How the novelty song “The Streak” set me on the path to naturism
An essay on unexpected influences and unforeseen paths
In 2024, “The Streak,” a novelty song by veteran singer/songwriter and occasional humorist Ray Stevens, turned 50. The song was released in February 1974, and by late spring, it was inescapable, receiving airplay on both the country and pop charts. It came out just a week before the famous streaking incident at that year’s Oscar ceremony, further fueling interest in the track.
I was eight years old when the song hit #1 on the Hot 100 (#3 on the Country Chart) in May of that year. It stayed on top for three weeks and remains one of Stevens’ biggest hits. The song intrigued me immediately. The idea of being naked just sounded appealing for some reason. I didn’t know why. Also, a few other things happened that spring and summer that cemented my early interest in nudism.
Coincidentally, around the time “The Streak” was released in the winter of 1974, my brother, who was five years older than me, insisted that we have separate rooms. My mom agreed, and he took over the room in our three-bedroom ranch that we had previously called the den. That left me with the bigger room. While “The Streak” was still riding high in the charts that spring, I happened on the 1964 film A Shot in the Dark being shown on local TV one Sunday afternoon. My brother was out somewhere, and I was using the TV in his room.
In this sequel to The Pink Panther, Inspector Clouseau (played by Peter Sellers) is sent to solve the murder of a cook at a mansion in the French countryside. In the course of the investigation, he traces a suspect to a resort. When he tries to enter the grounds, he is informed that he cannot proceed without removing his clothes. “This is a nudist colony,” he is told.
Clouseau reluctantly acquiesces and roams the grounds looking for his suspect sans clothes. The whole thing is shot cleverly. The inspector holds a guitar over his middle section and later grabs a float to cover his backside. Everybody else at the resort is positioned so no breasts, genitals, or buttocks can be seen. After all, it’s 1964, and it’s a mainstream comedy.
I’d probably heard the term “nudist colony” by that time, but seeing one, albeit a made-up one in a movie shot on a soundstage in London, was eye-opening. There were places you could walk around, outside, naked, and everyone was fine with it. Sadly, it would be another 20 years before I made it to such a place.
However, eight-year-old me was a confirmed, though closeted, nudist. At first, that meant sleeping naked. After my mom tucked me in at night, I’d wait a few minutes, then take off my pajamas. Scared of getting caught, I would leave my underwear around one ankle. I figured I could quickly pull them back up if I needed to, which, in retrospect, probably wasn't practical.
It wasn’t until a few years later, when my brother went off to the Navy, that I was able to expand my horizons. My mom, a college professor, often worked late. It wasn’t unusual for her to get home after nine o’clock some nights. On those days, at least in warmer weather, as soon as I got home from school, I’d strip and spend the late afternoon and evening nude. Even though we eventually got whole-house air conditioning, my mom wouldn’t turn it on unless it got oppressively hot, which was fine with me.
Back to “The Streak.” Even though the song sparked my initial interest in nudism, I never had any desire to streak. Ever. The idea of streaking runs counter to the tenets of nudism and naturism, in my opinion at least. To me, it’s primarily done for shock value and humor. I don’t mind the humor bit. Indeed, “The Streak” is supposed to be funny, as is A Shot in the Dark, for that matter.
The song is not only funny (though I’m not sure why the laugh track is necessary), it has an encouraging ending as, spoiler alert, the wife of the first eyewitness to the streaking incident apparently joins the offending runner. “Ethel, is that you?” Stevens, in character, asks as the chorus is sung to close the tune. “Put your clothes back on! Ethel!” Hopefully, Ethel made it to a nice nude beach or resort. 🪐
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I really enjoyed this piece.
And, I admit to having streaked a few times. By 1974, when I was 22, I'd already been going to clothing optional beaches for 4 years. Additionally, I had performed nude scenes in a few professional plays and modeled for art classes. In a non-traditional way (I'd never been to a nudist club or resort), I was also a social nudist. I lived in Manhattan at the time, and the thought of running through the streets of NYC was so improbable that it became irresistible. When I eventually did go streaking with friends, we were met -- for the most part -- with happy laughter.
There was one time when a friend and I were given a stern talking to by a policeman who then let us go. I told that story in greater detail during my interview with Naked Age podcast (Episode 2, "San Francisco Naked Guy"): https://www.nakedage.co/episodes/episode/2c2455d6/san-francisco-naked-guy
My first nudist experiences were similar. I was 12 when Shot in the Dark came to the local theater. I saw it 3 times, but the only thing I payed attention to was the nudist "colony" part. Seeing people nude and outside (well, they were supposed to be outside) just hanging out was totally fascinating - part sensual, part liberating, part just plain "feels good". I signed up to be a nudist immediately.
But this was years after I discovered the - at the risk of overstating - ecstacy, at an even younger age, of riding my bike out to my grandfather's farm, walking back into the woods, taking off all my clothes - every stitch, including socks or flip-flops - and walking and running thru the woods (yes, literally "runnin' around naked"). The further I got from my clothes, the more exciting and thrilling it was to be completely naked outside. The only thing missing was a group of other nude people to share it with.
I was 21 before I went to Black's Beach for the first time and finally got to experience being nude, outside with other nudists, and I thought about how much Inspector Closeau missed by carrying that guitar and air mattress.