Category Archives: Gratuitous Nudity

Shoes and a hand bag.

Madonna once claimed that that’s all a girl needed to go anywhere.

This girl begs to differ.

All I need is a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses.

Ford has always had a 70’s porn aesthetic simmering right below the surface of most of what he does.

And this spread is nothing if not a cheap redux of some 70’s porn scene. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.

We wear our sunglasses at night.

Because the night time is the right time.

Barry White time.

It started off with me in a black t-shirt and black silk pants, so I knew it was a dream. I stood in the center of a small black stage that was worn and scuffed with the marks of performers and the desperate scratches of dying dreams. A group of women hollered from the back of the room, while a small assembly of watchers sat greedily eyeing me up and down.

I was there for one thing: to take my clothes off and put on some sort of show. I did what I sometimes do in situations that make me very uncomfortable: I went into show-girl mode and pretended I knew exactly what I was doing. Prowling around the stage, I strutted and posed, lifting my shirt a little and giving a smile/snarl to those who nodded and yelled. In our society, we’ve all seen how to act like a stripper. (Even those of us who have only seen very select bits of ‘Magic Mike’ and the like.)

There was only so much vamping and stalling I could muster, however, and eventually it came time to give them what they wanted, the only reason I was there. I turned my back to the audience and lifted my shirt. Awkwardly, I had to try a few times. Turns out that shit does take some practice to do it without looking like some clumsy virgin.  No one seemed to mind, though I was anything but emboldened by the audience’s approval.

I swung my inside-out shirt around like some white flag, but it was black, and the people took it as a call for more cheers. The spotlights were blinding, but I could make out a few faces in the crowd. The group of screaming women had positioned themselves closer to the stage, and I knew it was time. Black silk caressed my body, and I didn’t want to take it off but there are times we do what we least want to do. Turning my back to the crowd one more time, I bent over and pulled my pants down, exposing my naked ass to everyone.

As I stepped awkwardly out of my pants, I turned around and faced all those people. Full-frontal screaming ensued but I looked each of those women in the face with a doleful stare, and one-by-one they stopped smiling and cheering. There was such sadness to my expression that my nudity was no longer sexy or fun, and suddenly it felt like we were all about to cry.

In the silence, I picked up my clothes and walked deliberately off the stage, closing the door of the nearby bathroom behind me and pulling my clothes on as quickly as possible.

Then the dream ended.

I awoke in pajamas and blankets, with my husband quietly snoring beside me.

Maybe some dreams are better left dead.

On a day following the first snowfall of the season, I am filled with enough anti-snow sentiment to reach way back in the archives for some sunny pre-skinny-dipping photos. Here is the pool in all its splendor, backed by some blooming black-eye-susans and filtered by the leaves of a cherry tree. It is the bare personification of summer, and I miss it.

This is far too early to have snow, especially since the colorful leaves are being ripped from their branches and everything is bent over beneath the weight of the frozen stuff. A ten-foot-tall clump of fountain grass has been felled – especially tragic as that is the main point of interest in the winter garden. All of our dogwoods are groaning and touching the ground with their burdened branches. The hydrangeas are a weeping mess.

Worse than all of this? The first appearance of Christmas commercials. Best Buy you are so over.

Our ‘Erotica’ anniversary week celebration continues with this extra-cheeky post. (If I’m going to talk the talk, I might as well walk the walk.) Taken a couple of weeks ago at the Standard High Line (where nudity and exhibitionism are strongly encouraged) these shots go well with the daring derriere-flaunting show-off nature of the ‘Erotica’ period. I’ll copy a few lyrics from the extra-special version that appeared in the ‘Sex’ book and remix CD.

MY NAME IS DITA, I’LL BE YOUR MISTRESS TONIGHT

I’LL BE YOUR LOVED ONE, DARLING, TURN OUT THE LIGHT

I’LL BE YOUR SORCERESS, YOUR HEART’S MAGICIAN

I’M NOT A WITCH, I’M A LOVE TECHNICIAN.

I’LL BE YOUR GUIDING LIGHT IN YOUR DARKEST HOUR

I’M GONNA CHANGE YOUR LIFE, I’M LIKE A POISON FLOWER…

WE COULD USE THE CAGE, I’VE GOT A LOT OF ROPE

I’M NOT FULL OF RAGE, I’M FULL OF HOPE

THIS IS NOT A CRIME, AND YOU’RE NOT ON TRIAL

BEND OVER BABY, I’M GONNA MAKE YOU SMILE.

LIGHT THE CANDLES ‘TIL THEY’RE NICE AND SOFT

AND WHEN THEY START TO DRIP I’M GONNA GET YOU OFF…

Pietro Boselli has been here in various stages of undress before, but never quite as nude as he is today. Here’s a gift to you when things on my Twitter and other social media feeds have gone a little too political for my comfort zone. Gratuitous male nudity trumps everything, and it’s high time we returned to those core values of this blog. Feast your eyes upon Mr. Boselli in all his butt-naked glory.

My forty-one-year-old ass is ready for its close-up.

Get DeMille on the line and fire up the Isotta-Frascini.

The pool is ready, willing, and able.

I’ve got my birthday suit on, much like last year.

And any other year for that matter.

What are you waiting for?

Jump.

A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s birthday but never remembers her age. ~ Robert Frost

The Delusional Grandeur Tour may be even more delusional than originally thought, as my traveling seems to have diminished greatly. When you only have to step out your back door to an 87-degree pool, and back inside to a cool 70-degree house, travel seems largely unappealing. That said, I still enjoy a jaunt out of town, and this tour is still in full-effect until I say it isn’t. Hence this bonus tour post, which recalls the Hotel portion of the Tour book. Rather than trouble you with further discussion, here are a few links to bring you back to one of my favorite hobbies: staying in hotels.

• On the Road: A Hotel ~ Part One
• On the Road: A Hotel ~ Part Two
• On the Road: A Hotel ~ Part Three

“I’m more at home with my backpack, sleeping in a hotel room or on a bus or on an airplane. Than I am necessarily on a bed. It’s weird being here. It feels like I’m standing next to my real life.” ~ Henry Rollins

There’s a distinctive shift that comes over me when I’m in a hotel room. A sense of safety in anonymity, the possibility of being unknown and untouchable. Ensconced in a lofty space high above a city, or on the ground floor of some seaside retreat, I find comfort in being a transient stranger.

We are all known in our own circles, and that can be incredibly wearying.

As much as we strive to be known, to be recognized, to be seen, we sometimes forget that it comes with its own set of burdens and responsibilities.

I long for a different kind of freedom, something that can only be found when you go away.

Unseen, across the landscape of light, a morning approaches. Unbidden, because there are certain nights you don’t want to end, it presents itself matter-of-factly. There it stands in front of you: the day. Unpretentious, indisputable, and always just a little inscrutable, it awaits further instruction. Which way will you go? Where will you take it? How would you like it to end?

Obscured by the changing lens of life, it looks a little different to everyone. Distorted by the stories we tell ourselves, and the tales we choose to hear, it bends and refracts and ricochets like light. Yet as tricky as it sometimes seems to be, there is something reassuring about the whole scene: a tacit understanding with the day that we will do it together.

It wouldn’t be fair for me to do a post catechizing other guys to take their pants off if I’m not going to do my part and be brave too, so here’s the nude preamble to today’s posts. Truth be told, I haven’t been as unclothed here as everyone seems to think I am, but that’s what happens when nudity is involved – everything gets thrown out of whack and blown out of proportion. The false puritan notions of America, bogged down by hypocrisy and hyperbole.

This site has long been a bully pulpit for self-expression and a shame-free zone for the naked human body. While there is no full-frontal nudity (I don’t mind the NSFW label we get, as long as I know it’s not true) there’s just about every other sort, and one man’s backside is another man’s treasure. Now we’re slipping into Debbie Reynolds talk, and I’m pretty sure Carrie Fisher would hardly approve. Come back later for hotter guys similarly lacking in attire.