A History of Private Nudism

I am a private nudist. When I am home alone, without any human presence, just me and the secret hidden cameras no one can control, I remove my clothing and feel free.

When my friends and cousins ask me to house-sit, I say a polite yes, grin over the phone, and proceed to embellish their homes with my nudity, without their knowledge, against their ingrained sense of propriety.

I sit on their sofas, lick their television sets, print the sweat of my buttocks on their glass tables before wiping all trace of it, except that frisson of transgression that permeates the air when they return, like when you reach home and, without even opening the door, know that you’ve been robbed.

But that is not enough.

One day, as an experiment, I will set my phone to automatically reject all calls from my best friends. Every person I know will be surgically separated from my life.

I will leave home without a note. My furniture will be arranged such that when they break down the door a week later, they will find a cryptic coded message that means nothing.

I will follow the railway tracks into the sea and swim till I reach another shore. I will pose as a survivor of a sea-wreck and make a new life with my rescuers till I get bored.

Then I will steal their intimate belongings – sole remaining photos of their grandparents, watches and jewellery they got on their wedding day, their daughter’s precious poo-bear – and make my way into the city.

I will make new friends. I will connect with them through a shared interest in celebrity lives and celebrity perversions.

I will meet a woman in a bar and dazzle her with my wit and ditch her while she’s still recovering from it the next morning.

I will seduce young men and take them to my hotel room and love them in ways they’ve never dared to imagine. Once they are obsessed with me, I will ignore them and make them beg me to reassure them that it all meant something. Then I will search out homophobic hoodlums and have my tender darlings beaten in dark alleys till they learn never to love again.

I will leave needles in the backrests of theatre seats. They will prick young people who will go home terrified that they might have AIDS. Furtively, they will scan the Yellow Pages for discreet purveyors of sex medicine and seek dodgy counsel which will, once in a while, keep them awake at nights and afraid for their spouses.

I will return and I will live a normal life, a boring life, your life. But I will know that I am better than you. Even though I might not look it.