Rebels without Clothes

 I have another story for you today that's a few hundred words short of a novelette that I thought was pretty good where you basically have two Americans who are going to France and they decide to take advantage of lax public nudity laws only to find themselves stuck naked in a foreign country far away from their hostel and having all sorts of crazy zany adventures along the line of the movie Eurotrip or other stories about Americans overseas in a foreign country and I think it works pretty well.

Rebels without Clothes
The bartender had the kind of mustache that looked like it belonged in a different century—thick, waxed at the tips, and completely unapologetic. He slid two beers across the polished wood without a word, his eyebrows lifting just slightly as Gina burst into laughter at something Josh had said.
    "You’re joking, right?" Gina wiped tears from her eyes, still grinning. "No laws? At all?"
    Josh shrugged, spinning his beer bottle between his palms. "That’s what the guy at the hostel said. Like, none. Zip. You could walk out of here right now buck naked and the worst you’d get is some old lady giving you the stink eye."
    Gina’s laughter faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. She took a slow sip of her beer, her eyes flicking toward the open square outside the bar. The late afternoon sun painted the cobblestones gold, and a few locals strolled past, completely clothed, completely ordinary.
    Josh nudged her foot under the table. "Oh no. I know that look. You’re actually considering it."
    Gina tilted her head, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "I mean… when else are we gonna get the chance?"
    Josh leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he gestured vaguely toward the square. "Don’t get me wrong, it’d be great to see other people naked. But look around—nobody else is doing it. Not exactly a thriving nudist colony out there."
    Gina’s grin widened, her fingers tapping against her beer bottle. "That’s what makes it exciting, though. We’d be subverting expectations. Rebels without a cause. Or clothes." She paused, arching an eyebrow. "Unless you’d *only* like to see *me* naked?"
    Josh snorted, but his ears went pink. "I mean, yeah, but that’s not—" He floundered for half a second before shrugging. "Look, I don’t think I’d wanna be naked in public *myself*. That’s a whole different level of commitment."
    Gina rolled her eyes, but there was a spark in them now—something mischievous and electric. "Commitment? Josh, we’re in a town where the biggest crime is *maybe* someone judging your outfit. Or lack thereof." She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the stone floor. "Come on. Live a little."
    Josh groaned, but he was already reaching for his wallet to leave cash on the table. "You’re insane," he muttered, though the way his eyes flicked over her suggested he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. Outside, the golden light had deepened into something richer, the shadows stretching long across the square. Gina took a deep breath, the air warm and thick with the scent of blooming jasmine from somewhere unseen. Then, without ceremony, she tugged her tank top over her head and tossed it onto a nearby bench.
    The reaction was immediate—but not in the way either of them expected. A trio of elderly women across the square barely glanced up from their conversation. A man walking his dog nodded amiably, as if Gina had merely adjusted her hat. Josh blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "They—they don’t even care."
    Gina laughed, the sound bright and unselfconscious. "Told you." She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, pausing just long enough to watch Josh’s Adam’s apple bob. "Your turn."
    Josh exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I feel like I’ve been set up." But the longer he stood there, the more absurd his hesitation seemed. The square was quiet, indifferent. The bartender inside hadn’t even looked up from polishing glasses. Slowly, with exaggerated drama, he peeled off his shirt. The air was warm against his skin, and for a second, he just stood there, waiting for—what? A siren? A shout? Nothing came.
    Gina, now entirely nude except for her sandals, stretched her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh. "See? Freedom."
    Josh swallowed hard, his gaze darting anywhere but directly at her. "Yeah. Freedom. Right."
    She smirked, stepping closer. "You’re staring."
    "I’m *not*," he lied, his voice cracking.
    A breeze kicked up, carrying the distant sound of church bells. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. The world kept turning. And Josh, despite himself, started laughing too. Maybe it was the absurdity. Maybe it was the way Gina looked, utterly unbothered by the universe. Or maybe it was the realization that this—this stupid, impulsive moment—was the most alive he’d felt in years.
    Gina reached for his hand, her palm warm against his. "Now *that’s* the spirit."
    And just like that, they were running—barefoot, breathless, and gloriously naked—straight into the heart of a town that didn’t give a damn.
    Josh's laughter hitched mid-stride as the realization struck him like a bucket of cold water. "Wait—we just left our clothes back at the bar." His bare feet skidded on the cobblestones, sending a pebble skittering into a storm drain. Gina, three paces ahead, spun around with the grace of someone who hadn't yet noticed the logistical disaster unfolding.
    "Oh shit," she said, not sounding particularly concerned. Then, after a beat: "You're right."
    They doubled back, their earlier giddiness tempered now by the prickling awareness of their predicament. The bar's awning came into view, its faded stripes fluttering in the breeze. The bench where Gina had tossed her tank top sat empty. Josh's shirt was gone too.
    Josh groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, *great*. We're miles from the hostel and now we've lost our only clothes." He shot Gina a look that was equal parts accusation and despair. "I *knew* this was a bad idea."
    For the first time since stripping down, Gina looked genuinely flustered. She crossed her arms—not quite covering herself, but close. "Okay, but—it's not like anyone *stole* them. Probably." She glanced around as if their missing garments might materialize from thin air. "Maybe the bartender took them inside?"
    The bartender, when they ventured in (Josh hovering awkwardly in the doorway), merely shrugged his mustached indifference. "Clothes?" he repeated, as if the concept was foreign. "People leave things. People take things." He polished a glass with a rag that looked like it had seen the dawn of time. "No laws, remember?"
    Outside, Gina bit her lip. "An hour to the hostel," she muttered, doing the mental math. "And that's *if* we take the tram." The tram, which was currently packed with what looked like a school group. Josh pictured the horrified stares, the scandalized whispers. His stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.
    Gina, ever the problem-solver, snapped her fingers. "Market," she declared. "There's gotta be a market. This place *has* to sell clothes."
    Josh blinked. "With what money? My wallet was in my *pants*."
    The silence that followed was punctuated by the distant cry of a seagull. Somewhere, a church bell tolled the hour. Gina exhaled through her nose. "Okay. New plan." She pointed down a narrow alley. "That way's the river. If we follow it far enough, we'll hit the hostel eventually."
    Josh squinted at the alley's murky depths. "You wanna hike *naked* through god-knows-what for an hour?"
    Gina grinned, the mischief creeping back into her eyes. "What's the alternative? Stand here until we grow fur?"
    Josh opened his mouth—then closed it. She had a point.
    They set off, sticking to backstreets where the shadows pooled thick and forgiving. A cat yowled from a windowsill. An old man tending potted flowers nodded at them like they were any other pair of afternoon strollers. Josh's initial panic ebbed with every step, replaced by a giddy, disbelieving sort of calm.
    Then they rounded a corner—and froze.
    A tour group clogged the street, their guide holding aloft a little flag. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward them.
    "Oh," said Gina.
    "*Fuck*," said Josh.
    The guide, after a beat of stunned silence, cleared his throat. "And here we see, ah... local wildlife."
    A teenager in the back snorted. Someone's camera clicked.
    Josh wanted to melt into the pavement. Gina, after a second of wide-eyed horror, threw back her head and laughed.
    The sound was infectious. The tour group chuckled. The guide shrugged. The moment passed.
    And Josh, despite himself, found himself laughing too—because really, what else could they do?
    Gina grabbed his hand again, her grip warm and sure. "Come on," she said, tugging him forward. "We're almost home."
    "Almost home?" Josh hissed, stumbling as Gina dragged him past the murmuring tour group. His bare feet slapped against uneven cobblestones, the sting of gravel biting into his soles. "We're *nowhere near* home. It's an hour to the hostel *with* the tram—walking could take—" He did the math in his head, despairing at the result. "*Hours*. And we're in the middle of—"
    His sentence died as a whistle cut through the air from somewhere to their left. A cluster of construction workers on a smoke break erupted into laughter, one miming an exaggerated fanning motion with his hard hat. Another called out something in a language Josh didn't recognize, but the intent was unmistakable. Gina's grip on his hand tightened, her fingers suddenly clammy.
    "Just keep walking," she muttered, her earlier bravado fraying at the edges. But the more they moved, the more eyes seemed to snag on them—shopkeepers pausing mid-sweep, couples at café tables nudging each other, a teenager fumbling for their phone. The air, so liberating moments ago, now prickled against Josh's skin like a thousand tiny needles.
    A bicycle bell chimed too close behind them. Josh yanked Gina sideways just as a delivery rider whizzed past, shouting over his shoulder. The words were lost in the rush of wheels, but the leer wasn't. Gina's cheeks flushed crimson.
    "This was a *bad idea*," Josh hissed, ducking into the relative shelter of a bakery's awning. The scent of fresh bread did nothing to soothe the churn of his stomach. Across the street, an elderly woman in a flowered shawl clucked her tongue, shaking her head as if personally offended by their existence.
    Gina swallowed hard. "Okay. New new plan." Her voice wavered. "We find a—a phone booth. Call the hostel. Have someone bring us—"
    "A *phone booth*?" Josh gaped at her. "What is this, 1992?" He gestured wildly at their surroundings, then immediately regretted it when a trio of teenage girls burst into giggles. "We don't have *money*, Gina. Or *clothes*. Or—"
    A siren wailed in the distance. Both of them froze.
    "*That's* not for us," Gina said quickly, though her knuckles had gone white around Josh's wrist.
    The sound faded, but the damage was done. Josh's pulse hammered in his throat. "We need to get off the main streets. Now."
    They veered into a narrow alley, the sudden shade a relief. The walls pressed close, damp and smelling of moss. A single shutter banged overhead, loose on its hinges. Gina exhaled shakily. "Okay. Okay. Maybe if we—"
    A door creaked open behind them.
    Both turned slowly.
    A woman stood framed in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. She looked them up and down once, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she held out two folded towels.
    Josh stared. "I—we—"
    The woman sighed, thrusting the towels forward impatiently. Up close, Josh could see flour caught in the creases of her frown. "Tourists," she muttered, as if this explained everything.
    Gina reached for the towels first, her fingers brushing the woman's. "Thank you," she whispered, the words thick.
    The woman waved them off, already turning back inside. "The river path is two blocks west," she said over her shoulder. "Less people." The door clicked shut.
    Josh clutched his towel like a lifeline. The rough fabric scratched against his skin, but he'd never been happier to cover himself. Gina knotted hers around her waist, her shoulders sagging.
    For a long moment, they stood in the alley's silence, listening to the distant hum of the city. Then Gina sniffed.
    Josh glanced at her sharply. "Are you—?"
    She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Shut up."
    He didn't mention the wobble in her voice. Just reached for her hand again, the towel rough between their palms. "West," he said.
    Gina nodded. They stepped out of the alley together, the towels flapping around their knees like the world's saddest kilts.
    A block away, a child pointed and laughed.
    Josh sighed. "*Fuck*."
    The towels barely covered anything—Gina's knuckles turned white as she clutched hers against her chest, leaving her thighs exposed every time she took a step. Josh's attempt at dignity fared no better; the terrycloth kept slipping from his hips whenever he moved too quickly, forcing him to walk with the stiff-legged gait of a man who'd just dismounted a horse.
    A group of teenagers on motor scooters slowed to a crawl beside them, one letting out a low whistle. Gina shot them a glare that could've melted steel, but the effect was ruined when she had to pivot awkwardly to keep the towel from gaping open. "Eyes *up*, shithead," she snapped. The scooter peeled away with a burst of laughter, their catcalls bouncing off the pastel-colored buildings.
    "You're drawing more attention like that," Josh muttered through gritted teeth, his own towel threatening to unravel with every gust of wind. He resorted to clutching it like a bathrobe, one hand cinched at his collarbone. "Just—act normal."
    "*Normal?*" Gina hissed back. A middle-aged couple across the street openly gaped, the woman fanning herself with a folded newspaper. "We look like we escaped from a Turkish prison riot!" Her attempt to adjust the towel sent it sliding dangerously low on her hips—she yelped and grabbed for it, momentarily flashing the entirety of her left breast to a stooped old man watering his window boxes. The man blinked, then shrugged and went back to his geraniums.
    They rounded another corner only to find themselves facing a bustling farmers' market. Stall after stall overflowed with produce, their awnings fluttering in the breeze like colorful flags. Gina froze. "Oh *come on*," she groaned.
    A vendor stacking oranges paused mid-motion, his eyes widening as he took in their disheveled state. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached under his stall and produced two burlap sacks normally used for potatoes. He held them out without a word, his face carefully neutral.
    Josh nearly wept with gratitude. "Thank you," he babbled, accepting the coarse fabric. "Thank you so—"
    The vendor waved him off. "Go," he said in heavily accented English, jerking his chin toward a side alley. "Before my wife sees."
    The burlap chafed against their skin, smelling faintly of onions and earth, but it was infinitely better than the towels. Gina tied hers around her shoulders like a poncho, the rough fabric swallowing her frame. Josh fashioned his into a sort of tunic, the hem brushing mid-thigh. They exchanged a glance—Gina's mouth twitched.
    "We look like medieval peasants," she said.
    Josh snorted. "Better than looking like medieval *nudists*."
    A giggle escaped Gina's lips—then another, louder this time—until they were both doubled over against a crumbling brick wall, laughing so hard their makeshift garments trembled. The sound echoed off the alley walls, bright and unhinged, the kind of laughter that comes only after surviving something mortifying.
    Josh wiped his eyes. "We are *never* doing this again."
    Gina grinned, her cheeks still flushed from laughter. "Oh, I don't know." She plucked at her potato sack. "Kind of a vibe."
    The distant church bells tolled four times. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones as the sun dipped lower. Somewhere beyond the maze of alleys, the river glinted. Josh exhaled. "Home?"
    Gina nodded. They stepped out of the alley together, their burlap robes flapping in the breeze. This time, when people stared, it was with curiosity rather than shock. A little girl tugged her mother's sleeve, pointing at Gina's sack-dress. "Papa," she chirped in the local dialect, "why is that lady wearing a *potato*?"
    Gina shot Josh a look. He groaned. "*Now* we're a tourist attraction."
    The scratchy burlap had barely settled against Josh's skin when the first sharp pinch bit into his thigh. He yelped, slapping at his leg—only to feel another stinging jab near his ribs. "Oh *what the hell*—?"
    Gina was already doing a frantic little hop-step beside him, her hands batting at her makeshift poncho like it was on fire. "Ohgod ohgod—there's *things* in here!" She tore the potato sack off in one violent motion, shaking it out with a shudder. Tiny black specks rained onto the cobblestones, scattering into the cracks. Josh followed suit, his own sack hitting the ground with a dusty puff—just in time to see a trio of ants march triumphantly across the fabric.
    They stood there for a stunned second, bare once more, the late afternoon breeze prickling goosebumps across their skin. Gina blinked down at the discarded sacks. "Our towels," she said slowly, "are back in that alley."
    Josh groaned, raking both hands through his hair. "*Fantastic*."
    Across the square, a street performer paused mid-juggle to gawk at them, a mime who almost broke character when he saw them. A toddler in a stroller pointed and giggled. Gina squared her shoulders, chin lifted in a valiant attempt at nonchalance—but the blush creeping up her neck betrayed her. "Okay. New *new* new plan," she announced, her voice tight. "We own it."
    Josh shot her a look. "*Own it*?"
    "Act like we *meant* to do this." Gina gestured vaguely at their nudity, fingers twitching like she wanted to cover herself but refused to give in. "Like it's a... cultural experience."
    A vendor selling roasted chestnuts snorted into his cart. Josh's ears burned. "*Nobody's buying that*."
    Gina's determined stride faltered as a group of nuns rounded the corner, their habits swishing ominously. One clutched her rosary beads like a shield. "*Act natural*," Gina hissed through a fixed smile, elbowing Josh in the ribs.
    "*How*?" Josh whisper-yelped, his arms glued stiffly to his sides. A breeze chose that moment to kick up, and he nearly sobbed at the indignity of it all. The nuns averted their eyes with synchronized precision, their pace increasing noticeably.
    Gina's bravado lasted exactly three more steps before a particularly bold pigeon strutted across her path, its beady eyes fixated on her bare toes. She yelped, hopping backward—right into Josh, who instinctively caught her by the shoulders. They froze, skin to skin, the absurdity of the situation crashing over them. Josh could feel Gina's shoulders trembling—not from cold, but from suppressed laughter.
    "You're *enjoying* this," he accused, though his own mouth was fighting a traitorous grin.
    Gina bit her lip, eyes sparkling. "A little." She gestured to his full-body blush. "You're *glowing*."
    Josh groaned, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Around them, the market's rhythm continued uninterrupted—a fishmonger haggling with a customer, an old woman bargaining over tomatoes, a cluster of tourists too engrossed in their maps to notice the naked foreigners in their midst. The world, impossibly, carried on.
    Gina took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Okay," she said, more to herself than to Josh. Then, with deliberate slowness, she linked her arm through his and stepped forward—chin up, shoulders back, like they were strolling down a Parisian boulevard in tailored suits.
    Josh hesitated for only a second before falling into step beside her. The cobblestones were warm underfoot. Somewhere, a street musician began playing an off-key accordion.
    And then—miraculously—nobody cared.
    A few heads turned, yes. An elderly couple tsked. But the sky didn't fall. The earth didn't crack open. They were just... two more bodies in a town that had seen it all.
    Gina's fingers tightened around his arm. "See?" she murmured. "Freedom."
    Josh snorted. "*This* is freedom?"
    She grinned, unrepentant. "Admit it. You feel alive."
    He opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. Because damn it, she was right.
    Gina's laughter hit a crescendo, loud enough that a flock of pigeons scattered from the fountain they were passing. She doubled over, slapping her bare knees with enough force to leave red marks. "Oh god—" she wheezed, tears streaming down her face—"your *face* when that nun crossed herself at us—"
    Josh grimaced, acutely aware of the phone cameras now trained on them from a café terrace. "Gina. *Gina*. You're drawing a *crowd*." He attempted a casual wave at the onlookers, which only made Gina laugh harder, her shoulders shaking violently.
    She straightened just long enough to gasp, "*Wave coyly*? What are you, a *pageant queen*?" before dissolving into another fit of giggles. Josh reached for her elbow to steady her—and missed when she staggered sideways, nearly toppling into a potted olive tree. A tourist’s camera shutter clicked loudly.
    Josh’s ears burned. "You’ve *lost it*," he muttered, though his own lips were twitching traitorously. The adrenaline was still thrumming under his skin, part exhilaration, part raw mortification. They were miles from the hostel, the sun was dipping lower, and Gina was *howling* like a hyena in the middle of the square.
    Gina wiped her eyes, still hiccuping with laughter. "Okay, okay—" She sucked in a breath, composing herself for exactly three seconds before spotting their reflection in a shop window. Two very pink, very naked people flanked by mannequins in linen sundresses. Her composure shattered instantly.
    Josh groaned. "*Stop looking*."
    She couldn’t. She pointed wordlessly at their bare feet next to a display of leather sandals. The shopkeeper inside glared through the glass. Josh grabbed Gina’s wrist and yanked her away before she could collapse again.
    "You’re *impossible*," he hissed, though there was no real heat in it. Her fingers tangled with his, warm and familiar despite everything. The laughter had left her breathless, her ribs rising and falling rapidly against his arm.
    A group of teenagers whispered loudly as they passed. One raised their phone unmistakably in their direction. Gina, still giggling, flipped them off with her free hand. Josh groaned louder. "*Why*."
    "Rebels without clothes," she reminded him, grinning.
    The path ahead curved toward the river, the cobblestones giving way to packed earth. The crowds thinned, but the occasional cyclist still slowed to gawk. Josh kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the hostel’s rooftop was just visible above the treeline. "Almost there," he lied.
    Gina squeezed his hand. "Liar."
    The sun was a molten gold coin balanced on the rooftops now, stretching their shadows long and lean across the path. The air smelled of damp earth and the river’s cool breath. Gina’s laughter had settled into occasional hiccups, but her grip on Josh’s hand stayed tight.
    A speedboat roared past on the water, sending up a spray that misted their skin. Gina shrieked—more surprise than protest—and Josh, without thinking, stepped between her and the river, as if his body could shield her from the droplets.
    They froze.
    Gina’s breath hitched. Josh’s throat went dry. The boat’s wake lapped at the bank, the sound obscenely loud in the sudden quiet between them.
    Then Gina snorted. "You’re *dripping*."
    Josh looked down. Water beaded on his chest, tracing slow paths down his torso. Gina’s fingertips followed one droplet’s journey, her touch feather-light. His stomach flipped.
    The moment stretched—thin, taut—before Gina ruined it by flicking the water off his collarbone with a smirk. "Race you to the hostel?"
    Josh exhaled sharply, the spell broken. "You’re *insane*."
    She was already running, her laughter trailing behind her like a banner.
    And Josh, despite everything, ran after her.
    The cold river spray clung to their skin as they ran, evaporating in the evening air and leaving them prickled with goosebumps. Gina's breath came in sharp bursts, her bare feet slapping against the pavement—until suddenly she wasn't running anymore. She stopped so abruptly Josh nearly plowed into her. Her thighs pressed together tightly, her whole body tensed like a coiled spring.
    Josh panted, doubling over with his hands on his knees. "What—what's wrong?"
    Gina's voice came out strangled. "I *really* need to pee."
    The moment she said it, Josh's own bladder announced itself with a vicious pang. He groaned, remembering the three beers they'd downed at the bar. Ahead, a row of green metal street urinals stood like sentinels along the riverwalk. "Oh thank god," he muttered, already stepping toward one.
    Gina made a noise of pure betrayal. "*Josh*. I can't just—" She gestured wildly at the urinals, her legs twisting together. "I need an *actual toilet*."
    Josh, mid-stream, sighed blissfully. "Should've thought of that before stripping naked in a foreign country," he called over his shoulder. The relief was so profound he nearly forgot his own nakedness—until a group of cyclists whizzed past, one letting out a wolf whistle.
    Gina danced in place, her face a masterpiece of agony. "*Not helping*."
    Once freed from his own predicament, Josh took vindictive pleasure in pointing out every water source they passed. "Ooh, look, a fountain," he said, nodding at the gushing marble nymph in the plaza. Gina whimpered. A block later: "Sprinklers! How *refreshing*." Gina's nails dug into his bicep.
    The river, of course, was the cruelest tease—its endless rushing audible even as they turned down narrower streets. Gina's pace became increasingly erratic, her breaths shallow. "If I wet myself," she hissed, "I'm blaming *you*."
    They stumbled upon a café with a handwritten "Toilette" sign taped to its door. Gina made a sound like a dying animal and bolted inside before Josh could warn her about European bathroom policies. He heard the outraged squawk of the barista before the door even swung shut—then Gina's frantic, "*Per favore, per favore!*" followed by the slap of bare feet on tile.
    Josh waited outside, arms crossed over his chest, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant. The barista appeared in the doorway, her expression stormy. "*Pagare*," she demanded, holding out her palm.
    Josh blinked. "Our money's at the hostel. With our clothes."
    The woman's eyes traveled pointedly down his body—then back up with withering judgment. She slammed the door.
    Gina emerged moments later, her face the picture of post-relief euphoria. "They had *soap*," she sighed, inhaling her hands like they were perfumed roses.
    Josh glared. "She kicked me out. You owe me *so* bad."
    Gina grinned, stretching her arms overhead without a care in the world. The fading sunlight gilded her skin, highlighting the water droplets still clinging to her collarbone. Josh looked away quickly, suddenly very aware of his own nakedness again.
    The church bells tolled six times, the sound rolling across the city like a reprimand. Gina's stomach growled audibly. "We should find food," she said, as if this was a perfectly normal suggestion for two nude, sack-less strangers in a foreign city.
    Josh stared at her. "*How*?"
    Gina's eyes gleamed with the same dangerous spark that had started this whole mess. She pointed across the square to where a street vendor was packing up his kebab stand. "Distract him," she said.
    Josh's stomach dropped. "*No*."
    She was already moving. "Rebels without clothes," she called over her shoulder, grinning.
    And Josh, god help him, followed.
    They hesitated at the edge of the square, watching the kebab vendor fold his striped awning with practiced efficiency. The scent of charred meat and garlic hung thick in the air, making Josh's stomach growl audibly. Gina took a half-step forward—then froze as a pair of tourists paused to snap photos of the sunset, their camera lenses swinging perilously close to capturing more than just the scenery.
    "Maybe this isn't..." Josh began, just as Gina muttered, "Okay, new plan."
    They retreated behind a stone bench, their knees knocking together in the cramped space. Gina exhaled sharply. "While I was waiting for the bathroom," she whispered, "there was this *line* of people behind me. All fully dressed. All *staring*." She mimed a stiff-necked march, her voice pitching higher. "'Oh look Martha, a naked American doing the pee-pee dance!'"
    Josh choked back laughter, imagining Gina—completely nude, hopping from foot to foot—in a queue of perfectly composed locals holding handbags and umbrellas. The mental image was too much; he bit his knuckle to stifle a snort.
    Gina jabbed him in the ribs. "It wasn't *funny*," she hissed, though her lips twitched. "There was a *child* pointing at my..." She gestured vaguely at herself.
    This time Josh couldn't suppress the guffaw. It burst out of him like a popped cork, echoing off the cobblestones. The kebab vendor glanced over sharply. They ducked lower behind the bench, their shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
    Gina wiped her eyes. "You're *terrible*," she whispered, but she was grinning now, the earlier tension dissolved. The fading light gilded her cheekbones, catching the sweat-damp strands of hair stuck to her temples. Josh's laughter died abruptly when he realized how close they were crouched—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin, to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
    A passing pigeon startled them apart. Gina cleared her throat. "So. Food."
    They weighed their options in hushed tones: the kebab stand (too exposed), a gelato cart (too many children), a bratwurst vendor (too German, whatever that meant). Every potential meal source seemed designed to highlight their nakedness.
    Then Gina's eyes lit up. "The river," she said, pointing to where willows trailed their branches in the water. "People picnic there, right? Maybe we'll find..." She trailed off hopefully.
    Josh eyed the grassy bank dubiously. "Abandoned sandwiches?"
    "*Discarded* sandwiches," Gina corrected primly. "There's a difference."
    They crept along the periphery of the square, keeping to the shadows cast by the ochre-colored buildings. The first stars pricked through the violet sky as they reached the riverbank. A few couples lingered on blankets, but most picnickers had packed up for the evening.
    Gina pounced on a half-empty wine bottle abandoned near a tree. "Score," she announced, taking a swig before making a face. "Warm."
    Josh scavenged a crust of bread from a crumpled napkin. It tasted like rosemary and regret.
    A rustling in the bushes made them both freeze. A tabby cat emerged, carrying a sausage link in its jaws like a trophy. It paused to glare at them, its tail lashing.
    Gina gasped. "*That's* our dinner."
    Josh stared at her. "We are not fighting a cat for—"
    But Gina was already crouching, making kissy noises. "Here kitty kitty..."
    The cat hissed, its ears flattening. The sausage dropped from its mouth onto the dirt path.
    A standoff ensued.
    Gina inched forward. The cat's pupils dilated.
    Josh sighed. "*This* is how we get rabies."
    Just as Gina's fingertips grazed the sausage, the cat lunged—not at her, but at Josh's bare ankle. He yelped, stumbling backward into the river shallows with a splash that sent ducks squawking into the night.
    Gina seized the sausage. "*Run!*" she shrieked, though the cat had already vanished into the bushes.
    They sprinted down the moonlit path, Gina brandishing their hard-won prize like a baton, Josh dripping and wheezing. Their laughter bounced off the water, loud and unselfconscious.
    The stolen sausage link dangled limply from Gina's fingers, its single bite mark gleaming under the moonlight. "This," she announced solemnly, "is the saddest meal of my life."
    Josh was about to agree when laughter erupted from further down the riverbank. A couple in crisp linen shirts lounged on a picnic blanket, their wine bottle catching the lantern light. The woman noticed them first—her fork paused mid-air, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. The man followed her gaze and promptly choked on his bruschetta.
    "Oh god," Josh muttered, instinctively stepping behind Gina as if her nakedness could shield his dignity. "Abort mission."
    But it was too late. The woman waved enthusiastically. "*Americans!*" she called in accented English. "Come, join us!" Her companion was already digging out his phone, his grin widening.
    Gina hesitated for only a second before marching forward, sausage held aloft like a scepter. "We come bearing gifts," she declared, depositing their meager offering onto the blanket. The couple burst into fresh laughter.
    Josh hovered awkwardly at the edge of the blanket. "We, uh... lost our clothes," he offered weakly.
    The man—Pierre, as he introduced himself—nearly spilled his wine. "*Mon dieu*, how?"
    Gina flopped onto the blanket with the grace of someone who'd abandoned shame hours ago. "Stripped in the square. Left our stuff at a bar. Came back and—" She mimed poofing smoke with her hands.
    The woman—Claire—clapped her hands in delight. "This is *magnifique*!" She nudged a platter of cheeses toward them. "Eat, please. But first—" She held up her phone, waggling it meaningfully.
    Josh groaned. "A selfie? Really?"
    Pierre was already scooting closer, his arm outstretched for the perfect angle. "For our friends in Lyon," he explained cheerfully. "They will *never* believe this."
    The resulting photo captured Gina mid-bite, her cheeks stuffed with brie, while Josh attempted to hide behind a strategically placed baguette. Claire admired the shot with glee. "*Parfait.* Now—" She rummaged in her basket and produced two linen napkins. "For your modesty."
    Gina accepted hers with exaggerated gratitude, draping it across her lap like a tiny tablecloth. Josh's barely covered his thighs.
    As they ate, Pierre regaled them with increasingly outrageous theories about their missing clothes—stolen by gypsies! Eaten by a dog! Secret government experiment!—while Claire topped up their wine glasses with alarming frequency.
    The wine, Josh realized too late, was *strong*.
    Gina leaned heavily against him, her laughter warm against his shoulder. "Y'know," she slurred, waving a grape vaguely toward the river, "this isn't how I pictured our vacation."
    Josh snorted. "You *pictured* us naked in France?"
    She grinned up at him, her eyes glazed with alcohol and mischief. "*Maybe.*"
    The moment stretched—long enough for Josh's breath to hitch—before Claire loudly announced they *simply must* visit the nude beach tomorrow. Pierre nodded sagely. "Much better than the city. Fewer... *pigeons*."
    Gina dissolved into giggles again, her forehead thumping against Josh's collarbone. He stared resolutely at the moon, acutely aware of every point where her skin brushed his.
    The wine-warm glow evaporated when Claire checked her watch. "*Mon dieu*, it's past eleven!" She nudged Pierre, who was busy trying to balance a grape on Gina's nose. "*Le dernier bus* leaves in ten minutes!"
    Josh groaned into his hands. "*Please* tell me you're joking." The hostel was at least an hour's walk—barefoot, through god-knew-what back alleys. His feet ached at the thought.
    Pierre clapped him on the back hard enough to make him cough. "Do not worry, my friends! We will pay your fare." He winked at Claire. "Imagine the faces when we tell everyone we rode the bus with *naked Americans*!"
    Gina, who'd been attempting to fashion her linen napkin into a toga, froze mid-fold. "*Bus*?" she repeated, her voice pitching higher. "As in, a *public* bus? Full of *people*?"
    Claire beamed like she'd just offered them front-row tickets to the opera. "*Exactement!*" She leaned in conspiratorially. "This will prove to our friends that not all Americans are uptight prudes, *non*?"
    Josh opened his mouth to argue, but Gina—ever the wildcard—suddenly grinned. "Fuck it. Rebel bus ride." She grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward the street. "Come on, *prude*."
    The bus stop was mercifully empty except for an elderly woman who took one look at them and promptly crossed herself. Josh attempted to fold his arms over his chest, but the napkin kept slipping. Gina, meanwhile, had given up entirely—her "toga" now draped over one shoulder like a Roman senator after a bender.
    When the bus rumbled into view, Josh's stomach dropped. Through the windows, he could see at least a dozen faces—students with backpacks, workers in uniforms, a mother herding two wide-eyed children. The doors hissed open.
    Pierre bounded on first, announcing their arrival like a carnival barker: "*Mesdames et messieurs*, behold! The *Americains sauvages*!"
    Every head swiveled toward them. A teenager dropped his phone. The bus driver's cigarette tumbled from his lips.
    Gina, ever the performer, executed a wobbly curtsey. Josh considered throwing himself under the bus.
    Claire pressed coins into the driver's stunned hand while Pierre herded them toward the back, narrating their journey like a nature documentary: "*Observe how the nervous male attempts to cover himself with a single napkin*—"
    "*Pierre*," Josh hissed, but the damage was done. The entire bus was either gawking or pretending *very* hard not to. A group of girls in university sweatshirts were filming outright, their giggles barely concealed behind their hands.
    Gina plopped onto a seat with all the grace of a landed fish. "You know," she mused loudly, "lots of Americans embarrass themselves in Europe, but this?" She gestured at their collective nakedness. "*This* takes the cake."
    A businessman across the aisle snorted into his newspaper. The French couple burst into fresh laughter. "*See?*" Pierre crowed, slapping Josh's knee. "This proves Americans can be *fun*! Not all prudes!"
    Josh opened his mouth to protest—but the sudden lurch of the bus sent him sliding sideways into Gina. Her bare shoulder pressed against his chest, warm and solid. Their napkins fluttered to the floor like surrender flags.
    A collective "*Ooooh*" rippled through the bus. Gina's cheeks flamed crimson. Josh, despite himself, found himself grinning like an idiot.
    Claire snapped another photo. "*Parfait*," she sighed dreamily. "The *blushing*! So *authentic*!"
    The bus rumbled on through the night, carrying its cargo of laughter, wine, and two very naked, very mortified Americans toward whatever came next.
    The bus doors hissed open again, admitting a fresh wave of passengers—a trio of backpackers, an elderly couple, and a group of teenagers who froze mid-step at the sight of Gina and Josh sprawled across the back seats in all their naked glory. One teen dropped his kebab.
    Pierre, ever the showman, swept his arm toward them like a ringmaster presenting circus attractions. "*Voilà!* The famous American nudists!"
    Gina lifted her wine glass in a mock toast, her grin only slightly forced. "Bottoms up."
    Josh buried his face in his hands as camera flashes erupted. The teenagers swarmed them, chattering rapid-fire French while shoving phones in their faces. One girl draped an arm around Gina's shoulders, sticking out her tongue for the selfie. Another boy flexed beside Josh, miming a wrestling pose.
    "Smile," Claire whispered in Josh's ear, snapping yet another photo. "You are *famous* now."
    Josh's forced grin faltered as he imagined these photos surfacing on some obscure European travel blog—and, inevitably, his mother's Facebook feed.
    A middle-aged woman in a floral dress elbowed her way through the crowd, clutching a baguette like a scepter. She scrutinized Gina, then declared something in French that made Pierre howl with laughter.
    "What'd she say?" Gina asked warily.
    Pierre wiped his eyes. "She says you have the *derrière* of a Greek statue!"
    Gina blinked. Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned to present her backside to the woman, striking a pose like the Venus de Milo. The bus erupted in cheers. Josh groaned as the woman solemnly tapped the baguette against Gina's shoulder, dubbing her "*La Reine des Fesses*"—the Queen of Buttocks.
    Someone produced an accordion.
    Josh's stomach dropped. "*No.*"
    But it was too late. The first notes of "La Vie en Rose" wheezed to life, and suddenly the entire bus was swaying, strangers linking arms and belting out off-key lyrics. A drunk businessman draped his tie around Gina's neck like a scarf. A grandmother pressed a half-eaten croissant into Josh's hands.
    Gina, flushed with wine and adrenaline, climbed onto the seat, raising her glass. "*Vive la France!*" she slurred, sloshing merlot down her chest.
    The bus roared its approval. Josh, caught between horror and hysterical laughter, found himself pulled into a conga line by a group of university students. The bus lurched around a corner, sending them all tumbling into a heap of limbs and giggles.
    As the accordion launched into "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien," Josh caught Gina's eye across the sea of swaying strangers. She grinned at him, wine-stained and radiant, and for one absurd moment, he forgot they were naked on a foreign bus, forgot the impending social media disaster, forgot everything except the way her laughter tangled with the music.
    Then the bus brakes screeched. The driver bellowed their stop.
    Silence fell.
    Gina's bare feet hit the floor with a slap. "Oh," she said. "*Shit.*"
    The hostel loomed outside the windows. Through the glass, Josh could see their tour group milling in the lobby. Their *professor* was checking his watch.
    Pierre clapped them on the backs. "*Bonne chance,* my wild Americans!"
    The doors hissed open.
    Gina squared her shoulders. "Okay. New plan."
    Josh stared at her. "*There is no plan.*"
    She grabbed his hand. "*Run.*"
    They bolted down the aisle, past the gawking passengers, past Claire blowing kisses, past the accordion player striking up a jaunty farewell tune—and exploded into the night air, their bare feet slapping against the pavement as a chorus of cheers and camera flashes followed them into the dark.
    The hostel door swung open to a chorus of wolf whistles. A pair of Australian backpackers raised their beers in salute from the lobby couch while their professor pinched the bridge of his nose like a man who'd aged ten years in an hour.
    Gina executed a wobbly bow, nearly toppling into a potted fern. "Present and *accounted* for," she slurred, grabbing Josh's shoulder for balance. A dozen phones flashed in their periphery—their tour group had clearly been waiting for this moment.
    One of the Australians leaned forward, his grin widening. "I'm guessing you two had an interesting day?"
    Josh, who'd been attempting to shield himself with a discarded newspaper from the bus, met Gina's bleary gaze. They exhaled in unison. "You don't know the half of it."
    Their room key took three tries to slot into the lock. Gina collapsed onto her bed face-first, her limbs splayed like a starfish. Josh managed two steps before his knees gave out, landing sideways on his mattress with a groan that shook the cheap frame. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the distant honk of mopeds through the open window.
    Then Gina snorted.
    A giggle burst out of Josh like a shaken soda can. Soon they were howling, clutching their aching ribs, tears streaming down their cheeks as the absurdity of the day crashed over them in waves. Gina rolled onto her back, gasping between peals of laughter. "This—*wheeze*—was crazier than *EuroTrip*!"
    Josh wiped his eyes, his stomach muscles protesting. "At least we made friends?" He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the fading echoes of the bus's accordion music still seemed to linger.
    Gina propped herself up on her elbows, her grin suddenly sharp with mischief. "Speaking of friends..." She waggled her eyebrows. "Pierre mentioned that nude beach."
    Josh groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. "*Now* you want to go?"
    "Think about it." Gina's bare feet padded across the threadbare carpet as she rummaged through their luggage for pajamas. "We wouldn't stand out there. Might even be underdressed in *clothes*." She tossed a crumpled t-shirt at Josh's face.
    He caught it instinctively, holding it up to inspect the slogan: *Viva La France* in glittery letters. "Where the hell did you get this?"
    Gina winked as she pulled on an oversized sleep shirt that barely covered her thighs. "Stole it from Pierre's basket when he wasn't looking."
    Josh stared at her. Then, slowly, he pulled the shirt over his head. The fabric smelled like stolen wine and reckless decisions. "*Viva la France,*" he muttered into the silence.
    Gina's answering grin was pure trouble as she clicked off the light. Outside, the last strains of distant accordion music faded into the hum of the city—a lullaby for the beautifully, gloriously shameless.

The inspiration for this story was I was actually going to write something serious under my own name but then I started looking at a bunch of old naked videos that I downloaded from the Internet of people and embarrassing naked situations, both men and women, and it reminded me that in some European nations there aren't any laws against public nudity even though very few people take advantage of that to actually get naked. So my initial thought was that you could see somebody on a bus naked and originally the whole story was going to be them on a bus the whole time, but I thought it was fun to have them basically find themselves naked and lost in a foreign country at least an hour or several hours away from where they are staying and now with no money they pretty much have to rely on the kindness of strangers, and while they meet some nice people a lot of people gawk at them and I also got in a good scene of pee desperation that I thought worked really well. In the end they find out that people can be kind to them but also that it was very embarrassing for them to be naked but in the end they seem to have enjoyed themselves.

    I guess this story is sort of like one of those stories about Americans who are ignorant and go to Europe and they aren't aware of a lot of the customs but when they find out that public nudity is legal they decide to try it out only to find out that they find it a lot more uncomfortable than they thought and they find themselves in lots of awkward and embarrassing situation sort of like one of those comedies like I mentioned in the story (Eurotrip) where you have Americans experiencing culture shock and just lots of humorous situations that arise. It also reminded me a little bit of the horror movie Hostel in which there was a lot of Americans experiencing a lot of more liberal attitudes toward sex and nudity, challenging the notion that all Americans are prudes and that's what a lot of Americans enjoy about traveling to Europe I think. As an American who's never been to Europe I can speak from experience but I think it would probably be pretty interesting to be in a situation like this but to see somebody in a situation like this!

    So yeah this was a mutual only ones naked kind of story involving both male and female one-sided nudity.