Tasteful Nudes: ...and Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation (3 page)

I can’t imagine circumstances that would cause me to show up somewhere all by myself for the very first time and just whip my master of ceremonies out like that. It was hard not to admire the guy at least a little bit.

Once the naked people and I had had our fill of the buffet, a gaggle of us headed to the upper deck to enjoy some of that sea air (though, admittedly, them more than me). Lucy stayed behind and continued to hold court with some other naked people. Her clothes still on, the naked people simply could not look away.

The upper deck was sort of an observation deck turned dance floor. There was another bar up there, so I decided to throw some more gasoline on the fire by buying another round for me and some of my new friends. Or so I thought they were. Separated from Lucy, I no longer had an ally and the naked people wasted no time in pressuring me to fully join their ranks.

“How about losing those pants?” a fiftyish, earth-mother type with a long, gray braid suggested coyly.

“You just want to see my package!” I protested.

Again, they all denied having any interest in that sort of thing and simply suggested I join them so that I might better understand what they were all about.

“You’re a journalist,” they pleaded. “How can you report on tonight without truly experiencing it?”

“I feel like I’m getting a pretty good sense of things,” I said defensively while subtly making sure my belt was fastened and my fly was still up.

“Puh-lease,” the earth mother said, rolling her eyes.

A few sips of beer later, I decided to throw the naked people a bone and took my jeans off. I had to admit the breeze was nice, even with my boxers still on. But with my assets still shrouded in breathable cotton, my gesture meant little to them.

“That doesn’t count, Dave,” the earth mother scolded. “Give us your underwear.”

“Look, if you really want to see my dick so badly, why don’t you just come out and say it?” I told them.

“No one wants to look at your dick, Dave,” the guy with the dangling earring assured me.

“Okay, fine, so you just want to see my balls, then? Is that it?” I countered. Admittedly, the sometimes cruel rhythms of the sea had me a bit nauseous by this point, so I was starting to spout nonsense.

“We told you, we’re not about any of that stuff,” a woman with a full Brazilian chimed in.

“No, Dave,” the earth mother seconded. “Now please join us.”

“Yeah, Dave,” the dangling earring guy chimed in with a New Agey grin. “Join us.”

I don’t know if it was the sea air, the alcohol, or Donna Summer blaring over the boat’s sound system that did it, but I was starting to believe them. And as the fleshy mob slowly surrounded me, I was also beginning to think I had little choice but to lose my boxers or jump overboard.

“All right,” I told them. “I’ll do it!”

At that the naked people cheered in unison as if they had all won tickets to see a revival of
Oh! Calcutta!

Kind of like submerging yourself in a freezing swimming pool, I figured dropping my boxers gradually would only make things worse, so I whipped them off in one swift, jerking, scream-filled motion. And immediately following that motion my genitals practically caught fire from the amount of stares they received from the naked people.

“You’re all looking at my package!” I screamed. “I totally just busted all of you!”

“Come on, Dave.” The lady with the hairless infield blushed. “It’s not like we’re not gonna take a little peek.”

“‘A little peek?’ You were all just plain staring and you know it!”

Silence. These people disgusted me. Or did they? After all, I was now one of them. And I have to admit, after that initial tension subsided, I kind of liked it. No sooner had I dropped my boxers than the naked people suddenly dropped all that “It’s not sexual” crap they had been trying to feed me all night.

“I’m also a member of a polyamory group,” the earth mother cooed at me.

“I’m shocked,” I deadpanned.

It turned out that, in addition to her office job, she ran an S&M-themed side business where her specialty involved strapping on a pair of high heels and kicking customers right in the clangers. And the guy with the dangling earring and lady with the bald vagina? Together, they were part of a swingers group and had been riding one another like a mechanical bull since the early ’90s.

“You have a very nice package,” the earth mother told me as if she were admiring my tie.

Admittedly, I had to ask her several times before she was willing to give me her opinion on the matter, but it was still nice to hear her talk so freely like that.

“Your stuff is, uh, nice, too,” I responded, not sure what I meant but wanting to return the compliment somehow.

The more I opened up to the naked people, the more they opened up to me. With my dingle dangle twisting in the night air, I was no longer a journalist, but simply a fresh new face joining them for a night on the high and sexy seas.

“I can’t help but notice you have no hair on your vagina,” I said matter-of-factly to the woman with no hair on her vagina.

“Nope—I sure don’t.” She smiled. “You’re a very observant young man.”

“Thanks. I get that a lot.”

It turned out she had been waxing her downtown real estate for years now and couldn’t imagine turning back. The guy with the dangling earring seemed just as excited about it as she did.

“You should try it,” she said eagerly.

“Yeah, you should try it,” the guy with the dangling earring agreed, turning toward me.

The balls on this guy. Literally. Sorry, folks, you can take my dignity, but you can’t take my shrubbery. I need that. For a lot of stuff.

With the playing field leveled and a full inventory taken of both my best and worst features by my fellow naked people, we decided to take a stroll together around the upper deck of the boat to take in a bit of the night breeze, which—with my boxers now draped over a nearby railing—really seemed to be picking up all of a sudden. To maintain some sense of decorum, I yelled down to Lucy to tell her that, in order to preserve our friendship, I really needed her to stay on the lower deck until the show was over. To her credit, she was fine with it. The naked people, not so much.

“Why won’t you let her see you naked?” the earth mother asked.

“Because I don’t want to scar her for life,” I explained.

“But I already told you, you have a very nice package,” she countered.

“Thanks. And it means a lot. But I’m really going to need everyone to respect my wishes here, okay?”

“Fine.”

As we sexily made our way toward the ship’s bow, we naked people happened upon the photographer from
The Times,
an attractive female twentysomething, who was busy snapping away like she had just spotted Jennifer Aniston on the town with a new boyfriend. I was surprised to find myself equally embarrassed and titillated as the fact that my chancellor had shown up to the party slowly registered across her face.

“Oh, no, the hot
New York Times
photographer can see my package!” half of me thought.

“Oh, cool, the hot
New York Times
photographer can see my package!” the other half thought.

As the
Times
photographer did her best to pull herself together at the sight of me, I continued to let the night air have its way with me. But no sooner had I grown accustomed to the all-new, all-nude me than the ship’s fully clothed captain announced that the ship would soon be arriving back at shore, that dreaded netherworld where clothes were not only the norm, they were required by law. With that, my fellow skin aficionados and I headed for the stairs back down to the main level. Before I descended, I decided to put my boxers and pants back on. Not only did I not want Lucy to run screaming at the sight of me, but I didn’t feel like sharing Naked Dave with those who had remained downstairs all night. Naked Dave was only for my fellow naked upper deckers, the ones who had really earned it.

Once back on the main level, I ran into big, butt-naked Ron again. Apparently the legend of Naked Dave had made its way down to the the main level well before my triumphant return.

“So, how did you like it?” Ron asked.

“It was nice,” I told him. “But just so you know, the first thing everyone did was look at my package. You might wanna have a little talk with these people.”

“Come on, Dave.” Ron shrugged. “It’s not like we’re not gonna take a little peek.”

Whatever.

As dry land slowly came into focus, my fellow birthday-suit boosters and I pulled the rest of our clothes back on like ancient slaves reluctantly refastening our own shackles. Not surprisingly, there was no shortage of tie-dye and batik ensembles, New Age jewelry, and other stuff I had already chosen to imagine them in during those moments when all that skin got to be a bit more than I could handle. And it was safe to say that—without exception—everyone was a whole lot more attractive covered up a little bit. I even wanted to tell some of them they looked so good with clothes on it was almost hard to believe how horrifying they looked naked, but suddenly it dawned on me how that might not sound like the compliment I meant it to be.

“That’s a really fun top,” I said to the earth mother instead.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” she said, clearly struggling with having to cover up.

Once we were safely docked, my new friends and I made our way back to shore where I noticed a handful of clothes-loving landlubbers loitering near the dock.

“Guess what. We were all just totally naked out there on that boat!” I wanted to yell out to them. “Butts, boobs, johnsons, hoo-has, everything!”

But in the end, I thought better of it. Sure, it would have been awesome, but it might not have been cool, especially with me being a serious journalist and all.

Before we went our separate ways, the earth mother, the guy with the dangling earring, the woman with the shaved infield, and I all exchanged business cards. They wanted me to get in touch with them as soon as my story came out and I wanted to see if their business cards said anything about how much they are totally into getting naked all the time (in case you’re wondering, not even a mention. I know. I thought it was weird, too).

A couple days after my sexy night at sea, I received a coquettish e-mail from the earth mother.

“My polyamory group has regular outings to the beach. We have a bonfire and lots and lots of fun,” she wrote. “You should really think about joining us sometime.”

That was two years ago. I’m still thinking about it.

Loving You Is Easy Because You Live Pretty Close to My Parents’ House

Love—it’s a funny game, isn’t it? One minute you’re terrified you’re going to die alone, the next minute you’re pressing a stack of twenties into someone’s hands just to finally get them out of your life once and for all. And yet we keep coming back for more, don’t we?

My earliest memories of romance go all the way back to kindergarten. But as I sit here typing this, a for-the-most-part grown man, it occurs to me that chronicling my once burning desire for a five-year-old girl might come off as a little creepy. So—in the interest of preserving a modicum of decency in these pages—please allow me to skip ahead a bit and start things off by telling you about a twelve-year-old girl I once had the hots for.

It was a Friday night back in the seventh grade and I was spending it, as I did most weekend nights, sitting at the kitchen table, staring into the family room, trying and mostly failing to get the attention of my sisters’ friends, who had come over for a bit of television watching and important girl talk. Suddenly, the phone rang. The odds of it being for me weren’t great, but I went ahead and answered it anyway.

“Hello, Hill residence,” I said. “This is the king speaking.”
1

“Dave?” asked the voice on the other end.

“Hey, Marla,” I said, recognizing the voice as belonging to one of the few girls in my grade willing to address me directly.

“I have a question for you,” she said. “Who do you like?”

“Christina,” I said without hesitation, naming the object of my burning desire since the third grade.

“Oh, uh…” Marla stammered. “Well, who else do you like?”

“Abbey.”

“Who else?”

“Jessica.”

“All right, what about Mary Jean?” Marla asked, cutting to the chase.

“Sure, she’s cool,” I told her.

“Would you ever go with her?”
2

“Sure.”

“Okay, hang on a second,” Marla said. “I’ll put her on.”

“Hello? Who’s on the phone?” yet another voice on the line said. “I need to use the phone this minute.”

“Mom, hang up, I’m on the phone!” I yelled.

It turned out my mom had picked up the upstairs extension—as she often did—just as soon as things were getting good.

“Hurry it up,” my mom said before slamming down the receiver.

A couple of seconds later, I heard another voice come on the line. It was Mary Jean. Finally.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I answered.

“What are you doing?”

“Just sitting here mostly. What are
you
doing?” I said, trying to sound about as sexy and coquettish as a twelve-year-old was legally allowed to at the time.

“Nothing,” she answered.

“Cool.”

“So, what do you think?” Mary Jean asked, subtly addressing our possible romantic future.

“Uh, um, yes, I would like to go with you,” I said brashly.

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in school on Monday.”

“Okay. Bye, Mary Jean. See you Monday. Say bye to Marla for me.”

By seventh-grade standards, shit was totally on. I showed up to school the following Monday with a bit of extra swagger in my step and some added attention given to my hair, which at the time I wore short, sometimes parting it on the right, other times parting it on the left without warning in order to let everyone around me know that I was a guy who had no time for rules.

As you can probably imagine, word spread pretty quickly around the seventh grade that Mary Jean and I were officially an item. Since she was pretty and a member of the “popular girls” clique, going with her gave me an instant bump in social status. And since I was neither good at sports nor school, Mary Jean gained herself a bit of street credibility by going with a fucking outlaw. Raising the stakes on things was the fact that Mary Jean and I weren’t even in the same homeroom—risky circumstances that forced us to seize opportunities for romance wherever and whenever they came along. It was like something out of
West Side Story
only with less knives, dancing, and ethnic conflict. Most days, we had little choice but to express our love during class changeovers.