Emily Post wouldn’t have touched this with a ten-foot pole.
August 5th, 2005
Yesterday I had iced tea and key-lime-and-poppyseed muffins with a couple of friends. She’s a novelist; he’s a visual artist. It was the first time I’d visited their house, a big, airy contemporary with tons of sunlight. When I remarked that the house seemed like it had been built for Entertaining with a capital ‘E’ and Fondue-ing with a capital ‘F’, they casually mentioned that they were in fact planning a soiree for the end of the month, and that David and I were invited.
A body-painting party.
To say that they enjoyed my reaction would be an understatement.
This is nothing new. I can’t seem to manage a different reaction. We had seen the same couple recently at a dinner party, and it was at that (clothed) event that they and the other guests revealed the truth: This is a crowd that likes to get naked. Regularly.
Hot-tubbing. Skinny-dipping. Cheerfully naked masquerade parties, the PG-version of Eyes Wide Shut. Oiling up, rolling in sand, then posing for artsy photo shoots that explore, um, texture.
I am glad to know these folks. Just knowing them makes me feel a little naughty, and we all need to feel naughty once in a while.
But they insist that they are not being naughty. “It’s completely unsexual,” they always tell me. “It’s no big deal.”
I can buy this, sort of. I recognize that the in-the-nude, out-of-context human body can be a comic event rather than a lustful one, and God knows I like a good joke as much as the next gal.
I am just having trouble figuring out what I would do with my head at a body-painting party. My head is the problem here, not my body. If I could leave my noggin at the door with my clothing, I would be happy to participate—just another headless, jiggling guest, swilling red wine as she gets her froufyhooha air-brushed a fetching shade of lavender.
But my head will not come off. And inside it, my brain would be imploding from the bombardment of incoming stimuli. There are too many etiquette questions, too many social niceties left unaddressed in this milieu, and this is why the prospect of public nude frolicking—even in the name of art, an otherwise good friend of mine—leaves me reeling. Before I could attempt it, I would need a manual, a self-quiz:
1) At a body-painting party, another guest helpfully offers to paint your rump for you. While the guest is tackling your hard-to-reach places, the host’s dog jumps up on you. You fall backwards, burying your helper’s face in your moist, shamrock-green buttocks. After extracting the guest from your can, do you:
a) Offer them a cocktail napkin and a stiff drink
b) Say, Wow, I feel like an ass
c) Encourage them to do a Shroud of Turin face print on your belly while you croon “Baby Got Back”
2) During a nude dinner party, your left breast—interpreting the fresh air as an environmental cue—begins lactating. Do you:
a) Excuse yourself to go to the loo to give the breast a stern talking-to
b) Lactate discreetly into the hostess’s new cloth napkins from Provence
c) Dip the errant breast in your glass of wine and say, Let the good times flow, people!
3) At a naked masquerade, you drop a piece of Havarti cheese on the host’s brand-new Berber carpeting. You kneel to retrieve it, only to find yourself up close and personal with your first uncircumcised hoojackapiffy. Do you:
a) Smear the Havarti into the carpet with your knee, to give yourself a bigger clean-up job
b) Fake an epileptic fit and bury your face in the Berber until it’s safe to come up for air
c) Wink and say, Where have you been all my life, Big Guy?
But I have no nice upside-down list of the answers. And I need those answers. Because—I admit it—I would like to be that woman, the one who drops trou—and everything else—and cannonballs into the hot tub before the others can even dim the lights. I would like to dip a celery stick in hummus in the nude, spread a cracker with Brie in the buff. I would like to leave behind scandalous memoirs for my girls, anecdotes of a happy-go-lucky bohemian life, as proof that mamahood and wanton naked revelry in the name of art and free living are not mutually exclusive states.
But that would take some doing.
Entry Filed under: Uncategorized, Birds, bees. (Sex), Time-out. (General insanity)
17 Comments
1. Rachel | August 5th, 2005 at 1:19 pm
This makes me laugh, a lot. I’m going to email you now.
2. the Mater | August 5th, 2005 at 1:49 pm
Family bathtime is only one step away from fonduing in the nude … you just have to remember not to fondle the fonduer.
I sometimes think: why couldn’t she have gotten a degree in business and walk around in a navy-blue suit? But, then, we would never have this blog!
Have fun at the party :>) Dare, double-dare ….
3. The "visual artist" | August 5th, 2005 at 1:53 pm
the PG-version of Eyes Wide Shut
God, I hope we’re not that dull… that movie contained what has to have been the most boring orgy ever
I can’t help but feel you’re getting the impression that we’re much bigger deviants than we really are. (This is at least in part because I, for one, am deliberately trying to give you that impression, because it’s fun to see how far I can get your eyeballs to pop out of your head.) But I don’t want you to come over expecting, I dunno, pole dancers and strobe lights, and be disappointed.
For what it’s worth, the dog isn’t allowed near the bodypaint. Fur + paint = bad. So that’s one concern down. Can’t help you with the hoojackapiffies, though; those you’ll have to cope with on your own.
4. geogirl | August 5th, 2005 at 2:02 pm
“hoojackapiffies”
That ones enough to keep me laughing all day….
5. Jenn | August 5th, 2005 at 2:33 pm
You had to say orgy. Now my mom will be calling me in no time—yup, there’s the phone.
6. the Mater | August 5th, 2005 at 3:04 pm
I was just about to write in!
7. TRF | August 5th, 2005 at 3:34 pm
SNORT!BLQFRMNI!PHLOMFRONCHK!
Damn, there goes another keyboard!
tookatooka
8. The "visual artist" | August 5th, 2005 at 5:26 pm
Mrmph. The orgy in the moooovie was boring, I mean. I can state categorically that there has never been anything even vaguely resembling an orgy at my house. At least, not since we moved into it. Can’t vouch for the previous owners. Though they did have a suspiciously large number of beds in the house. “Church sleepovers,” the realtor explained. So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.
No, really. This is all perfectly innocent, mom, I promise.
Though I did just remember that I’ve got a strobe light kicking around here somewhere.
9. Seth | August 5th, 2005 at 6:34 pm
Yeah, they’re a wacky bunch. But harmless. I keep shying away from most of the naked parties, but when the regular parties turn a bit naked, I’ve gotten used to it.
10. the Mater | August 5th, 2005 at 7:22 pm
And to think … I may be retiring to this location!
Well, now … do you ever invite grandmothers to these parties?! I often thought that I was supposed to start thinking that “when I am old I shall wear the color purple” … but, hot dang, I didn’t expect a 35-year old neighbor painting the purple on my behind!
Whoop de doo, there’s life in them ‘thar hills :>)
11. The "visual artist" | August 6th, 2005 at 10:32 am
Yowza — now I’m really worried that the reality is going to be a letdown compared to what you guys are picturing: I mean mostly we’re card-game playing computer geeks, who just splash out a bit more than usual at halloween and such. Nerds with access to a hot tub. You know. I’m mostly just playing it up because Jen’s so entertaining when she’s shocked.
That said, I’m not sure if we’ve ever invited a grandmother, but I very much doubt we’d turn one away…
(oh, and Jen? Your mom? She’s cool.)
12. Jo | August 6th, 2005 at 11:00 am
Yes. I see you appreciate the reason I left such parties when the clothes came off; there is a small population that likes to socialize and keep their clothes on. Arguably, they are actually equal or greater in number than those who take their clothes off, but who are you going to remember: the six people who got naked or the dozen who politely said good evening and left?
I’m sorry we never met; I have moved to New York City, and I have not turned around at a single party and thought to myself, “Oh dear God please put that away.” I’ve been reading your blog for half a week now, since shideem linked it to LJ.
13. Chopin Gal | August 6th, 2005 at 11:07 pm
Methinks the colorful model above has her froufyhooha classic thong on! Did she buy it from you?!
That cranberry screen door is getting closer and closer ….
14. Spot the Wonder Dog | August 7th, 2005 at 12:02 pm
I’m not even touching this one.
Well, ok, maybe I’ll touch it a lttle…
Soooo, what are your choices for media? Charcoal? Finger Paints? Glue and glitter? Crayon?
Do you get to use other craft supplies? Pine cones? Yarn? Clothes pins? How about paper mache? (Or would that be too “unconventional” for a nude body painting party?)
15. Chopin Gal | August 7th, 2005 at 4:02 pm
Pine Cones and yarn?!! Ding dong school for grownups! Spot, live dangerously … buy a thong for your wife!
16. Coley | August 7th, 2005 at 4:30 pm
Jenn This is just so funny. Thanks for making me laugh!
17. Spot the Wonder Dog | August 7th, 2005 at 6:27 pm
Chopin Gal said:
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Spot, live dangerously … buy a thong for your wife!
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That would be dangerous for so many reasons…
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