Why am I Always Naked at Burning Man?

It’s not even that kind of festival anymore…

I began attending Burning Man back when I had to explain what it was to most people. I would describe it as “a festival, or perhaps a city that springs up, created by participants in the desert… and it lasts for just seven days.”

Nowadays, almost everyone knows about Burning Man. It has made its way into Hollywood films and mainstream news. It has lost some of its allure. Last year, floods occurred, and the portable restrooms went days without cleaning. Campers found themselves stranded, unsure of when they could leave, surrounded by mud and chaos. Even the most dedicated attendees have sworn off returning to their beloved playa.

Personally, I haven’t felt the desire to go back to Burning Man in years. I noticed the shift almost immediately after my second year attending, which was over a decade ago. The last time I went was in 2017 or 2018, and things have only deteriorated since then. The key indicator? I no longer felt comfortable being naked. If you can’t be free with your body at Burning Man, then where else can you?

My ex-boyfriend and adventure partner, Captain Amazing, and I attended Burning Man together in 2009. We crafted our own outfits and had a fantastic time. The playa welcomed us into its eccentric world, thrusting us into the experience when we lost our car on the very first night — before we even had a chance to unpack.

This was back when there was no cell service on the playa. We had to navigate to Center Camp and use their outdated computers to locate our friends who were supposed to check in after arriving. Essentially, someone had to brave a dust storm to leave us a note about their whereabouts.

If the computers malfunctioned, our only option was to scribble our camp’s name on a giant whiteboard, like “Camp Let it Go E:14,” and then search through countless other messages on the wall.

Unfortunately for us, the computers were down, and as we walked back to our car, we realized we couldn’t find it. I wasn’t concerned, even though it was my vehicle. Everything I had heard about Burning Man suggested we were in the perfect place to get lost.

Captain Amazing felt uneasy since we had no food, water, or shelter. We resolved that by wandering around and asking fellow burners for assistance. They generously fed and hydrated us. Someone even lent us a flashlight, which we promised to return — but we couldn’t find their camp the next day. What did they expect? We lost our car within minutes of arriving.

That night, we stumbled upon an empty campsite and collapsed on a sofa someone had dragged out to the desert. The space was set up for a party, complete with a DJ table and other furniture, resembling a cozy living room. We even found a piece of tarp large enough to cover ourselves.

Come morning, we found the car. All it took was daylight. There are no streetlights out there, so once the sun rose, visibility improved. But it wasn’t just about losing our car and supplies.

We had been dressed in our “normal” clothes from the outside world instead of some eccentric Burning Man attire. I remember sewing a tiny Piglet toy from Winnie the Pooh onto a pair of pink briefs that year.

Today, people don’t make outfits like that anymore. Burning Man has transformed into an Instagram fashion show, showcasing elaborate costumes and bodysuits that either cost a fortune or are made cheaply overseas. I want to believe many attendees are thrifting their outfits, but the convenience of online shopping for inexpensive attire is too tempting. You can now find those flashy handmade sequined captain hats for $15 on Temu. The once vibrant creativity and self-expression seem lost.

What happened to the idea of being clothing-optional? It has morphed into a fashion-show mentality. Dress to impress, spend a fortune on an RV, and stay with a costly camp that provides three meals a day at odd hours when you’re too exhausted or inebriated to eat.

I went to Burning Man year after year. One year, with some first-timer friends, I decided to show them the ropes by going topless one day. The moment we rode out on our bikes, I regretted it almost immediately. I had never felt more exposed.

Remember when you could attend Burning Man and become desensitized by all the nudity? There was even a massive seesaw called the titty saw where you had to flash to ride it! Breasts were everywhere. By the end of the week, men no longer reacted to seeing a pair of dusty breasts.

That’s not the case anymore.

All I wanted was to hide away. My breasts felt cold, despite the scorching desert sun. I felt vulnerable because no one else was letting their bodies be free. To add to the discomfort, a random guy I met who let me ride his Segway wanted to film me while I was naked. Talk about awkward.

Being naked should be no big deal on the playa. Instead, I felt like I was under scrutiny. I had hoped that my daring spirit would encourage at least one other woman in the group to join me in being naked, but no such