Over the past decade, aside from our annual beach trips, we’ve almost always met in Manhattan. It’s not that we don’t have plenty of members who live in the outer boroughs or in Jersey — we do. But Manhattan is central and easy to get to and more people know how to find their way to a spot in the middle of Central Park than to one in the middle of Prospect Park. Anyway, with one thing and another, until last month, we hadn’t held an event in Brooklyn for years.

We finally broke down and did it when we heard from someone who was curious about our group but asked if we ever met in Brooklyn because she lived near Park Slope and wasn’t taking public transportation while the pandemic was still going on. Would we consider returning to Prospect Park for the first time since the New York Times filmed interviews with us there?

Of course we would. Bringing our message of freedom and equal rights and body-positivity to new places is what we’re all about — it’s why we post photos of our events on this blog, and taking a subway to Brooklyn, if not the least we could do (pandemic and all), is certainly not too much to ask.

So off we trekked, to a lawn in Prospect Park called Nellie’s Lawn, which we’d never been to but a) had the virtue of presumably being a grassy surface good for sitting on (it’s right there in the name) and b) is labeled on Google Maps, so anyone with a working cell phone could locate it.

It was late September, but the weather was absolutely gorgeous — not chilly at all, but not sweltering either, the sun laying its honeyed autumn rays upon us like a gentle benediction. (Have we been reading too much poetry lately? Bite your tongue. There’s no such thing.)

We shared Nellie’s Lawn with a wide range of Brooklyners (or visiting Manhattanites, who knows?), among them a martial arts dude practicing his staff katas, some kids playing football, and a swimsuit model posing for a photographer with a baby slung in a Bjorn across her chest.

In this crowd, we attracted exactly zero attention when we bared our breasts — no comments, positive or negative; no stares; no But what about the children? The children were happy playing football, thank you very much. Everyone left us alone, which is exactly how it should be.

We ate our snacks and read our books and at no point did anyone make us feel even slightly unwelcome.

What of the Brooklyn dweller who originally asked us to come? She showed up with a friend in tow and they sat a respectful, socially-distanced distance away, and this first time, neither of them chose to go topless themselves. Which is fine of course. We’re all about choice. No one should ever feel the slightest pressure to go topless, and no one should ever feel the slightest pressure to not go topless. Our new friends wanted to see what it was like, and we were glad to show them.

They couldn’t have had a better first exposure. Now they know firsthand that, at least in New York, women really can go bare-chested without fanfare or scandal, without stress or shame. And maybe next time they’ll try it for themselves. We were all first-timers once, some of us not so very long ago.

Baby steps are steps. Whether it’s getting us out of our comfort zone when it’s confining us to Manhattan or getting a first-timer out of her comfort zone if it’s confining her breasts under a shirt and bra, we all need a little encouragement, a little evidence that this new experience will be fun rather than fearsome. We’re so glad we got that encouragement — and even more glad that we got to give it back.

If you’re a first-timer and you’re either curious (but nervous) or nervous (but curious), we hope you’ll reach out to us at toplesspulpfiction@gmail.com and let us help you dip a toe in the water.

Or a nipple, as the case may be.