 Sunbathing topless was one thing, but walking through the masses with my nips out was a new kind of topless entirely: moving topless. The closer we got to the edge of the field, the more agitated I became. I was attracting significantly more attention now that I was in motion, and I became overwhelmed with the idea that crossing onto asphalt would induce some sort of mini-apocalypse. The hot dog cart, however, was only feet outside the meadow. And the law was on my side. Waiting in line, the couple behind me discussed public exposure: "Oh yeah, it's legal. There was that court case in '92. If guys can do it, so can women." Just knowing that a couple random people on the street knew the legality of my actions eased my anxiety. However, these were only two people. Joggers, dog walkers and couples on dates all glanced my way, and now it was my turn to order a phallic symbol with just ketchup, please. The guy behind the stand started yelling at his coworker in a language I couldn't speak. His coworker came over and gave him some change, but I knew that was just a ruse to check out the boobs ordering a hot dog. He thanked me as he handed me my change and thanked me even more when I left him a tip. I guess it doesn't get any better than a topless chick giving you a couple of singles for your trouble. Topless hot-dog consumption felt only slightly less pervy than massaging sunscreen into my breasts. Megan put on her sunglasses and whispered, "I keep worrying that people are staring at us, but then I realize they're just staring at you." I was turning pink, both from the sun and the stares, so Megan and I decided to use the facilities and call it a day. Unfortunately the bathroom, like the hot dog stand, was outside the sweet confines of the lawn. As I strode towards the restrooms, a Frisbee hit me in the ankle. I picked it up and handed it to a man who made very steady eye contact and did not glance down for a second. He smiled at me and said, "Be careful." I gave him a genuine smile back.
The smile faded as soon as we saw the comically long wait for the ladies' room. I asked the woman at the end if it was the line for the bathroom; she looked at my breasts through her sunglasses, but didn't respond. I asked another girl, and she said yes, also staring at my boobs. I would have thought that women, used to having men stare at their cleavage, would be more subtle when they checked out a woman's chest. But the ladies in line weren't subtle, nor were they polite. I heard murmurs about breasts and "that girl." If I turned toward the whispering and offered a nervous smile, all I got in return was the lady in question looking away or continuing to whisper to her friend. I hid behind my bag as much as possible. I was almost to the front of the line when a cop walked past. His back was to me, but my mind was racing. I was suddenly paranoid that what was legal in the meadow was a crime at public restrooms. The cop was almost past us, but I was terrified that one of the whispering women would tattle on me. I was only three ladies away from getting into a stall and peeing in peace, then two more steps, then one
Just inside the door, I heard, "Ma'am, I'm sorry but you need to put a top on. If an officer sees you, that's a summons." A cool and collected park employee stood in the women's restroom with a mop and bucket. "Oh!" I fumbled in my bag for my top, "Thank you!" I was flustered. I was blushing. I felt like a scolded child, even though my bare chest pretty blatantly indicated I was a grown woman. "It's fine if you're sunbathing," she explained without scorn, "but if you're walking around, you have to wear a top." Read more I Did It For Science here.
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