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.