🫖 What’s up, angels? This essay explores nakedness, in both literal and more symbolic terms. I’ve been struggling with it for weeks, but finally got it to a place I feel alright with sharing. If body dysmorphia is a tough topic for you, you may want to skip this one. If you know me personally and aren’t interested in hearing me discuss sex, you may want to skip this one. I think I handle both with a light touch, but just a heads-up. 🫖
Our brains fire off countless instantaneous judgments any given day. Most of them don’t matter. Some will be right. A few will inevitably be drastically, comically wrong. Crossing the street on Avenue A. 6 pm on a Tuesday. The sun won’t set for hours. Humidity licking my skin. The one block with more pigeons than the rest. Today, they are pecking at Chex Mix and Takis sprinkled in a barren tree pit. Crowded streets. They’re always crowded. A woman wearing a long dress and headscarf. Clutched in her hand is an ornate orthodox cross. Her eyes are light brown and owl-like in their roundness. A millisecond of eye contact. My brain interprets a glimmer of timidness in those eyes. I think she looks sort of sweet. Did I give her a millisecond of a smile?
Then, she’s following me and yelling.
You are naked! God is ashamed of you! You are a disgrace to the Lord! Cover yourself! Long sleeves! Long pants!
She’s a few feet behind me, only interrupting her verbal assaults to breathe. One block passes. She’s screaming at me, only me. Now it’s been two. Her words only get meaner as she works herself into a frothy fury. Don’t engage, I tell myself. The spectacle is gathering attention and a minor crowd is forming into the world’s most bizarre parade. A call-and-response of shame and counter-shame. You’re disgusting! she screams at me. A man heckles back at her, It’s beautiful! Well-intentioned, but ultimately unhelpful. I’m laughing and shaking my head because it’s embarrassing and unbelievable. I flash a peace sign over my shoulder without turning around. I’m hastening my pace and wondering if this will go on until I reach my destination.
Then, something like salvation. A guy around my age quietly joins my walk of shame. We stroll side-by-side. Thanks, I say. She’s been on this street a lot lately, he tells me. Oh, great. Before long, she starts berating him, too. Long sleeves! Long pants! God hates you!
I’m not sure when or why, but it stops. My companion peels off before I can properly thank him or acknowledge just how bizarre the whole scene was. The incident probably lasted less than five minutes, but I was too shaken to properly clock the passage of time.
At this point, you might be wondering what I was wearing, ya perverts. (Did she deserve it?) I confess to donning no more than knee-grazing bike shorts, a sports bra, crew socks, and Brooks running shoes. I was walking to the gym. The sum of my exposed skin: two-thirds of my legs, my arms, a two-inch circumference of my midriff, my neck and a small half-moon of my décolleté. Not particularly sexy stuff. Decidedly not naked, though—legally—more unclothed than not.
//
I love asking people if they grew up in a “naked household” or not. You know exactly what I mean. Did your dad butter his toast in his boxers? Did your mom summon you to answer a question while she was sitting on the toilet, clipping her toenails? The type of question that could wait. Did you emerge from the shower donning a towel, your entire outfit, or nothing at all? Do you know what your brother’s butt looks like? It seems like a silly question, but in truth speaks volumes about a family’s microculture. I’d posit that we carry a lot with us based on our family’s proclivities toward nudity.
Personally, I grew up in a medium-naked household. Lukewarm amount of nudity. No one wore pants at bedtime, but we’d turn around or clamshell the door if we were changing. I’ve had a new roommate for a month; my window for establishing a naked household of my own is rapidly closing. I keep promising to test the waters. Walk to the fridge in my underwear. Pee with the door cracked. I have a feeling we won’t get much farther than that. He hasn’t bared more than his forearms thus far.
//
My desire to wear less has grown over time, though I am still a bit shackled by a suburban Catholic prudeness lurking in my heart. I grew up in a beach town where short shorts never went out of style and it wasn’t uncommon to see people in a state of sandy, disheveled semi-disarray. At Noah’s Bagels, at Jamba Juice, at the mini market buying a packet of sour peach rings or Lay’s.
As such, I’ve always felt comfortable with little-to-no pants. My college uniform was a tiny top and high-waisted pants. I’ve all but abandoned wearing a bra since the pandemic, feeling pretty certain that there’s nothing lewd about the contours of my nipples.
Still, I dream of showing more. A sheer dress on the subway, underboob at the bar, no underwear at the laundromat, topless at friends’ apartments. I’m proud of the accidental nip slip I casually pulled off during my birthday party. It’s funny that my moments of genuine nudity have gone largely unnoticed, where one trip to the gym solicited more harassment than my twelve years of religious education.
It’s hard to place the root of this desire to exhibit my body. Without a doubt, it’s partly sensual. I’ve lived a year of sexual freedom after a half-decade of monogamy and eighteen years of virginity. But, there’s also something more earnest and innocent about it. I don’t just want to show my naked self to my lovers. I want to be perceived by friends and strangers, too. I want it to feel utterly normal. I want to be seen plainly. To be understood by others, perhaps to counterbalance a physical self-knowledge that I increasingly seem to lack.
//
Nakedness is, of course, a thorny topic. A subject of shame and delusion. Vulnerability and pain. We live cloaked lives and our bodies don’t make it out unscathed. How can I talk about nudity while eliding my less cherished feelings about my own body?
In wintertime, I don’t think much about my body. I’ll gain ten pounds without noticing, and wrap myself up in a floor-length parka to keep warm. Summer is less forgiving. It is the season of flesh and bone. The East Village becomes a sinister Eden, full of sexy skeletons in loincloths. I’ll become hyper-aware of my curves and appalled by my unexplained rashes and throbbing mosquito bites. I’ll want to be the skinniest girl in the world. I’ll want to waste away. And, in covering up, I’ll feel more exposed than ever.
I love myself, but when I look in the mirror, I usually don’t like what I see. I don’t know if it’s living in New York or the ways my body has changed in my mid-twenties or the seeming culturewide pro-ana resurgence, but my self-image is at a personal low. And, in feeling bad about my body, I feel ashamed to confront my own vanity and fatphobia. In judging myself, I doubtlessly judge others.
//
After being berated by the fundamentalist, I was plagued with regret for my passive response. I thought about all the ways I could have made a splash. I fantasized about stopping in my tracks and taking my top off. Who’s naked now? I envisioned touching her on the arm and saying that I forgive her. That God loves me just as God loves her That God—if there is God—created our bodies as perfect. That God—if there is God—is infinite logic, and what could be logical about draping our bodies with scraps of fabric? Why squander the divine?
At the same time, why waste my breath? She’s going to have her work cut out for her this summer.
//
I’m chronically bad at feeling my feelings. I was texting a friend about the upcoming anniversary of something hard that happened last year. It’s tough because you feel it in your body, she said. There are feelings! I replied later. I laughed at how my word choice so clearly betrayed my tendency to divorce my body and mind. I made the correction: I have feelings.
//
So, I wonder. How do we heal from our poisoned thoughts? How do we escape the cycle of shaming ourselves and shaming others? How do we find peace in our bodies and minds?
I don’t have the answers, but I think spending more time naked might be a start. Sleeping nude is one of life’s great pleasures, yet I don't do it every night. Sometimes I feel too vulnerable, too exposed. I catch myself clenching, holding my insides in. I imagine that I look like a bloated corpse compared to other people beautifully, cooly tangled in their clean sheets.
Last night, I took off all my clothes and stretched for 30 minutes. I listened to sad music and masturbated. After I finished, I audibly sobbed. Relieved on all fronts, I rolled over and turned off the light.
🫖 Farewell, saints. Since it’s been three months with my new payment system, I’m letting everyone hop over the paywall this week to check out my mixtape. Usually, this is a perk for paid subscribers only! If you enjoy it, consider upgrading to see the playlists that accompany every post. Thank you so much for being here. 🫖
7.3.23 Mixtape
Today begins with a cheeky start: Strip by Adam Ant. 🎶 We’re just following ancient history when I strip for you when you strip for me. 🎶 Tell me that isn’t a perfect sentence. A horny classic! Next, we have Sad Nudes by Cate Le Bon. Okay, the concept of a sad nude? Hilarious and relatable. I like Cate Le Bon’s creepy little voice. A bit Nico-esque, though my research revealed she’s Welsh, not German. 🎶 The more you feel the more you have to lose. 🎶 Blake 2 by Blaketheman1000 was the song that drove me through Summer 2022. It remains a favorite, but kind of transports me to a weird headspace these days. At this point, I’ve seen Blake perform 4-5 times at various downtown events, but most recently I managed to see him above 14th St (imagine that!) at a bizarre free Portugal. The Man concert. Evana and I stood in line with a sea of dudes wearing Hokas, wolfed down two free Taco Bell tacos and left before the headliners went on. Blake is notoriously pitchy but always seems to be having a great time. His performances always bring me joy and his rizzy persona actually betrays a deep reckoning between body and mind. 🎶 Fuck with my beautiful face and my beautiful body my beautiful mind or I fuck with you not. 🎶 Up next, the Growlers with Naked Kids. I love a song whose title doesn’t show up in the lyrics. Though, the concept of a naked kid encapsulates the innocence that shows up so often in Growlers lyrics that counterbalances their obsession with smut. 🎶 I will follow you, my love, I’ll just be a friend. Although I know that means I’ll never see you again. 🎶 And to prove that I don’t exclusively recommend sad indie rock, New Wave anthems and sceney bops, let’s round out the mix with Naked in Manhattan by Chappell Roan. I don’t know much about her but this is a cute, dumb, dancey song with lines like 🎶 Touch me, baby, put your lips on mine. Could go to hell but we'll probably be fine. 🎶 It’s a bit of an “I Kissed A Girl” for the twenty-twenties. The music video is also infinitely charming. Enjoi!
I really enjoyed this piece. I recently went to a Korean spa and I’ve never been naked for that long in my life. I recommend it!