In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m obsessed with nudity. I’m not a nudist, nor do you necessarily want to see me nude. When I’m home alone in the summer, I’m not adverse to sitting at home in front of the computer in the buff. (Webcam definitely disabled!) I find it freeing sleeping nude under the ceiling fan on a hot summer night. I have A/C, but it just isn’t the same.
I like writing about people thrust into a situation where they are unable to hide under clothing – the embarrassment (Cult of Hahn), or the eventual acceptance of it (Out of the Frying Pan) . I even have a girl who is much like I would be, stuck in a remote mansion, never seeing anyone – ever – Yes, I would be working in the garden with nothing on (Intolerance).
Do I want to see you nude? Probably not, especially not the spam emails of girls wanting to get to know me. They are always girls, aren’t they. I don’t want to see their pics either. I would rather dream of you nude, and titillate you with the prospect of nudity, but not necessarily sex. I do think of sex a lot, and I like thinking about it, but I’m not asking you for it.
So … what am I writing about here? Is it a rant or manifesto. Maybe the latter.
I’m just in one of those moods.