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What is my age: 24
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My inner teenager, that prone-to-shock kid, dangled visions of shells and fun lava pools. My first au naturel experience on Little Beach had been a liberating proclamation of emotional comfort — naked, before you, this is who I am. The next morning, we returned to Makena State Park, hiked over a jagged lava outcrop, then down through thorny kiawe trees to Little Beach — a pristine stretch of sand at the base of a cinder cone.

On a nude beach with my parents, baring almost all

Laughter loosened us — Who brings a goat? My face burned. Our vacations became a ritual — Italy, London, Australia, Prague.

The shore break was gentle; the water, a bright shade of turquoise; the briny air, warm. We were comrades cloistered in a booth, emboldened by inhibition-free nudists.

Knobby whelks, scotch bonnets, Queen Helmet conchs — the shells, once hard exoskeletons for soft-bodied sea creatures, were chinked with tide-tumbled battle scars. Until Tarzan strutted in our direction, his large endowment at half-mast. The bohemian escapade happened by accident, when, after a stroll down Big Beach and nary a shell for my mother to collect, she asked which beach I liked best.

My toothbrush barely fit on the bathroom counter. My mother glanced up from her book as his fluffed genitals passed at eye level, less than two feet away. She examined her nails. That I am enough.

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As the day progressed, the bucking in my chest subsided. All I saw were chips and rough edges, none of her treasures perfect. And nauseated, visualizing being naked, haunch-to-haunch, with my parents. Over time, I removed layers of exoskeleton, revealed more flaws of my soft-bodied underbelly and what it meant to be a gay man. And eventually, their pride.

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Does he always strut? Come experience this together. We staked a claim in front with the beach walkers, body surfers and a doughy man with a Hula-Hoop, his appendage swinging in sync with each hip gyration.

To her, each one was a keeper. See that glimmer of iridescence. I held out my hand. Even the two mentors lost to AIDS, a painful awakening to the fragility of life, omitted.

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An hour later, she returned to the towels, a stash of shells cradled in her shirt. My father was inscrutable; my mother, fidgety and itching to beach comb. Her eyes lit up. Time to go? Matt Knight is a San Francisco-based writer and intellectual property lawyer at work on two novels. We searched for an open spot, maneuvering around a gray-haired woman with a goat, past a clique of sun-kissed college girls, and away from a rowdy pack of locals, one of whom I called Tarzan — a Little Beach legend with stringy bleached hair and skin like an old leathered satchel.

In turn, they revealed what it meant to have a gay son, their hopes and fears, misunderstandings and shame.

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In bed that night, I tossed, guilt-ridden over pushing my suburban mother out of her comfort zone. Look at that rainbow of stripes and spirals. My parents removed their shoes and socks. His grunt, almost inaudible, said everything. At the time, my sexual orientation was subject to a similar self-imposed policy within my family. Silent, I watched them sneak peeks of fresh novelties — tattoos and piercings, rolls and folds.

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But my mother hesitated, dazed and unsure. I escorted her along the shoreline to the lava pools at the north end, warning her not to venture into the trees. While I was shirtless, in boardshorts and a Speedo underneath, my parents stood out like neon warning s in shorts, knee-high socks and tennis shoes, their matching polos buttoned-up. The adult-me deserved to share that, I rationalized. And the child-me yearned for tradition, as when, on family vacations to the Outer Banks, my mother and I had searched for sea treasures.

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I had achieved my dream of the perfect marriage — an affluent gay couple, two high-profile jobs, two homes, two swanky cars — only to find it an illusion, depressing, empty. Sunscreen had been applied with a trowel. My father, the first to well up, pushed at fried tempura.

Our shared experience opened a dialogue. On visits home I had pressured her to cull her collection. Each one she laid before us with contagious enthusiasm. My mother, shoulders compressed, placed her hand on mine. Body exploration was private; porn, proscribed; sex, kept secret. Now we were all adults, I thought to myself.

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Chopsticks down, I choked out a confession about a failed relationship that ended in an early midlife crisis. My Air Force-trained father lowered his binoculars and turned from watching a humpback whale fluke slap the water. What could go wrong? Bare-bottomed sunbathers crowded the umbrella-dotted beach, a spectrum of gays to straights with an ambiguous mix in the middle.

I flicked sand over the condom, said nothing. Not the response I expected. Straw hats had been anchored around chins. This was going to be a disaster. I stripped to my Speedo. Had his petite Christian wife with a puffball of permed hair just asked to go to a nude beach? Quaint and clothing optional.

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My father and I stepped onto the hot sand. Next to us lay a three-generation Bostonian family so at ease with nudity it made me jealous. The gawking haolesas native Hawaiians called visitors, have arrived!

That evening at dinner, our relationship shifted. I decided to be honest.

My mother would collect shells for her expanding pile in the hallway bathroom back in North Carolina — spiny urchins, weathered sea glass, fishing nets with skate eggs and sand dollars, displayed like shiny brass trophies.