By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Due to the ambiguity, I use the dressing room opportunity to explore my own personal nudity. Standing in the small cubicle, in front of the mirror, I flaunt my nakedness while making several muscle poses.
Yes, I'm very nude. One of the items I grabbed, a bow tie, is utilized to accessorize my Samuel Jackson, making it a more formal one, one that might attend fancy occasions like events involving the queen of England.
There's a series of knocks on the dressing room door.
"Are you doing OK in there?"
I glance deeply into the mirror.
"Yes. Yes. I'm doing very well indeed!" I say to my formal nakedness.
Live Nude Tally: two, if you count me and a concave image of what might have been an elbow. Or bottom. Or maybe a knee. Onward.
The nude future is here -- now! This is an amazing era. One doesn't need to leave home to see live nudity; one simply turns on the computer.
Flipping on my iMac, I surf to the sleazy section of the Internet. Under Webcams, I'm fascinated by the hundreds of choices for live nude video conferencing.
-- Click Here to Chat With Me and My 18-Year-Old Pussy!
-- Live Fucking 24/7. With 3 Camera Angles You Never Miss a Move!
-- I Shove Anything That Will Fit in My Ass -- Live!
These seem intriguing, if perhaps physically impossible or grammatically incorrect. I go to the cunningly named "Live Tit Talk!" for some in-depth conversation with a live naked minx about politics and the Marxist theory of economics.
"Chat with a girl live! It's like one fantastic chat orgy," the site beckons.
Putting the $3.95 free trial on my credit card, I'm stopped by this message:
I click a few more links.
"A Security Violation Has Occurred!"
I click to another place. I'm told to download viewing software. Something almost happens, then doesn't. I find myself back at the payment page.
Momentarily, I get a video image of a young vixen, writhing on a pillow in a poorly decorated room, sowing her own oats. But how do I know this woman is "live" at this very moment, and not a nude woman filmed earlier who is now wearing clothes elsewhere?
I finally access Tit Talk. There is no video image; just people typing to the model.
"Make your fingers wet and play with your melons."
"Wow, you are so beautiful!"
"Where the hell is the live nude woman?" I type. I'm beginning to think the organizers are solely after my hard-earned money!
"Signup is FREE! Only nude and private chats require a purchase."
Huh? I need to fork over more cash for breast chatter?! Once again, I pull out the credit card to pay $3.95 per minute. I get the image of a tired-looking woman sitting in a lawn chair. She is live. By no means is she nude. My time clicks away.
"When will you get naked so I can count you?!" I type.
She answers back, "I don't know, maybe in one year." Great, that will cost me several hundreds of thousands of dollars. Ads flash in the text area, offering private chats for $14.95. This is a goddamn live-sex-Internet pyramid scheme. There's probably fine print stating my credit card has been charged $10,000. Most important, I've wasted three hours of valuable nudespotting time. Technology has actually slowed down my live, nude viewing.
Live Nude Tally: one maybe, but I can't be sure if she was live. The Internet is actually the most annoying, expensive, time-consuming place to see live, naked people.
It's time for the lightning round, the locker room of 24 Hour Fitness. If I can't find a naked person here, then I'm a nudespotting disgrace. It shouldn't be a question of seeing a nude person -- it's more like how many.
Fully dressed, I camp out in the locker room. The one problem: Locker rooms provide nudity of only one sex. In this case, male. I'm not gay. Really.
The baseball game is on TV. I try to act absorbed.
"Go Niners!" I shout, which translates to: "Go Nudity!"
Sitting down on a bench, I'm ready to count; I've brought a book to help pass the time. The thing I don't like about locker rooms is that there's always some creepy guy watching and leering as you undress. Whoops, wait a minute. But I'm doing this for science. Or something like that.
So far, exercise enthusiasts are modest about showing the Full Monty. Getting restless, I scour the shower room every five minutes.
"No! No! No!" I mutter after each disappointed excursion. The coed sauna holds the same disappointment. I can't believe this shit. There are actually guys taking showers in swimsuits.
Suddenly the clouds part, the nude floodgates open. It's raining fat, old naked men. Hurrah! My search wasn't in vain. I count them off with my abacus quicker than an auctioneer selling hams. Yes, fat, old guys with flabby arses and bulbous bellies that practically cover their gray pubic-hair regions.