Have you ever had that dream where you’re totally, utterly, ‘bits’ on full display, naked? You know the one - everyone else is fully clothed, decency wholly preserved, while you are starkers, not a stitch on. I’ve had that dream a number of times, and if I were to take dream analysis seriously I would accept the diagnosis ‘a fear of being found out’, or some such like twaddle. Of course, I don’t take on board what the supposed ’experts’ say; at the end of the day they don’t know me, me or my foibles, so how can they profess to know what goes on in my subconscious, huh? No, the whole ‘fear of being found out’ thing is pretty far off the mark. It’s a prime example of how alleged ‘specialists’ make things unnecessarily complicated, an over-egging of the pudding, so to speak. No, with me it’s always been a case of what you see being exactly what you get - I’ve no need for symbolism, not even in my dreams. The reason I’ve always had dreams of being publicly naked is simply because I’ve always wanted to be publicly naked! I’m something of an exhibitionist, you see, an exhibitionist of the flesh. Oh yes, I’ve been flashing my knickers since a very early age, always liking that taken-aback expression of on-lookers. Sweet and oh-so-cutesy in little girls, downright alarming in a fully grown woman… And, before you ask, no, I’m not French or any other nationality of whom you may like to think my exposure fetish more acceptable; I’m English through and through, right down to the Union Jack tattoo on my right buttock!

Finding an outlet for my passion has always been a difficulty - by that I mean something which doesn’t culminate in court proceedings. It’s only when you want to illicitly expose yourself that you realise the full extent of English prudishness!

I’ve tried streaking at sporting events, though I’ve never been one for sport really. The 1990 England V South Africa Test Match springs most readily to mind, seeing as I was rather a pert wee thing then and was so excited by the opportunity to flash my wares at Ian Botham ( whom I’d had something of a crush on for years ) that I was verging on the orgasmic ( which made it difficult to run, quite frankly ). Ah yes, streaking was quite gratifying in the early days, but the novelty wore off after I was arrested for the fourth or fifth time; I started to develop an awful rash from the blankets the police used to bundle me off in, plus the tabloids can be so cruel about even the lightest dusting of body hair…

I even gave the whole Naturist jaunt a go, but, well, you’re just one of many and so it defeated the object somewhat - no shock, no admiration, no leers, just God-forsaken acceptance ( what‘s the point in that ?! ). Plus, it was so difficult to come to terms with the full horror of some people’s bodies - for many, clothes are indeed a blessing - I often couldn’t eat meat for days! Chicken giblets everywhere I looked…

I’ve no regrets; one has to give these things a go, don’t you think? Live and learn. Suck it and see. All part of life’s learning curve, and all that. But how was I ever going to satisfy my need, satiate my craving? Friends made all sorts of suggestions - most useless, reflecting their total lack of understanding - nudist beaches, strip-o-gram, various religious sects, etc, etc. I’d almost given up, thrown in the towel, resigned myself to a life of clothed modesty.

And then…EUREKA!!!

Now I’m absolutely in my element. Happy as a pig in pooh! Oh yes, this is indeed the life. Not only am I naked; I'm actually admired ( regardless of the state of my bikini line, thank God because it does tend to spread at the rate of a bush fire…no pun intended, obviously ), and I’m actually being paid for it. No, no, not the kissagram thingy ( so very common ), nor am I a stripper ( vulgar, to say the least ). I’m an inspiration, me. My bosoms, my buttocks, my ’bits’ - all of my naked body - being studied, in detail, and immortalised. This curve, that curve, this crevice, that crevice, this shadow, that shadow…the whole bloody lot of me. Ten pounds an hour and it’s better than therapy. Sometimes the poses can be a bit challenging ( you try standing on one foot for twenty minutes! ), but I rate myself as a true pro and so never complain. The odd bout of wind can be a tad problematic also, but, again, I just put on a brave face and hope nobody notices ( they’re all pretty preoccupied with their brushes and palettes and trying to catch the teacher’s eye, so probably
oblivious! ).


Anyway, what I really wanted to say to you is this: if ever you have the Nude Dream, look into yourself, deep into yourself, for its real meaning. Don’t feel you have to side with the ‘experts’, be your own person, explore the possibilities. Without meaning to alarm you, there's the very real possibility that you, like me, just need to get your kit off in public. Do try streaking or Naturism if the urge takes a hold of you ( and you’re not repelled by my earlier tales ), though don't say I didn't warn you! But, overall, art classes are really where it's at for me and I can't recommend them enough. Suck it and see, as I said before - go on, you know you want to...