Naked.  I don’t even like the word.  Nude is even worse.  It’s so pink and bald sounding.  Clothed, you can delude yourself as much as you want; believe in your mind you’re a sex bitch perched on mile long limbs.  The minute you stand naked before a mirror, you can’t run, you can’t hide, that’s all the luggage you’ve got to travel this one way life-time ticket – your insignificance comes screaming at you loud and clear, plus, the cellulite ain’t so appetizing either.

I am so mortified at the thought of my own nakedness that a reoccurring nightmare involves me on Oscar night accepting my award and my clothes fall off.  It is at this point I snort to consciousness in a pool of liquid so large I can do laps in it.

What makes me or maybe even you feel such shame when standing unsheathed?  No it’s not God’s revenge for biting the apple. I believe it’s all your mother’s fault.  How mama viewed her body, in nine out of ten cases, so shall ye.  Similarly, her feeling toward sex shall be passed unto you.  In my particular case, it was never mentioned.    We didn’t have that intimate girly tete a tete you’re supposed to have when mommy’s and daughters bond.  She just left a sanitary towel in my room and scrammed.  I went to school wearing it around my neck telling everyone I had whiplash which did get me out of gym class  but I was dubbed ‘weird’ ever since.  My mother when I was about twelve took me to the zoo to the gorilla house, to see Gomez.   She just pointed and said; 2That’s what happens when you grow up.”  I said “What, I swing on a tire?”  Then I waved at him, he waved at me, he got excited and my world turned inside out.  He pulled out some bludgeon-looking thing and I started screaming.  “What is that thing he’s waving at me? “   My mother just lowered her eyes and said, if I ever see one of those, later in life, I should call the police.

By the time I hit puberty, I was so traumatized when I saw in my nakedness what was happening, I fought it all the way.  At the first sighting of a pubic hair, I plucked it out.  Of course, this is like stopping a forest fire.  One became ten thousand and so I felt even more shame that I was turning into a gorilla.

Early viewings of the naked body were also destined to cause negative reactions.  The first naked people I ever saw were a photo of John and Yoko.  My girlfriends and I did a full commando, covert attack on a record shop.  We painted our faces incognito and crawled on our stomachs along the floor.  When we got to the right section we secretly pulled the album out of its white sleeve and then just stood there screaming until we were removed.  John was scary enough – all white like a dead fish with that sad thing hanging out of a frazzled nest.  But Yoko, my God, was wall- t-o wall black hair from her top to her toes.  It was like she was carpeted and I thought this hairball can get a Beatle?  I was very confused why she way she didn’t seem to feel shame.  But this is a woman who professionally hammered a nail into a cloud, so who knows what went on in her mind.

I didn’t comprehend that a woman’s body is supposed to be a work of loveliness until I got my first Barbie.  She took me through my journey to womanhood.   She was my role model.  First Teen Barbie, then Cheerleader Barbie, then College Barbie.  I’m sure they’re working on Menopause Barbie.  She’ll come with extra beard.   P.S. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all age like Barbie?   Your body stays pert, but the outfits change.   So you can go from prom dress to incontinence pants, rock solid.  I wanted so much to be this perfect piece of plastic, I experimented sexually on both Barbie and Ken pretending I was her.  I knew something about penetration occurred but what part with what, I knew not.  Mama was keeping schtum.  So, I tore Barbie’s head off and shoved Ken’s leg in the neck hole.  It didn’t seem right.   Why didn’t they give Ken some kind of penis?  It would have cleared up so much.   I guess because it’s a tiny part and small children might have choked on it.

I kept thinking when I grow up I might morph into her.  And then the disappointment kicked in.  My thighs let me down in a big way. Barbie’s went in after the hips came out.  My hips came in then went out then came in and then went out again.  I had thighs so huge; it looked like I had stuffed two gigantic pigs into my tights.  And my backside seemed to be what a tribe member from the rainforest might need, not a small person from the suburbs.  Only since Jo-lo do we now celebrate the flip top butt, but not in my day.

By my twenties, I stopped looking in the mirror when naked.  I even avoided looking down in the shower, but the rumours continued that things were not well.  I couldn’t stop the flow of self criticism – my boobs were too small, my legs like pigmies, my ass in its own time zone.  I now realize how wrong I was, when I look back at that cute little body in a swim suit.  How wrong was I?

But most woman I know, (the ones I like), never say “Wow” when looking in the mirror.   Even the good looking ones, if they have a brain they will find a flaw.  If people really adored their reflections, the world would be full of Playboy bunnies.  This breed talks of nothing outside the topic of their tawny, line-free, tight and shimmering flesh.  They covet their own breasts like the obsess ional dog owner with his prize pooch at Crofts.  They oil them, fondle them, train them and parade them in their most alluring light.   Once in awhile bending over before their reflections to hunt down their missing spandex, g-string pulled so taut it must be lodged somewhere near their liver.  what happens if there’s too much concentration on the flesh?  The brain fades away like a disused limb.

The only woman I know who has a brain and really enjoys living in her skin is Pamela Anderson.  This is who the word ‘naked’ was invented.

God blessed her with a Rolls Royce for a body.  Why would you ever have any need to leave your mirror if you had an amusement park down your front?   You’re the only show in town.

Can you imagine what it feels like to have that epidermis wrapped around you?

When I met her I wanted to peel her and throw that skin around me like a pashmina of flesh just to feel what it would be like to have men drop to their knees when I passed.  And can you imagine the sex?  Usually, I’m very busy trying to suck in my stomach and get in a position where the really bad parts don’t show or flop to the side that I almost forget what I’m there for.   To just lie there in any position and be worshipped, I don’t want to seem shallow but I would kill my dog for one night of that.  (I want to say I’m kidding in case my dog reads this)

But I also know this is all ridiculous and what a waste of time it is worrying about what you look like.  It will all go in the end, so just squeeze every moment out of what you’ve got.  If you think it’s bad now, it will only get worse.  So stand before the mirror and enjoy that nakedness while you can still see.  And I don’t need to tell you, most men when they’re hormones have kicked in, see you as Pamela anyway.

I mean really, what did we human females get to work with?  While I’m on the topic here, this is a serious piece of bad engineering down there.  With the tubes and canals all in the dark.   The only way you can see it is if you bend over and break your back.  And this is what God gave us to entice men with?  What was he thinking?  Was he insane?  Or did he lose concentration?   What was he thinking?   Jam a two pound piece of liver in a door and give it a bad wig.  That’s the best he could come up with?  And to overcome this oh so attractive atrocity.  What do we have to do to allure the male?  Shave surrounding surfaces.   Cover it in frilly lingerie.  You know what I’m talking about, a piece of dental floss and a nicotine patch.  And now they have scents for the downstairs regions.  I went into a chemist last week and saw a spray.  For the feminine you.  Alpine air, I swear to God … Alpinian.  So he feels he’s not just humping you, he’s skiing on you.  Then you have to spread your limbs in a direction they can’t bend, unless you work in a Chinese circus.  But these Chinese people are insane.  They’re used to riding bicycles with 80 members of their family on their heads while spinning plates,  so what would they know?

And another thing we have to do to arouse the male, we have to paint a big red, circle around our mouths.  Because we are imitating the female baboon’s behind on our face.   How evolved are we?  Just don’t walk in a monkey house with your lips on.   You’d need a blowtorch to blast that sucker off your face.   Estee Lauder was a moron working out shades for up here.   Why didn’t she just invent some kind of colorful felt tip (La Pen)  and we could draw instructions on our inner thighs.    For some people I’ve gone out with, simple arrows would do, that say, “Enter here please.”  “This way big boy.”

And as you get older you think god if I knew what he had I could of used it so much better.   I remember thinking I had bad breasts and now I miss them so.   There was a moment I loved them when breast feeding they were at their peak.  The only people who have pleasure in walking naked are nudists who are the most disgusting tribe I once filmed at a colony called Fawkem in Kent.  Some of the most grotesque sights on earth all wearing socks wwoman who had lost relativesin those craters had such pleasure in posing before you like poor white trash in America who feel their own bodies in pleasure the whole chair is enveloped by flesh.  To be able to have sex thinking of yourself as attractive would be a miracle  I eventually had some if it sucked away and nowI wish I did this thirty years ago a waist and tighs that don’t look like Im riding on two wild pigs.  I used to play with my stomach see how far down my knees I could pull it it was like a kilt of flesh. You hate men for staring at it and yet I walk back and forth in front of contruction sights waitinf for someone to make a comment about my tits and I get nothing.  I want to be woofed at I want to be harassed it never happens to me.

If you ever want to perk up just go into a Turkish bath there are things only a mother could love. Reminiscient of the seaquarium you just see a continant with a nostril in it.

At least other countries have coming of age rituals,  to take them from boy  to man.  Man to adult.  Like in Africa,  in order for the boy to come of age.  Don’t quote me on this.  They hang the pubescent boy, from a tree by his earlobe and if  he’s not dead at the end of the year, he comes back a man.

And I can hear you asking what abou the gals?  Any coming of age rituals for the gals?   I will tell you. No.  No rituals for the gals.  They just get old.  While the menfold are out stapling themselves to trees, they just sit there on their haunches making tacos while their tits fall and  voila they are old.  No drum beating, no epilepsy dancing,  just a gradual falling of the tits.  The men become head of the tribe, while the women shrivel, they die and are made into belts.  No I lied about that they’re not made into belts. I was kidding about that.  But, when Mr. Gravity seriously sucks them toe-wards, they call you a wise woman.   But it has to be that late in the day.  You can’t be a babe and wise, it’s against the laws of nature.   Just as the last of the hormones have left the building, you’re suddenly made wise.  This is God’s final gift, he takes your juice and gives you the power to not care anymore.  At last you’re filled with the manyana spirit.  Now you don’t care about those men who dumped you.  You don’t care about those bitch shop girls. You’re free from your me.  Now you can let yourself go.  Get as wide as the  Himalayas  cause who cares,  you’re wise.  And some of them do.  They get huge.   You can find lost relatives in those stomach folds.  You need a spatula to get them out of the car.  And then they dance with their tribe of wise woman.  Hair wild. Celebrating their now retired wombs.  You’ve seen them when they get together and dance.  On the Discovery Channel at about 4:oo o’clock in the morning.  Big mountainous woman with ting tings on fingers, dancing to tapes of old menopausal whales. Dancing with wolves cause no one else will dance with them.  Shouting in all tongues, in all languages of the world.  “Embrace the dryness.”

I find it very strange now,  in America you have women embracing the concept of aging.  A country where if your skin wasn’t as tight as a bongo they shoot you on sight.  Now they talk about how fabulous it is to have menopause.  Free at last from the shackles of their attractiveness.  You see them on Oprah saying “Oh I love it Oprah, we’re having so much fun aren’t we girls?  So much more time now to collect homeless cats.” They all look like Nancy Regan.  A huge hairball on her head, then a slit across the face could be a smile could be the vagina.

My whole puberty was a nightmare.  It was a mess.  I went into shock. It’s like your organs are just sitting around chewing gum,  shooting the breeze,  playing hop scotch.  And suddenly bam!  Your whole being gets a red light alert.  Big estrogen rush, hormones bubbling like Vesuvious about to blow.  It happens so suddenly.   One day you’re happy to be a horse galloping around.  “Whoa boy.”  (Neighs and whinnies)  You know you’re a kid,  when you don’t question why the sound of the horse you’re riding on, is coming out of your mouth.  Then puberty hits and suddenly you’re necking with your pillow,  calling it Rock.  “Oh, Rock don’t be so fresh.”  “Oh, Rock you’ve got to behave.”  I named my pillow after Rock Hudson.  Can you imagine the shock I went into when I found out my pillow was a homosexual?   Anyway you hit puberty, and you’re yearning, you’re yearning.  You’re watching TV and suddenly you want Lassie … but you ant him as a man.  And your insides start screaming,   grow hairs, make pimples,, make eggs.  Emergency emergency. Grow breasts. Emergency. Emergency.   And don’t let them tell you different,  size is everything.  If you don’t have big hooters you have no meaning on earth.  My mother would not let me get a bra, so I stole my  grandmother’s.   They had huge cups.  Whole families of possums could nestle in them.  They were like two Grand Canyons, captured in elastic.  I had to stuff it full of newspaper to fill the void.  Never mind, I had 17 points and made a crunchy sound when I walked.  They were tits, god damn it.  Then the boys would ask me why it said something about Kennedy on my breasts.  And of course you’re tortured by the more developed of the girls.  Those bitches would meet in clusters with their new nose jobs.  The noses had gone from ethnic to Aryan in the bang of a hammer.  Flipped up so high, they were face-to-face with their own nostrils.  If they suddenly sneezed, they could blind themselves. Going, “Oh hi Shelley,  Nancy’s going out with Alan.” Pointy pointy pointy  “He’s such a hunk.”  “And guess what?  Didi got pinned  to Scot.  He has like the cutest Corvette. Like I’m like so jealous.”  “Oh, hi Ruby.  Do you look like that on purpose?”  “She is so weird.”  But you know God is fair.  He makes sure they’re the first to rot.  Pretty at 13, dogs by 17, entombed in their own acne.   Like leaves on a tree, the first one to bloom  is the first one to fall off.  And you go,  “See ya later sucker.”  Now it’s 2000 they’re all on valium drips and looking like old  volleyballs.  And I just got cute.  Ha ha ha.

We know very little about men. What do we know?   We know they’re born, they grow a stomach, they die.  And they want nothing more from women than yellow heads, large mammaries, pointing outward and upward and a firm behind.  Reasons for the firm behind we know not.  It has purpose whatsoever for the female.   I mean what’s she going to do with one?  Shove a pencil in her crack and write her autobiography with it?  And to appeal to the male, women spend over 4 million hours a year excercising  her way to a hard behind  Stair-mastering her way to hell, to fight off  Mr. Gravity for another winter.   Also, here’s a fact  you might not know,  the harder the butt the higher income of husband she will catch.  If it’s hard, you can bet your socks he runs a big corporation.  (To people in audience)  Sir, feel the woman’s behind next to you.  Go ahead I’ll wait.  Could everyone in here please feel the person’s ass beside you.  Has anyone found a firm behind?  OK, you mam, are you with someone?  How much does he make a year?   I was going to make an important point here.

ow do you know when you’re old?  Where is the manual to tell you you’ve hit old age?  Cause they’re always the last to know.