescence than being caught with one’s pants down? Sooner death, or banishment to New Jersey.

Then came the late 1960s ushering in sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll and suddenly all bets were off. All boats (and other things) rose as women got liberated and society loosened up along with freeing women’s upper halves. Most guys didn’t mind this one bit, and in recent decades decided it was attractive, even fashionable, to display a good deal of butt cleavage. This is an age thing, guys, and doesn’t sit well, so to speak, past one’s teen years. Never mind that it’s delusional to think any sex, opposite or same, is turned on by 5 inches of boxer shorts riding 3 inches below the back crevice. Call me old fashioned.

Then at around age forty I happened on Northern California and was introduced to my first clothing optional public resort. Check your inhibitions at the door, immerse yourself in very hot water and melt the chains of chastity while pretending not to be looking at everyone else’s junk.

Twenty-plus years later and many excursions into the lotus land of nudity have rendered me free of modesty or the very notion that any of my aging body parts are private and sacrosanct.

I choose to hardly ever get on a plane not because I give a rap who sees or touches my booty, but because everything about the adventure of air travel is unpleasant to the max. I’ll hold off until we have a good fast rail system or they invent those flying backpacks they predicted 50 years ago.

Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s a guy in a flying backpack, and … he’s … nude! Now that’s letting it all hang out.