Yesterday we posted the story of how our most recent park visit, downtown in the vicinity of the Statue of Liberty (for maximum irony), briefly got interrupted by eight police officers hopeful they might persuade us not to do what we have every right to do (or maybe just eager for a good look). Now you can judge for yourself whether what they saw constituted an affront to decency and civility.

Happily the police decided it did not, or at least had to concede that they had no legal right to intrude. So off they slunk and we continued having the very relaxing, very pleasant afternoon we’d been having before they showed up.

Books read ranged from Sense and Sensibility to SoHo Sins, from Stephen King’s classic It to Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84 to Megan Abbott and Alison Gaylin’s brand new comic book Normandy Gold. 

Oh, and the Sunday Times crossword puzzle!

Much fresh produce was consumed, and the grocery store stickers cheekily repurposed for social commentary.

Handstands were performed.

Also piggyback rides.

Naps were taken.

And police officers were educated.

All in all, a very good day.

And who knows? Maybe on her day off, one of the female officers in the group that accosted us might even try it for herself.

We extended the invitation.

Everyone knows (or should know by now) that it’s legal for women in New York to go topless anywhere a man can. Out on the beach, in the park, wherever. Sadly, though, outside of art exhibitions and theatrical performances, it’s not legal for either women or men to be fully nude in a public place. So where are you supposed to go when the heat approaches triple digits and you just need to get those last shreds of clothing off?

Native New Yorkers will tell you: the roof of your apartment building. But that only works as long as you don’t have overly nosy or censorious neighbors. Happily there’s an alternative, if you’re willing to rent a hotel room: the rooftop sundeck of our favorite boutique hotel in Chelsea, which is clothing optional 24/7, 365 days a year.

True, you’d only want to take your clothing off in New York maybe 10/7 and 120 days a year; but during those hours, on those days, this rooftop is a blessing. Private and serene, quiet and well appointed, you can bask in the sun or lounge under an umbrella…

…read a book or enjoy the scenery…

…have a drink or a smoke…

…or find novel uses for heart-shaped lemon cookies.

Other hotel guests turn up occasionally, but everyone’s tolerant and no one raises a fuss over a bared vulva or exposed penis. And mere bare breasts…? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s nothing at all.

We’ve been coming here for years by now — at least six — and it’s become sort of a second home for us, a secret lair: our Batcave, if you will.

And we’re glad to share our Batcave with you — photographically, as you see here, or in person if you’re a body-positive woman in the New York area (or visiting New York, that’s fine too!). Just drop us a note at toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com and let us know you’re interested, or curious, or whatever.

If you’ve ever hesitated about taking your clothes off outdoors, this is the perfect way for you to dip a toe in the water. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being naked in the sun — and in our little private hideaway, you can do it without any worries at all.

Every Monday night during the summer, HBO shows a free classic movie outdoors on the big screen in Bryant Park. We decided to stop by last week, when they were showing On the Town, the Frank Sinatra/Gene Kelly/Leonard Bernstein musical from 1949. Okay, the movie’s a bit sexist. (What movie from 1949 isn’t?) But that music! And Gene Kelly! Plus it was one of our members’ birthday, or close enough to warrant a celebration.

So we picked up pastries and strawberries and some fizzy peach beverage in a fancy bottle and joined the sea of humanity waiting for the movie to begin.

We were the only ones topless in the crowd — but no one seemed to mind much that we were there, except for one angry lady who picked her way across the lawn from some distance away to tell us that “nudity should only be for the bedroom.” Fortunately, not only were we more than happy to ignore her but the very nice woman in front of us leaped to our defense, pointing out that we weren’t the ones sexualizing our bodies, she was, and that her remarks were more problematic than anything we were doing. It felt like a scene in a movie, to be honest. Like that bit in Spider-Man, maybe, where all the ordinary people stand up to help the embattled hero. Not that anyone else stood up to defend us — but certainly no one stood up to take the other woman’s side. And one dissenting voice in a crowd of well over a thousand people? Not bad. Not bad at all.

We’re thinking we might go again some other Monday night before the summer ends — would you like to join us? If you’re a body-positive woman in the New York area, send a note to toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com. We’ll save a seat for you on the lawn.

To celebrate the 4th of July, we took a trip to Madison Square Park, named after one of the architects of American liberty, President James Madison. Give him partial credit for the Constitution and even more so the Bill of Rights — though the man also owned slaves, so there you go. Feet of clay. In any event, there we were, on the very spot where, in 1876, the right arm and torch of the Statue of Liberty stood on display as money was raised to fund the rest of the statue’s construction. An early Kickstarter project, if you will. And it got us thinking about liberty and independence.

It’s easy to define “liberty” as freedom and leave it at that. But how often do one-word definitions suffice to illuminate complex and important concepts? Liberty is indeed freedom, but more specifically it’s the freedom to do as one pleases — to pursue happiness in one’s own way, without undue restriction. Now, reasonable people can disagree about what restrictions might be due or undue, but the general principle of liberty is to err on the side of presuming that restrictions are undue until proven otherwise.

Prove to me that the sight of my breasts is harmful when the sight of a man’s is not, and then you can restrict me from taking my shirt off. Otherwise — allow me my liberty, and my pursuit of happiness.

Now, independence. Clearly, the opposite of dependence — so not relying on someone else’s support, or requiring someone else’s permission, or subject to someone else’s control. An independent woman makes her own decisions based on her own best judgments. She won’t always be right — who is? — but she’s free to choose her own path. She doesn’t wait to be told what to do or refrain from doing as she wishes just because someone else might not look glowingly on her choices. She is not dependent on the opinion of others. She is independent, and at liberty.

We are independent and at liberty.

So when we sit down in the park, under the sun, and take our shirts off in accordance with the laws of New York but in violation of some folks’ sense of decorum or propriety, it is with an acute appreciation of our freedom. We know most women don’t have the same freedom we do. And even those that do — our fellow New Yorkers — are often unaware of it, or cowed into not exercising it.

Our job, as we see it, is to exercise our liberty without hesitation or pause, and to educate our fellow citizens about theirs.

No girl should grow up believing her body is anything to be ashamed of, or something that ought to be hidden when her male cousins and siblings and friends are free to bare theirs gleefully, innocently and without criticism.

Knowing it, believing it, and living it — that’s freedom. That’s liberty.

Happy Independence Day, everyone.

Over the past seven summers, hundreds of women have joined us at our events all over New York City, some coming just one time, others returning time and time again. We love seeing both — our regulars and our first-timers. Part of what makes our group special is that both are greeted with the same warmth and welcomed like family. Maybe it’s something about being naked together. It’s hard to hold someone at arm’s length when your arms (and other parts!) are bare.

Would you like to come to one of our events? If you’re a body-positive woman in the New York area, we’d love to hear from you. Just send email to toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com, and we’ll answer any questions you have and very gladly invite you to our next event.

This past week we said farewell to one of our regulars, who just got a very impressive job at an impressive institution in another state. She’ll still show up at our events from time to time, she promises — she’s still on the East Coast! — but not as often as when she lived here, naturally, and we’ll miss her. On the other hand, we also welcomed several newcomers to our ranks this week. Perhaps one or more of them will become regulars in the fullness of time.

We were also delighted to be rejoined by two former regulars who’ve been missing from our events for a very long time.

We met at one of our favorite spots, a rooftop sundeck in Chelsea that thoughtfully permits not just toplessness but full nudity.

An inflatable pool gave us a respite from the unremitting sun–

–and Prosecco (with or without OJ) gave us a respite from unremitting thirst.

Not too much reading went on this time, but a few books did get cracked —

–as well as three new comics from Hard Case Crime: Normandy Gold, Peepland, and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.

Doughnuts from Doughnut Plant, fruit from the finest local orchards, sunscreen from the finest aluminum cans…we had everything we needed for a splendid afternoon, and a splendid afternoon is what we had.

…and now you can be part of our next one.

It’s okay if you’re nervous, We were too, the first time. It’s okay if you’re shy. It’s okay if you think your breasts are a funny shape, or one is larger than the other, or you wish they were bigger, or smaller, or whatever. It’s okay if you’ve never been naked with strangers before. It really is. You’re curious or you wouldn’t be reading this. You’re tempted. And it won’t be summer forever.

Sending email takes 3 seconds. Treat yourself. Listen to Oscar Wilde: The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

A new non-profit arts organization called Human Connection Arts wants to bring fully nude outdoor body-painting events to four cities this year: New York, Berlin, Amsterdam and San Francisco. But they need your help! They have a Kickstarter attempting to raise the money needed to fund the events, and with only 3 days to go, they’re still a few thousand dollars short of the goal. And if they don’t reach their goal, they get no money at all!

If you can contribute anything — even $5 or $10 — it could help push them over the top, and make these public celebrations of free expression and body freedom and nudity possible. You can find the Kickstarter page here.

To build awareness, the HCA team brought four nude models to the streets of Greenwich Village today for an impromptu painting session that brought traffic to a halt and left hundreds of passers-by smiling.

Lots of people had questions, but only a few expressed anything less than delight and support.

Of course, this was in Greenwich Village — some neighborhoods might be less supportive. But it was a joy to see so many people face to face with public nudity and pleased to see it.

If you’re in New York and would like to see it live, the New York event will take place from 12 noon to 4pm on Saturday, July 22, in Washington Square Park. (Be there or be, um, Washington Square. No, wait, that doesn’t work.)

But whether you can come in person or not, if you like what this group stands for and the work they’re doing, please consider helping out. It’s not our event or our organization, but we do like what they’re doing and we support them. We hope you will too.

Did we mention we love to read?

We do. We’re not the sort of book club where everyone reads the same book at the same time and comes prepared to discuss Chapter 27 — but we are a book club, and we all come prepared with whatever book we’re reading at a given time.

For some of us that means schoolwork — a study guide to the MCAT, for instance.

For others, it might be a graphic novel like Peepland by Christa Faust and Gary Phillips, all about New York in the seedy, pre-Giuliani days of live sex shows in Times Square.

Or SoHo Sins, an art-world whodunit by Richard Vine about an art collector who confesses to murdering his wife (but did he really?), which got a bunch of angry 1-star reviews on Amazon.com because of a Lolita-ish subplot (“Avoid this pedophile-friendly trash!”) but is actually really, really good.

The point is, we love to read, and don’t draw a line between respectable reading and scandalous, between high and low. Or between what we ought to read and what we read as a guilty pleasure. All reading is good.

Similarly, all reading is good whether you do it fully clothed or half naked — and if anyone is scandalized by that, well, that’s just too bad. Sometimes the world is better for having a little scandal in it.

Speaking of high and low, all reading is also good whether you do it lying flat on the grass by Manhattan’s waterside–

–or up on the elevated park (once a railroad for deliveries to the meat-packing district) called the High Line. Though admittedly we did more walking than reading up there.

Not to mention on our way to and from.

Hats off (and shirts!) in particular to our two first-timers, who joined us proudly and had their first day of outdoor topless pulp fiction appreciation. We have a feeling they’ll be back.

If you’d like to join them sometime — if you’re a body-positive woman and either bold enough to do this enthusiastically or curious enough to maybe try it a little timidly — we’d love to hear from you. Email us at toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com.

Everyone needs a little more reading time — and a little less bra time.

For the fourth time in four years, a group of more than 100 artists and models congregated in a public place in New York City — this time, it was in Washington Square Park — to demonstrate that art can take many forms, that the human body can also take many forms, that that the human body is nothing to be ashamed of, and that a naked human body can be an aesthetic object, not only or always a sexual one.

The artists came from all over the United States and all over the world — Japan, Russia, Latvia. Texas. Brooklyn. The models came in all sizes, shapes, ages, races, genders.

The theme this year was a broad one — just one word, Humanity. Nothing that would constrain an artist unduly, but a wonderful jumping-off point for art meant to celebrate what we have in common and our capacity for kindness, thoughtfulness, and decency.

Yes, decency — though five dozen naked bodies were uncovered in a public place, in front of thousands of passers-by, it was decency, not indecency, that was on display.

While some in the crowd showed confusion at first, by far the most common reaction was a smile. Some people we spoke to expressed wonder that an event like this was permitted, but they were overwhelmingly enthusiastic and supportive. A few expressed interest in coming back as models or painters next summer. And they’ll be welcomed gladly.

Some of our members made appearances under the paint–

–while for other models this was their first time standing nude in front of strangers.

And because this was an artistic exhibition, nude meant nude, not just topless — the ordinary restrictions on public nudity don’t apply when you’re creating art. Which meant that thousands of people got to see that a vulva or penis is just a body part like a nose or an elbow, not something you need to shield your eyes from.

(Not to put too fine a point on it, but it’s awfully rare to see a penis presented in public in anything other than a hostile way, as an act of aggression or an attempt to provoke shock, fear or disgust. How wonderful to see penises in their natural state, just there between a man’s legs, doing no harm to anyone, and not meant to do any harm.)

Vaginas, of course, by their nature, are harder to display and to paint, but we proudly salute all our sisters and their marvelous multicolored labia.

But the focus wasn’t on any body part — it was on the totality of the human canvas and what art can be birthed from and upon it. We remain in awe of some of the gorgeous creations we saw, including the ones we saw on our own bodies.

And for all those of you who supported the event, or came to it, or participated in it — thank you.

We appreciate, and gratefully salute, your humanity.

Most places in New York look like they’re in New York. Even most places in Central Park do. You don’t have to look far to see tall buildings, or crowds of people, or to hear traffic rushing by on the nearest pavement, honking as it goes. But there are some spots, small and secluded, where the city retreats — or is held at bay, almost as if by an invisible protective shield, like the one protecting Themyscira in Wonder Woman.

One of these is our secret meadow up near the north end of Central Park. We won’t say any more about where to find it, since we’re happy for it to remain our little secret. But passers-by are few and if you lie in the grass you see nothing but blue sky, hear nothing but nature. And we happily took full advantage of being alone in nature.

We sketched each other (even when a butterfly landed on our artist’s sketchpad).

We partook of baked goods from the 100-year-old Orwashers bakery.

We posed dramatically against an imposing boulder.

We read — of course we read.

And we inducted a couple of first-timers into our sorority of kickass bare-breasted amazons. (While we’re on the subject, why weren’t Wonder Woman’s people topless in the movie? You live on a tropical island with nothing but women around, and not one of you takes her top off? We call b.s.)

At one point some teenagers came by to smoke pot on a nearby rock ledge — secret meadows have other uses too. But for the most part we had the place to ourselves, and what a lovely afternoon it was!

Would you like to be one of our first-timers next time? If you’re a body-positive woman in the NYC area, send us an email at toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com. August is almost upon us, and September coming hard on her heels — don’t let the summer pass you by. You can be a bare-breasted amazon too!

Join us. You deserve to have an afternoon lying fearless and proud and laughing in the sun.

Back in the day, when John Lennon lived in New York, the story goes that he’d come to a little lawn in Central Park, near the Dakota Apartments where he lived, to walk with his wife or listen to music or just zone out. After his death, the city of New York renamed the area “Strawberry Fields” after one of his most famous songs, and with help from his family turned the spot into a living memorial, beautifully landscaped and sheltered.

It’s one of our favorite places in the park now. The lush grass is so welcoming; you can feel yourself relaxing as soon as you lie down in it. And though it’s in sight of one of the busier intersections in the park, so you never feel isolated or cut off from the city, it’s set apart enough that half a dozen women can go topless without exciting anyone’s notice. You never feel alone, but you don’t feel surrounded, either. Really a perfect blend of out-in-nature and still-in-the-thick-of-things.

We went on a weekday, so it was less crowded, but it was a gorgeous weekday, so anyone who could get out of work was enjoying the great outdoors. (Along with all of Manhattan’s tourists, who are always around.) We had several first-timers meet us, which took a bit of work since as famous as it is, the actual lawn isn’t all that easy to find. (There are a lot of lawns in the area.)

But eventually everyone found it, and found us.

We relaxed with books…

…with strawberry cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery…

…with silly boobs-pressed-together selfies…

…and just with the excellent company of good friends.

And as we did this, the world and all its troubles (which, heaven knows, are many and grave) receded, so that for a brief moment we had none — no world, no troubles. Like the man wrote, nothing to get hung about.

We like to imagine (see what we did there?) that this might be what it was like for John Lennon too, on his days off, wandering in the park. Everyone needs time to breathe. We’re grateful to have gotten both respiration and inspiration this week.

If you’re feeling in need of either, or both, why don’t you join us sometime? We welcome all body-positive women, timid or bold, eager or just curious. Write to us at toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com. We promise: In the late Mr. Lennon’s honor, we’ll help you free your mind.

When we sunbathe topless in the park or take our shirts off in some other public place on a 90-degree day, it has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with comfort and equality. We like wearing less when it’s hot out than when it’s cold; stripping off a sweaty t-shirt to lie in the grass or play frisbee or enjoy the spray from a fountain isn’t a sexual act when we do it any more than when a man does. We work hard to make this distinction clear: nudity does not equal sex, and the two should not be confused or conflated.

That said, most of us do also like sex.

So we were cautiously receptive when we were contacted recently by several alumnae of Betty Dodson’s famous Bodysex workshop, which has been teaching women to explore their own bodies and their sexuality for something like fifty years. (Betty Dodson herself is close to 90 years old, and still going strong.) There was a Bodysex reunion being held near NYC, and some of the participants were followers of our group, and they asked if they might come to one of our events while they were in town. Of course we said yes, and invited them to join us on our favorite private rooftop sundeck.

Now, normally the privacy we enjoy there only means we get to sunbathe fully nude rather than merely topless. But this time it meant something more, since our visitors promised to share some of their practice with us, and their practice includes group masturbation and shared orgasm.

How many of us had ever masturbated in a group before? Not many. But we’re open-minded and very much pro-orgasm and sex-positive, so we decided we’d give it a try.

In all, between the Bodysex alums and us there were a dozen people on the roof. Some were first-timers, some long-time members; eleven were women, one was a man.

We began by sharing our groups’ respective stories, and some fresh fruit, white wine, and mimosas to go with them. (What story doesn’t go better with a mimosa?)

After that, we shifted from the couches and lounge chairs to the floor of the roof and the dozen comfy soft towels Amazon had thoughtfully shipped us the day before.

We had a selection of toys to choose from — ones that vibrated, ones that pulsed, ones that sucked — and enough bottles of lube to stock a medium-sized pharmacy. (What’s the difference between a lubricant that “Arouses and intensifies” and one that “Arouses and releases”? We figured we’d find out.)

Someone in the group had an iPhone with a relevant Spotify playlist (“30 All-Time Greatest Songs to Masturbate To“)…

…and someone else had a bluetooth speaker. Connections were made. The mood was set. The moment of truth arrived. So we took off any clothes we still had on, laid back, spread our legs and dove in.

A word about masturbation: it’s nothing to be shy about, certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes the best orgasm you can have is one you give yourself. Learning how to pleasure yourself can also help you learn how to have more satisfying sex with a partner — but it doesn’t have to be about that. The self-administered orgasm (like the self-portrait, or self-hypnosis) can be an end in itself. Masturbation isn’t anything to apologize for. We all do it, women and men, and when we do it right it’s wonderful.

Yesterday, it was wonderful.

It didn’t hurt that the weather was perfect for it, sunny and clear — we gave ourselves orgasms under the bluest of skies and the whitest of fluffy white clouds. The air was deliciously warm against our skin.

Was it strange doing something so intimate and private in a group, a number of whom were meeting each other for the first time? A little. But remember, a lot of people also say that baring your breasts is something intimate and private that shouldn’t be done in a public place or in front of someone you don’t know well. People who say that are wrong — so why should we take as a given that they’re right about masturbation having to be solitary?

It helped that while the act was sexual, it was not sexualized. We weren’t performing, we weren’t ogling each other or being ogled (or watched at all, really; our eyes mostly slid shut as we went to somewhere special in our own headspace). We were just friends enjoying ourselves together, feeling beautiful sensations, and sharing that experience — as one member put it the next day, it was less like a sex party than like a wine tasting, only with orgasms instead of wine. And what fine vintages we uncorked.

And then, soon enough — too soon — it was over. We came, we relaxed, we caught our breath. We marveled at this thing we’d just done. Did everyone have a blissful smile on her face, or did it just feel that way?

We all felt really nice, that’s for sure. And our ordinary event started up again. We ate grapes, chatted, joked. Shared our addresses with each other so we could stay in touch.

Eventually, the Bodysex folk headed off to catch their planes home, like magical sex fairies who’d done their job.

Will we ever do it again? Who knows? Certainly not in the middle of Central Park, where going topless means nothing more than that it’s hot out, and neither women nor men are free to engage in sexual acts. But on some wintry afternoon perhaps, in a private room at our favorite spa? Or if one of us has a big enough apartment and enough cushy throw rugs? Why not?

Our group is not about sex, and what we do as a matter of course is not sexual.

This was sexual.

Maybe now people will have an easier time seeing the difference.

Followers of this blog will have noticed that we don’t go to the beach a lot. That’s not because we don’t like beaches — we love them. But New York City makes it easy to go to the park and hard to go to the beach. Few of us have cars, for one thing, and getting to the beach is a lot easier with one.

But at least once each summer, we make a point of going. Last summer we braved the hour-long subway ride and the siren song of funnel cake vendors to go to Coney Island, and this past week we went to Riis Beach.

Now, Riis is famous, but few of us had ever been. It’s a right pain to get to — in the end, we wound up hiring a bus to take us there and back. And once you’re there, there’s not much in the way of amenities. A few food vendors on the boardwalk, some fenced-in fields, an abandoned nursing home building for atmosphere.

But…what an amazing beach it is!

Who knew that one hour out of Manhattan there’s a beach that’s as free and loose and casual as you’d find on the coast of Spain or a Greek island or either Riviera (French or Maya)? The sand was packed the day we went — one of the nicest weekend days all summer — but everywhere people were relaxing and getting along, and at least on the eastern end where we set up our towels, as many women were topless as not.

How wonderful, for once, not to be the only ones! Not that we really mind when we are — it’s ok, as long as no one bothers us. But how wonderful to look around and see all sorts of women confidently baring their breasts, and no one thinking anything of it!

So we staked out a little patch of sand for ourselves and lost no time in stripping down to as little as we could get away with.

Not to be undone, one of the three boys we had with us this time decided to rock a gold-sequined C-string, which was the hit of the beach until he made the mistake of wearing it into the water. Hello, wave; goodbye, C-string.

The water was lovely. Choppy, yes, some giant waves, but cold and refreshing and we took many long swims…

…then walked the length of the beach after to dry off.

The beach does have a more “bohemian” (aka, gay) section and a slightly more conservative (aka, straight) section, and we probably got a few more looks when we strayed from one to the other. But just curiosity, not hostility. No catcalls, nothing to break the lovely mood of the day, even when we moved from the sand to the boardwalk.

Back at our towels, we got some reading done. (No, Invisible Man doesn’t count as pulp fiction — it wasn’t the H.G. Wells version! — and neither does The New Yorker, but cut us some slack. We like to read a variety…)

And for those who didn’t bring reading material? There was sun, sun sun.

Eventually 5pm arrived, and our bus with it. We took one last dip…

…then packed our things, bid a rueful adieu to the sand and sun, and motored back to Manhattan.

Would we do it again? Oh, in a heartbeat. It’s tempting to go every week! Yes, Gunnison lets you go fully nude, which would be an improvement; Riis has a history of being used nude, but that was in the 60s and 70s, and the world is more censorious about such things now. (Unless the ocean eats your swimsuit, people understand that!) But Riis more than makes up for it with the warmth of the crowd, the quality of the scenery, and the relative ease of access (Gunnison is in New Jersey, a 50% longer drive). And you really couldn’t ask for a better place to relax with friends.

Probably this was our only beach trip for this summer, but if you’d be excited about joining us for another, we can consider it — just send email to toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com and let us know.  August is beach weather too, after all.

A few weeks back, we put up a blog post lamenting that no hotel with a rooftop pool had the courage (or the brains, or the heart, to get all Wizard of Oz about it) to let us use their pool topless, even though it’s legal for women to go topless anywhere in New York a man can, and all these hotels of course let men use their pools topless.

Well, we had one last hotel to try, the Dream Downtown, and god bless them, they said yes without the slightest hesitation. We asked several times, to make sure we’d heard correctly. Topless sunbathing is allowed? Yes. By women? Yes. We won’t get there and mortifyingly be told to put our tops back on my some staffer who hadn’t read the memo…? No.

So we went. Rented one of their two poolside cabanas, laid out our favorite reading material, dispensed with our tops, and…nothing. Better than that, actually: the staff all made us feel at home and welcome, interacted with us warmly and supportively, and assured us that we weren’t the first to enjoy this liberty there (though we may have been the biggest group to do so at one time). Other patrons using the pool or the adjacent restaurant seemed either oblivious or amused. No one seemed the slightest bit troubled, much less offended. The afternoon passed blissfully; we can’t remember a happier one. We only wished, as we emerged from the heated pool into air the temperature of autumn, that we’d discovered this grand hotel sooner.

You better believe we’ll be back next summer.

And for those of you who believe a video is worth a thousand pictures (and thus 10,000 words?), we offer this moving tribute to the pleasures of the pool:

Showing uncommon tenacity, the temperature hit a summery 82 degrees over the weekend. So we chased the mercury up and out onto the sun-dappled terrain of Sheep Meadow — the very spot where we first welcomed the advent of spring not so very long ago. It was a lovely chance to gather in one of New York’s most crowded and yet most serene spots, where as one of our number commented, “No matter how strange you are, you’re never the strangest person in sight.” We certainly weren’t — that honor goes to the couple performing acrobatic maneuvers, perched on one another’s knees, arms and shoulders, or possibly to the several people standing on their heads. (Their own heads, not the couple’s.) Hell, we weren’t even the only women enjoying the sun topless, which was a true pleasure to see. Four summers ago, when we first formed our group, we would have been.

As for us, we can very happily report that no one interfered with our exercise of our freedoms, or said anything to us, or even bothered us non-verbally unless you count one verging-on-elderly man who knelt a couple of feet away, staring, until we told him that this was rude, at which point he picked up and knelt next to another topless woman elsewhere on the lawn. (We sent an emissary to point out to him that this was not an improvement. He finally left her alone too.)

One of our newest members, possessed of an artistic bent, brought body paints and, using another member’s torso as her canvas, improvised in color and line.

All in all, a terrific, chill, laid-back moment in the sun. At one point, someone spotted a plane in the sky, leaving behind it a trail of skywriting:

“GOD…BLESS…AMERICA…,” we read, as the message emerged letter by letter. Unironically written, we assume, and taken in the same spirit. Pick your god, or cherish your lack of same — it’s as fine a way as any of expressing thanks for living in a time and place where we can all bare our bodies equally and face no scrutiny or disapprobation for this innocent act.

And with that we bid the summer of 2014 farewell. We’ll have events in the fall and winter as well — but there’s nothing quite like summer.

We leave you with one more pic, sent in by a friend who couldn’t make it to Central Park but joined with us in solidarity from her Brooklyn backyard.

If you want to join us sometime — either in person or in sprit, via selfie — just drop us a note at toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com. We welcome all women bold and body-positive and wise to the fact that a nipple is a nipple is a nipple. (Gertrude Stein said that, didn’t she?)

Just grab your favorite book and set your breasts free.

Ever since Athena closed over the summer, we’ve lacked for a spot to visit to warm up on cold days and dry off on rainy ones, a spa where management understands that saunas are best enjoyed in the nude and that women and men can share such facilities without there necessarily being anything sexual about it.

But today, at last, we christened a new favorite spa. We’re going to keep its identity to ourselves for the time being, but it’s lovely and well run, and if not quite as large as Athena or as roomily arranged, it has a charm all its own. As usual, a spa environment is not the very best for taking photos, so forgive, please, the grainy/fuzzy quality. But we wanted to share with you some of the joy of this oh-so-joyful afternoon.

Yesterday, on a brisk and blustery November afternoon, 21 of us gathered for a lesson — our first! — in acroyoga. A combination of acrobatics and yoga, it proved the perfect antidote to the pre-winter blahs, teaching us the rudiments of Bird Pose and Throne and other suchlike, following a warm-up of stretches, planks, and Downward Dog.

Leading us in our adventure was yogini extraordinaire Lotsie Cash, who instructed us not only in the physical skills necessary to suspend each other’s bodies upside down in mid-air but also the self-confidence, trust, and wisdom embodied in the practice. She was a pleasure to work with and, though conspicuous in these photos as the one person wearing clothes above the waist, totally non-judgmental about our enjoying the session either topless or fully nude.

Our thanks also to Dunkin’ Donuts, for filling their signature Box O’ Joe with hot chocolate instead; to Tate’s for making a gluten-free chocolate chip cookie that totally doesn’t suck; to Pearl Studios for not minding a dozen-and-a-half naked women in their midst (and three naked boys); and Amazon.com for rushing us a pile of yoga mats on ridiculously short notice.

Fun was had. We did things we didn’t know we had in us. And once you start down that path, who knows where it might end?

Suddenly winter doesn’t seem so bad…

For several years now, we’ve talked about visiting Manhattan’s Museum of Sex, but somehow it never happened, mostly because the folks who ran the place didn’t answer our tweets and emails. But a few weeks back we finally resorted to the old-fashioned approach and showed up in person to demonstrate how well-behaved and urbane we are. It must’ve worked, since they allowed us to come as a group to experience their FUNLAND exhibit, which puts a sexual spin on carnival attractions.

The thing kicks off with a caped barker ushering you into a hall of mirrors, a tricky, pitch-black area of dead ends and (consequently) fleshy collisions among participants.

Then on to a booth where you toss balls to make mechanical penises race across a field, then a climbing wall where the hand- and footholds are sculpted body parts.

But the centerpiece (and the reason we really wanted to come) is a bouncy castle made of giant inflated breasts. Points to the designers for diversity: the place has a variety of shades and colors. But it’s the size of the things that really impresses — you instantly feel dwarfed, returned to infancy or, to be more bookish about it, like Gulliver in Gulliver’s Travels, straddling the Brobdingnagian girls’ gargantuan nipples. (What, you don’t remember that scene from the cartoon version? It’s in the book, trust us.)

We also checked out an odd exhibit of gyrating mechanical puppets and one exploring the life of porn superstar Linda Lovelace (of Deep Throat fame, and sure enough you enter to a wall-sized projection of LL deep-throating some fortunate fellow).

Was it worth a visit? Oh, yes — it’s not every day that you get to bounce like a little kid again, or hang from a wall-mounted cock, or watch an act of fellatio blown (you’ll pardon the expression) up to King Kong proportions.

It ain’t the Metropolitan. But on a rain-swept autumn afternoon, there are worse ways to kill an afternoon. And a bouncy castle made of giant bare breasts has to be one place in the city where no one could possibly complain about our ordinary person-sized ones going uncovered.

Thanksgiving is about family, not just genetic but spiritual. Kurt Vonnegut called the people who don’t happen to be related to you but who belong together with you in some more meaningful and fundamental sense your “karass.”

Well, we spent the day before Thanksgiving celebrating the holiday with our karass, the group of smart, confident, body-positive women (and two or three supportive men) who populate New York’s most unusual book club. There were books on hand, ranging from The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin to Stop This Man! by Peter Rabe, but we didn’t get much reading done, not when there was wine to drink and truffle-laced pizza to nibble and chocolate fondue to finish things off; not when there were old friends and new to catch up with, some having come from as far away as Texas and California to be with us; not when there was the joy of lounging about in the warm environment provided by Ayza down on Carmine Street, while outside the giant plate-glass windows freezing sleet was coming down hard. (Ah, the looks we got from some of the startled passers-by! What must they have thought? An oasis in the desert couldn’t look more mirage-like than we must have on this cold, cold, wet day.)

It is a wonderful feeling to share the holiday with people you care about. Getting to share it naked in the heart of Manhattan makes it even better. We wish all of you could have the same opportunity, wherever you might be — if not this time around, then sometime in the not-too-distant future.

And to all the members of our karass, in diaspora around the world, we wish a very happy holiday season. Remember, if you ever find yourself in NYC, you’ve got friends who’d love to meet you.

(How? Simple. Just drop a note to toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com.)

For most of the year, each person at one of our events reads whatever she wants, and though we share recommendations, we don’t generally swap books with one another. But once a year we do, at our annual Secret Santa book exchange. Last year, we held it at a science-fiction bookstore in Brooklyn (an excuse to get naked amid row upon row of wonderful, lurid covers); this year, we chose a spa in Koreatown called Juvenex. Which meant that in addition to a wildly eclectic and intriguing selection of books (see photo, below) we also got to enjoy soaking tubs filled with floating lemons, a sauna shaped like an igloo, a steam room so powerful none of us could take it for more than 5 minutes (but what minutes they were while they lasted!), and a variety of scrubs, massages, and facials. Oh, and tea and melon and pineapple. Yum.

We were joined by a journalist from Styleite.com who steadfastly remained clothed even in the steamy spa environs, despite being surrounded by 17 naked women (and one equally naked man). We felt bad for her! But who knows? Maybe next time she’ll feel confident enough to join in.

And now: on to the real Santa! Just a week away. We’ve been good, sir, we promise! In any event, we’re confident we won’t get lumps of coal in our stockings. Because, well, no stockings.

Merry and Happy, to all our fans and followers, and may 2015 be a glorious one, with nudity and justice for all.

Happy holidays, all. We’re between events currently, all in sugar comas (or ham comas, or champagne comas, or what-have-you), girding ourselves for the polar vortices to come. At least, we tell ourselves, the days are getting longer.

In the meantime, we thought we’d do our annual round-up of the images from the year just past that you lot seemed to like the most, based on how many times you clicked on them. Now, this could be misleading: sometimes a given post got an abnormal number of clicks because it happened to coincide with a spurt of attention we got, due to coverage in a newspaper or magazine, for instance, or on Reddit. But overall we think clicks are at least a halfway decent proxy for interest.

So without further ado, the most popular images of  2014, divided into Public (i.e., out in the park, or the rooftop pool of a popular hotel, or a wine bar with huge plate glass windows exposing us to the world) and Private (i.e., a private roof, a private room in a restaurant, a private spa).

PUBLIC:

PRIVATE: