The start of my day is far from perfect. I wake up at 5:15 in the morning, still sleepy from the melatonin I took the night prior. I have another alarm at 5:20 in case I fall back asleep. Eventually, I get my bare ass out of bed and throw on my shoes to play Ring Fit Adventure. Unfortunately, I have to put on a pair of gym shorts as well so the leg strap doesn't chafe my thighs. I work out in my stuffy room until 6, or until I'm all sweaty and disgusting, whichever comes first. I ditch the shoes and throw the shorts in the hamper, then put on a robe so I don't accidentally flash my prudish parents on the way to the bathroom. If I have enough time, I rub one out while I'm there. Otherwise, I just use the pot and take a shower after.

I get dressed in a boring polo, a heavy pair of denim jeans and closed-toe sneakers. I make myself my typical diet breakfast: microwaved egg whites and a slice of American cheese between two pieces of whole grain bread (with two slices of microwaved bacon on Fridays). In tandem, I'm also setting up my equally calorie-sparse lunch. Once I'm done eating, I brush my beak and head out the door by around seven, just in time to get to my job at seven thirty, still tired and already wanting to go home.

I'm usually able to get my head in the game after a cup of tea or two. Still, between waking up too damn early, exercising in my cramped bedroom, and eating what feels like only half a breakfast, my typical morning routine leaves a lot to be desired. Of course "the perfect morning" doesn't exist. It's fantasy, and even if it did exist, it'd be different for everyone. But hey, nothing wrong with indulging in a little fantasy every now and then. So let me paint a picture for you: my perfect morning.

I wake up well-rested, having gotten a full eight hours of sleep. I check the clock. In about a half-hour, my eight o' clock alarm will sound. In the meantime, a half hour is just enough time to check my socials and see if any of my favorite artists ed anything new. By the time my alarm goes off, I'm finally awake enough to kick the covers off my naked body and hop out of bed.

I leave the room without bothering to get dressed. After all, my perfect morning takes place in my perfect world, where the taboos of sex and nudity are mere trifles. No indecency laws, religious shame, conservative groupthink, or need to showcase status or wealth. Without a reason to be ashamed of my own body, I never learned to be. Instead, I learned to wear what feels most comfortable, even if it's nothing.

But I digress. I wish Mom and Dad each a good morning. My real parents unconditionally accepted me when I came out as a pansexual. It'd be no surprise if this story's version of them accepted me as a nudist as well. Heck, they might be nudists themselves, too. Bet it would be pretty dope growing up in a skyclad household.

Regardless, I head to the bathroom and take care of my morning wood, as well as any other bathroom-related urgencies. Once that's taken care of, I slip on my running shoes and get exercising. In this case, however, I don't play Ring Fit Adventure. Why work out inside when I could have the cool wind blowing through my feathers during a brisk jog around the neighborhood?

Waving farewell to my parents, I open the front door and step outside. The air is cool under the shade of the porch awning, the sudden chill giving me goosebumps under my plumage. Good thing I took care of my morning wood. My feathers wouldn't be the only thing ri. Anyway, I do my warm-up stretches on the porch. Gotta be limber for a run, you know.

Finally, I step out into the sun. Its warmth immediately envelops my body. Part of me wants to linger there, take in fresh air and appreciate the perfect naturist weather, but I came out here for a reason. So, I get my legs moving, down the driveway and onto the street.

You know, usually I'm not too big on cardio. It gets me sweaty real easily and makes my clothes all gross. However, I've noticed that not wearing clothes when doing cardio helps twofold in that regard: less sweat and less laundry. Like I'm killing two… uh… two of something with one stone.

The point is, I'm streaking. My cock and balls are bouncing with each step. My tail is at just the right angle to show off my bright green backside. I even by a few unexpecting neighbors. Sure, some of them might be surprised, shocked even. It's just a naked body, though, nothing to be offended over. Most of them are probably used to the sight anyway. Worst case scenario is that they roll their eyes, get over it and go on with their day.

In fact, I'm willing to bet even more of them catch me on their doorbell cameras. Kind of ironic, if you think about it. Half the reason I don't go streaking willy-nilly down my road anymore is because of those cameras, but on this perfect morning, they're just another set of eyes to ogle me, to take in the wonderful sights of my body, to witness the joy of deliberate public exposure.

Fortunately, I'm too focused on jogging to linger on thoughts like that. Wouldn't want to get a boner in public. Not that it's illegal in this world; it's a perfectly natural physiological phenomenon by any means. I just don't want anyone to think I'm propositioning them. Although, that would make for some good cardio…

Maybe another time.

After a few laps around the block, I stop outside the local bagel store and do my cool-down stretches before heading inside. The shop door chimes as I enter and the mouth-watering smell of bagels, muffins, and other breakfast delights hits me immediately. The cute squirrel woman greets me with a smile, as she does with all her regulars. I order my usual: A baconeggncheese with extra bacon, and an ice-cold green tea. I sit down outside and enjoy it before heading back home to shower and go to work.

Of course, this is all speculative fiction. Even in more liberal countries where there are no clearly defined laws against public nudity and plenty of active naturist circles, there are still people with hang-ups about it. But hey, that's why I write the stories I do: to make the fantasy as real as I can.

Heck, the very first commission I ever ed had a very similar theme. That was over five years ago and the accompanying story was less than three hundred words. With a ive community and help from other furry writers, I've grown a lot as a storyteller and I couldn't be more grateful. Not many things bring me as much joy as being able to paint such full-frontal fantasies with my words, whether it's breaking the taboo of nudity by casually relaxing with other social naturists, or disrupting the status quo with bacchanalian feats of exhibitionism. As long as I follow the community guidelines of whatever site on which I decide to display my disrobed derriere, both you and I can live vicariously in a world where nothing's off limits.