Archive for the ‘FKK’ Category

Bethsabée, by Jean-Léon Gérôme

Friends, enemies,

I don’t care what they think of me,

so long as they’re wrong.




Shtange, Irina Dmitrievna (1906-1992) - Tri Gracii


I ask him why men like looking at naked women,

the more,

the better.

“It’s primal…” his slurred reply,

jaw gaping,

“and inspiring.”




Heat of the moment,

heat of the day,

I pulled my top up,

I held it up.

Side of the highway

I cheered loudly,

as the cyclists went by,

making a spectacle of myself.

I don’t know why

but, wow, it felt right!

Only later,

after seeing some pictures

and reading some nonsense

did I think about it

in a rational sense.

It seems I have become a minor celebrity,

albeit anonymous and almost faceless

(the pictures focus on my chest).

Today’s pseudo-sensation,

tomorrow’s forgotten,

lost assignation.

And so,

I thought,

simpering to myself,


what my subconscious motivations were

to show everyone watching

my breasts

(and, yes, I knew there was a TV camera there).

Was it a childish attempt to seduce,

or to cheer

(after all, what man doesn’t like looking at breasts?),

or was I proving my womanhood,

indulging a maternal instinct

(“Hey, guys, come suckle,

land of milk and honey!”).

Perhaps it was an act of rebellion

(“Not fuck me,

more fuck you!),

a fun one, I would add.

Maybe I was doing what society expects,

a crazy woman-child, immature,

gone wild.

Conceivably, I’m an exhibitionist.

Could be, I’m a mere pawn.

Feasibly, I wanted to fluster.

Definitely, I wanted to make guys smile

(to an extent hard).

I don’t know

but it felt thrilling


je ne regrette rien.




The fashionista proclaims that you can tell a lot about a man by his wristwatch, his chosen timepiece.

Like, he may not be able to afford an appropriate car to reflect his vibe, but with a well-chosen watch he can convey his hopes and aspirations, his essence and being.

The man-child looks down at his unadorned wrist and smiles,





Naked I stand before them…

They gawk, smirk and laugh,

sensing humiliation, they salivate.

Nothing (much) left to lose, I feel

exposed and strangely liberated,

arms akimbo, I laugh back.

Sensing crazy, they walk away.




The Americans asked me: “Why Crimea? Like, what the hell?”

“Well…” I replied, “In addition to everything else, Koktebel!”




I had some time (freizeit).

I had some freedom (freiheit).

So I decided to get naked and shave,

perhaps epilate,

down under.

Actually, I felt a compulsion…

I don’t mind a little hair, but once it gets to a certain length and thickness, and/or coarseness, it’s annoying, it makes me feel old, like Budapest, 1966.

Some women insist they do it for hygiene…

In a sense, I do too, for cleansing.

Body and mind.

I do it because it feels right,

so right

and beautiful,


Contaminant gone.


I feel more like myself again.


Rabbi taught on the tabernacle and the importance of an attitude of gratitude.

He emphasized how the children of Israel were brought closer to God by the process of stripping, out in the wilderness, humbled.



The essential and elemental.

We must strip away the vestiges,

wannabe idols of human construct.

Modesty as a form of self-righteousness…

Adam and Eva in the Garden,


fig leaves and a legacy of bullshit,

my mind got to thinking.

I agree.

It’s what we want to see.

It’s what we want to be.

Something about it, just *feels* so *right*.

I am naked, therefore I am.

What more do we need?



I imagine myself completely naked,

walking along a pristine beach.

I’m holding the hand of a man,

he too is naked.

We aren’t talking,

we have no need to speak out loud,

we are communing silently,

it is a deep and pure connection,

as we walk along the beach.

I feel safe and secure.

I feel enlightened.

I no longer feel afraid.

The scene is beautiful.

We are beautiful.

We are made in the image of God.


The beauty pageant,

Ugly in so many ways,

Has its devotees.