Here in frigid ol’ Boston, we’re not supposed to admit that, when it comes to uncovered skin, we have wandering eyes. We’re an uptight town as a whole, not comfortable with bare skin and all the unchaste ideas that come with it. You could argue that this is the weather’s fault, that we battle the cold for so many months that we don’t have enough time to grow comfortable prancing around with less clothing. Or it could be that Boston’s stuffiness is also a kind of collective distancing from the city’s tassel-spinning, sailor-gallivanting, Scollay Square past. Or maybe we’re just a bunch of lame-o prudes.

Whatever the reason, Boston isn’t a sexy city. It’s a city of wicked accents. It’s a city of intellectuals. It’s a city of ruddy-nosed drinkers. But it’s not a city of exhibitionists. Sure, we probably have more exposed flesh in Boston than, say, Manchester, New Hampshire, but the closest Boston gets to communal sex is our collective penis envy of New York City.

So in the interest of promoting Bostonian skin, and in hopes of warmer weather, here’s a list of places both indoors and out where you’re likely to see exposed flesh this summer. We’re not suggesting you leer or peep or do anything that could make you a perv. Just take a glance around. It won’t get you arrested.

In the Porter Square Shopping Center, tucked above a suburban-sprawl-style strip of chains (McDonald’s, Shaw’s, Pizzeria Uno, CVS), is a steamy room of naked women. Sound enticing? It’s the locker room of Cambridge’s HealthWorks, an all-female fitness center known for its uninhibited, underwear-less members. Many of Boston’s locker rooms range from a few regular nudies to modest maidens who’ll only disrobe in the privacy of a shower stall, but the bare-ass babes at HealthWorks are apparently quite comfortable with brushing their manes and carrying on lengthy conversations in the buff. Who says feminism is dead?

HealthWorks, Porter Square Shopping Center, Cambridge, (617) 497-4454; www.healthworksfitness.com.

HealthWorks’s hairier complement is Naked Yoga for Men, an all-male class where birthday-suited boys meditate long and, er, hard to achieve harmony between their bodies and minds. Held in an undisclosed location in Central Square, this theistic therapy isn’t open to just any Joe off the street. First, interested participants have to be screened by NYFM creator and public liaison Bob Sparling, a "hard-core nudist," according to Bay Windows, who tries to weed out possible creeps. If your interest is piqued — just your interest! — a quick Google search for "Naked Yoga for Men" will give you the goods.

"Like a Cheers with balls," is how Insomniac’s Dave Attell described Dillon’s Russian Steam Bath, where he donned a fuzzy white bathrobe and confabulated with a table of toweled townies for his Comedy Central late-night show. A 118-year-old shvitz parlor (shvitz is Yiddish for "sweat"), Dillon’s is a small brick building buried beside Boston’s other green monster, the Tobin Bridge, in which guys of all shapes, sizes, and sags emerge from a "wet steam room" to let it all hang out in a TV-equipped lounge. But even on a recent rainy Saturday, the beefcake was visible from the parking lot, as a divested man stood in an open first-floor doorway holding himself with a striped blue-and-white towel. As for the ladies, this muggy sanctum only allows chiquitas with no bananas on Monday evenings from 4 to 9 p.m. During those hours, Dillon’s is like Cheers with bazooms.

Dillon’s Russian Steam Bath, 77 Chestnut Street, Chelsea, (617) 884-9434; www.dillonsbaths.com.

Even though it’s on the shore, Castle Island, a pentagonal-fortress-turned-recreation-destination, is more park than beach. Populated by sweaty rollerbladers, kite fliers, and heavy-breathing runners, the South Boston seaside spot draws exposed skin even on drizzly days. Like on a recent afternoon, when a group of pretty young lasses with toned tummies peeking out above their folded-over waistbands sauntered into Sullivan’s — an indoor beachside concession stand dealing in soft-serve cones, crispy clams, and fried poultry — and ordered cheeseburgers and fries. ("Two days on the treadmill," one of them declared.) Down the road from Castle Island is Carson Beach, another clothes-shedding stretch beside Day Boulevard, where Logan-bound jetliners buzz overhead like high-strung horseflies and the bacteria counts sometimes reach SAT-score levels. It’s not Hawaii, but it’s a sure thing for string-bikini sightings.

Castle Island, Day Boulevard, South Boston, (617) 268-5744; Carson Beach, Day Boulevard, South Boston.

The colossal crustacean claws beetling over the front of Tia’s on the Waterfront are meant to advertise the restaurant’s $13.95 lobster special. But meat of a different kind is on display on Tia’s open-air back terrace. Contiguous to the Marriott Long Wharf Hotel and near the New England Aquarium, the harbor-side haunt has heated awnings on its brick patio — ideal for both smoking-banned Boston and garment removal. Although it’s certainly known for its blatant hook-up factor (it regularly hosts something called "The infamous Lock and Key party," described on CraigsList.com as "Girls get the locks, guys get the keys and it’s anybody’s guess how they fit!"), Tia’s isn’t Saugus on the water. More Banana Republic sleeveless crewneck than Wet Seal tank top, it’s a loud, boisterous bar of professionals gazing at one another. Six drinks and salty air do strange things to people — so be careful.

Tia’s on the Waterfront, 200 Atlantic Avenue, (617) 227-0828; www.tiaswaterfront.com.

Something about baseball makes people get naked. Every Red Sox home-game day when the temperature rises above 65, a greasy gang of gum-chomping scalpers on Brookline Avenue stuff their T-shirts in their back pockets and show off their concave chests. Inside Fenway Park, the section that, pound for pound, boasts the most raw flesh, fresh sunburns, and string-bikini tops is undoubtedly the bleachers, a ghettoized far corner reserved for half-naked men and peek-a-boo thongs. In the bleachers, even the kids tear off their clothes. A few Saturdays ago, above the away-team’s bullpen, a bony boy with a future as a flasher — or whose big brother owns a collection of Girls Gone Wild! videos — kept yanking his jersey up to his chin. His obsession with frontal nudity had a domino effect, inspiring a dozen kids near him to swing their shirts like lassos. A cameraman perched on a right-field roof caught sight of the shirtless-kiddie chorus line and aired them on the jumbo message board. The rest of the kids got dressed, but the one who started it all refused.

Fenway Park, 4 Yawkey Way, (617) 267-9440.

Something about horseracing inspires clothes-shedding. Maybe it’s the freely flowing beer or the fact that some of these guys have just lost their shirts, but the outdoor trackside benches at East Boston’s Suffolk Downs are usually filled with clumps of unclothed gamblers rubbing their big bellies like magic lanterns. For the past few summers, Suffolk also hosted big-name concerts where crowd-surfing skater boys brandishing pierced nipples exposed their skin. But this year, Suffolk has extended its racing schedule, so the only skin on display will be the betting kind.

Suffolk Downs, Route 1A, East Boston, (617) 567-3900; www.suffolkdowns.com.