I went to a naked pool party last weekend.

There were lots of cute boys there, swimming and frolicking completely bare-assed and without shame. Unfortuantely, I use the word “boy” not in the West Hollywood sense, but literally. You see, none of the nudists in question were past kindergarten.

This was not my idea of a good time.

Drew has already covered this hellish kiddie party quite well, but he left out a couple of things he didn’t witness.

Let me just say that it never ceases to amaze me how many parents are perfectly willing to let their children run around naked in other people’s houses. Yes, it was a pool party, and those naked running kids started off as naked swimming kids, but I don’t get that either. Knowing what kids tend to do in swimming pools, why encourage them by letting their peeing, pooping parts float around freely?

Then again, not my home, not my kids, not my rules. So I tried my best to look the other way and remind myself that however scarred these might be in years to come, I wasn’t the one who’d have to pay the therapy bills. I tried my best to turn a blind eye to J.J., who was about four years old and racing through our friend’s house completely naked. I expected that at some point, J.J.’s parents would see him, apologize profusely, and immediately put some pants on the kid. But they knew he was there, and they just walked in and out of the kitchen, taking bites of watermelon and brownies, unconcerned that their son’s teeny-weenie peenie was on display to everyone at the party.

J.J. followed a couple of five-year-old girls down the hall, then they closed the bedroom door on him. So he stood outside the door, knocking and screaming at them to let him in. They were holding the door shut, so that every time he managed to push it an inch or two, they’d slam it closed again. I figured they had his clothes inside and were hiding them from him, and I also figured that if this lockout continued, some crushed fingers were inevitable. So, even though none of the other adults seemed concerned, I decided to step in.

“Okay, guys. Let’s knock it off and let J.J. in.” I pushed the door gently, and the girls stepped back to let J.J. in. But it turned out J.J. wasn’t looking for his clothes. Quite the opposite. As soon as I let him in the room, he ran up to the girls and started playing with himself. Yes, like a miniature version of some creepy, unshaven backwoods perv, he grabbed himself and smiled a satisfied, devilish grin. I don’t know what struck me first — the discomfort or the sense of vindication: See, Jerry, you were right. This is why kids shouldn’t be naked at parties. The girls, who were just old enough to be disgusted, screamed their heads off and ran out of the room, and J.J. took off after them.

And that’s where I checked out. This was really not something I wanted any part of.

So I let J.J. chase the girls around the house all he wanted, figuring somebody else would eventually step in. But no one did. A few minutes later, the girls shuttered themselves in the bedroom again and this time, J.J., still naked, knew exactly how to solve the situation. He marched up to me, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me to the bedroom to help him get in again.

That’s when I went to the kitchen to help clean up.

A few minutes later, I found myself talking to J.J.’s mom in the backyard. She was really nice, so I decided not to bring up her son’s exhibitionism. For all I knew, what he was doing was a perfectly natural part of childhood sexual development. I’m not a kiddie psychologist, so I’ll let her sort that one out herself. Again, there’s always therapy.

“Jennifer, let’s go!” her husband bellowed from inside the house. His tone suggested he’d been looking for her for a long time, he was fed up with this damn party and he wanted to leave immediately.

Jennifer ignored him. “Jennifer, come on!” She kept talking and slowly made her way toward the house. By the time she went inside, the husband was standing next to me, picking up his kids’ towels and bathing suits from the pool area. He groaned, shook his head and looked directly at me. “What are you supposed to do with a wife who’s a drunk?” he asked.

And then he grabbed his stuff and went back inside.

Drew and I got home and agreed that we were putting off having kids indefinitely, maybe even forever.

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