I heard a couple of reports from last night’s Naked Comedy Show back
in Cambridge. It’s a little bittersweet for me.

The man with whom I reside seemed quite pleased that I was 3K+ miles
away and except for a shower, draped with fabric. Turns out he has a
little old world in him, despite his jingoistic American posing.

Not only does he not want me hanging out in the altogether publicly
(for art, don’t you know), but there’s more. (Begrudgingly, I’d have
to say he might have a point when he mentions a difference between my
past naked forays and the show that went down last night. Something
about someone going to a theater to pay cash money to see my
breastages on stage catches a little stripper cache.)

The more part on the apparent, previously undetected prudishness
manifested itself last night. After work, I worked out in those
stupid spandex-stretchy shorts. My booty doth offend M. when we
regrouped for dropping off my VW at the dealer for some much needed
inspecting and tuning. Apparently, you could see my contours a tad
too vividly for his tastes.

Like many a third-world woman kept down by the harsh condemnation of
the local menfolk, I wrapped the sarong I had handy around my feminity
and avoided further scorn.

Mens. They be puzzling some time.