By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
Again, I'm not gay.
Live Nude Tally: 12 elderly naked bodies.
"Private Booths. Naked Naughty Nasty. Live Nude Shows."
For a mere 25 cents, all this nudity inside the luxury of my own private, comfortable stall. This will be the cheapest nudespotting of the day.
Outside, in the foyer, a line of solemn men waits for the booths' lights to change from "In Use" to "Vacant."
Inside the small cubicle, the floor is covered with wet tissues and some sort of stiff liquid. And a smell. Eeeeew. Mental note to self: Don't touch surface areas or walls. That's the price I pay for budget nudity.
I place one quarter into the slot. The screen goes up. Inside an enclosed mirrored area, three nudies shake it for the locals. The reflections of the other solemn-faced spectators are caught in the mirror. That, along with the smell, makes this jaunt as erotic as a trip to the dentist.
The piped-in music plays the Bangles as the three nudies dance joylessly in front of each glass window. One gives me a medical examination where I think I see her internal organs. Another puts her bottom against the glass. Within the confined space, the strippers remind me of three turtles put inside a small, crowded fish aquarium. The screen goes down. That was the wisest quarter I've ever spent.
Nude Tally: three bored-looking strippers. I saw nudity. And for cheap. But I felt like compulsively washing my hands afterward. And the bottoms of my shoes.
10:40 p.m.-12:17 a.m.
At almost every art party, there's a stupid, drunken hippie dancing around naked. It's all but guaranteed, like bad toupees on aging magicians.
The warehouse is filled with dancing urban hipsters. Some crap performance-art brew-ha-ha commences, so complex my simple mind can't comprehend it. There are more bindis than funny hats at a pope convention. Some people wear sinful fetish gear. Others dress as superheroes. The zany choices of wardrobe have to do with the people's ... CREATIVITY!
My intuition paid off. In the crowd is a goateed man with a large leaf over his cobblers. He holds a drink. I wonder where he keeps his wallet. I've hit nude pay dirt; I approach.
"You are naked, aren't you?"
"Do you think I'm naked?" he retorts, turning the tables.
"Yes, I DO think you're naked," I confirm, explaining that the leaf is merely a nude accessory.
"No one really cares. Anyway, it's passé to be naked."
No one cares?! No one cares indeed! I'll be the judge of that. What's this pretentious naked man trying to say, that nudity is sooooo 1990s?!
Live Nude Tally: one who wore a leaf to hide what I presume was a very small penis.
Coming out of the pretentious art party, I make my way to my car. A figure with a baseball cap and shopping cart hunches by the passenger side, emitting a huge stream that travels down the gradual incline of a fender. Hurrah, it's a random homeless guy peeing on my car!
At first, I'm angered by his actions. Then I couldn't be more delighted; I've witnessed his partial nudity. This is unexpected nudity, indeed, for I see his sloppy John Henry as he continues to relieve himself on my vehicle. His tool sharply catches in the moonlight, perfectly silhouetted against a brick wall.
"It's cool, man. It's cool, man," he says fumbling to put away his monster, noting my advancement to unlock the door.
"Thank you," I inform him with honesty. I need to earn nudespotting points; time is running out. As I drive my urine-soaked vehicle, I know just the place to go to top off my day.
Live Nude Tally: one random homeless man's disgusting Johnson.
At San Francisco's best-known straight sex club, people go to have sex -- most often nude! For scientific purposes, I've brought along my trusty girlfriend/assistant. (See Nude Sighting No. 2.)
"Fifteen dollars to get in if you check your clothes and wear a towel. It's $75 to get in otherwise," says the weighty bouncer. We pay the $15 and are told where to check our clothes, which we don't do. The poorly lit atmosphere is like a haunted house. I expect the Wolfman to pop out with a boner. There are various theme rooms: a prison cell, a wedding chapel, a medieval banquet room, a Frankenstein dungeon. For some reason, they're playing the music of Yes.
One thing about straight sex clubs: They're inhabited almost entirely by men who somberly lurk from room to room, clad in towels. Them, and Thai transvestites. The few women present are built like meaty truck drivers. How weird: No one you'd actually want to have sex with frequents a sex club.
Attempting humor, my trusty girlfriend/assistant climbs into some table/ dungeon device. Immediately six men in towels crowd the scene.
"Move on, there's nothing to see here!" I state.