By Anna Pulley
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Erin Sherbert
By Rachel Swan
By Joe Eskenazi
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
Beneath our clothes, we are all nude. Each citizen encountered is, deep down, a potential nude person to be viewed. I'm not kidding!
With that potential in mind, I conclude that there's a lot of opportunity to encounter naked people on a daily basis. It just takes concerted effort; it's like spotting Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. So I decide to pose myself with the noblest and perhaps most dangerous challenge of modern time, rivaling that faced by Madame Curie during her explorations into radiation: I will tally how many naked people I can see in one day. I know it's a tough job, but someone's got to view it.
A Catchphrase: "Nudetastic!"
A Nude Counting Device: a small abacus
A Device to Enlarge the Nudity: a magnifying glass
A Goal: to see more than 1,000 nude people in one day
The clock is running. Bring on the nudity!
I awake with a smile; my naked day lies before me. My nudespotting holds no discretion, though females would be much nicer to view. I start with a sojourn to a nude beach on the outskirts of San Francisco. Normally, this would be a place bustling with major nude activity. One problem: It's a cold-ass day at the end of winter. Everyone at the beach is fully clothed. Some wear ski jackets.
I'm about to write it off as a nude loss when spotted, off in the sandy distance, are a few scattered pink objects. You guessed it -- naked people! Abacus in hand, I skip like a merry schoolgirl toward the freezing cold nude sunbathers. Looking like beached whales, these are the survivors from the season, the true die-hards. They won't let common sense or the fact that it's REALLY FUCKING COLD stop them from basking pale bodies in the end-of-winter sun. Bless them. I salute you, nude brethren!
Climbing on rocks, I get a better perspective. Some wear shirts but no pants. All are middle-aged men and older. All lie naked on their own. Maybe nude extremists are branded as loners, due to the bold/brash nudity that chased others from their lives. Can't nude people make friends? They could pair off and share in some good, nude conversation.
"I'm really fucking cold."
"Yes, me too."
Some get nude for a few minutes, then desert the idea. A big-bellied man puts on pants. Like a clever monkey, he uses a stick as a hammer to build a makeshift shelter out of driftwood and towels. Once his wind-block is constructed, he again gets nude, posing as if to say, "I'm king of my newly found naked domain!" I feel like knocking over his naked-protecting fort.
A New Age, long-haired nudist does naked yoga. He does a naked headstand, parting his legs in a nude spread-eagle. Surprisingly, he too is on his own.
Live Nude Tally: six overweight men, one with a proclivity for naked headstands.
11:15 a.m.-1:35 p.m.
What better spot to see someone naked than at the home of your girlfriend?
"I need to see you naked," I state without explanation.
"Well, maybe later," she says, passing the comment off like "some sort of joke."
I look her in the eye with brutal seriousness: "I need to see you naked now. It's very important to me. I'll explain later."
My girlfriend, always the exhibitionist, begins stripping. She's Canadian; her people are very congenial and understanding that way.
Two hours and 20 minutes later, I realize I must move on. Sure, during this time span I saw continuous nudity from all sorts of angles, but it only involved a person I see naked all the time anyway. Also, I'm not sure it's in the rules to probe those who are to be observed. The German judges might not allow this, but I'm going to petition and demand that this nudespotting escapade be allowed to stay on the books.
Victory is mine!
Live Nude Tally: one naked girlfriend.
If there's a department store, there's a dressing room. That means clothes coming off, which equates to ... nakedness! Beneath a door, pants drop to the floor. I haphazardly grab clothes and get closer to the nudity for a proper nude count.
"Can I try this on?" I ask the tiny salesclerk with the large attitude.
"You need a dressing room to try on a hat?" she inquires.
"I don't like to try hats on in public, OK?" I say.
Quickly, I grab other items, so I'm not branded as a pervert wanting to glimpse naked people, rather than one who is on an almost sacred mission. Through a door, I see a bra strap. This is a very good sign/start.
Below, a pair of shoeless feet step out of a skirt. Like MacGyver, I pull out my cell phone. Using its concave reflective surface, I try to get the image of the nude person in the next changing stall. There's something resembling a bottom. Or an elbow. Or a bottom. Maybe a knee. Can I count this as a nudespotting victory?!
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.
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.
The walls are sticky. I avoid accidentally bumping into anyone wearing a towel. A guy wearing chain mail has an open wank. I must stay far beyond shooting distance from this cowboy. Two naked women are tied together on a post and are being caned, while the largest woman I've ever seen, in the midst of grand role-playing, gets whipped. These sex club-goers are dealing with issues.
Hordes of vultures descend, watching a fat woman suck a man's meat sausage with the content look of a retard. She's still at it 20 minutes later.
As if they're attending Mad Max's Thunderdome, primitive men in loincloths cheer on the action of a girl in a Bo-Peep outfit spanking the bare bottom of another woman while being fanned with a peacock feather. Some reach under their towels, taking the action into their own hands. Eeeeew! The crowd disperses when someone in a towel gets sick on the floor.
After we pass a large topless female bouncer, a man in glasses wearing an ill-fitting wig and granny dress approaches my girlfriend.
"Do you want to play pool?" he asks. Sure; don't most people come to sex clubs for the fine pool-playing opportunities? When she says no, the man in the granny dress sputters, "Well how about oral sex?" He thrusts out his tongue, adding, "I have the mouth of a lesbian!"
Like Robert De Niro in Raging Bull, I give the man in the granny dress a look that says, "Are you trying to fuck my wife?!"
The last image I'm left with at Power Exchange is a man sitting by himself, watching a porno, spanking the monkey. Ewwww.
Live Nude Tally: four naked women, six naked men. Except I'm not only turned off by nudity; I'm turned off by the whole human race.
Well, I failed to see 1,000 naked people. Instead, I saw just 37. Other than those possessed by leggy supermodels, I realized the human body is disgusting. We should all be ashamed!