Rick Swenson, Brian Fiddyment, and Edy Modica in ‘Body.’ (photo: Madeline Manning)
Picture this: you’re at a small performance space underneath a neon-lit jazz club, amidst a pink-lit bar and decorative mannequins. After a few moments of mingling and sipping PBR, a man comes onstage and informs everyone that if they didn’t already know, this show involves fully nude bodies. If we are so shocked by this horrid fact and want a refund, they are available at the door.
Looking at female nude photos at Chasm Gallery. (Photo Credit: Sam Gillette)
The love letter I picked up, carnation, and my crystal. (Photo: Kristy Ann Muniz)
My period was already a day late when I signed up for the naked meditation. Class was scheduled for Saturday — five days away. On Thursday, I began to spot. I went to the website for the Young Naturists and Nudists America to see what the organizers of the event suggested: a Diva Cup, a silicone-based container purported to be more discrete than a tampon. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but the list of items I feel comfortable putting inside of my body is not very long, and something with the word “Diva” in the title is certainly not on it. The website also condoned underwear, but (no pun intended!) I didn’t want to half-ass the experience, so I decided to just tough it out with a tampon.
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