It is an unequal world, the world of the nude.

It is the world of art and indecent exposure. There in front of me is your man’s bottom, shaking in front of me at the sauna door. You are perfectly naked, merely natural, shaking off any shame like droplets of sweat and water, your manly spheres as innocent as the moon. I am half-nude, female, bikini-bottomed, waiting in the dark recesses of the sauna for a chance to cool down without shame, patiently sweating in propriety, the propriety of sexualization which my not-nude bottom communicates, less-acceptable for its unconventional, natural shape. Oh I know, you have your sexualised bits too.

Oh I know you and the crown jewels. Your swinging triangle of sexual danger, your neatly packaged innuendos, your Calvin Klein crotch flung open like a taut white challenge.

Oh I know, I know, I know. But now it is a hot day and you are sitting next to me on the bus and we have never met before and your hot naked sweating arm leaves small moist patches on my shirt, the sweat gathers at the naked canine curls on your naked chest. You smell as pungent as a horse after a three-day ride, you stink of everything you have seen and everywhere you have been, and because we are in London, that is a lot. You have made done with your shirt, and with propriety, because there is no need for propriety when it is hot and your torso is a man’s. Meanwhile the sweat secretly gathers along the warming wiring of my bra, it discovers the fat on my stomach, it lingers like unwanted fingers on my spine. I sit next to you fuming with my own rising heat, with disgust at your touch and with jealousy of your luck. Poppycock! (Excuse the innuendo) What utter poppycock!

I will fantasize about an upper-deck of female toplessness, a place where men will give up gawping, a 60s French feminist beach transported to the big smoke, the big apple, São Paulo, wherever, wherever, wherever anywhere really big, really big enough to have a revolution.

The most shocking thing I have ever seen was a woman who flashed her breasts at me on the street. And now, loved one, when you laugh when I say it is not fair, as you take off your shirt like a dog who merely wants to sit in the shade, when dearest, you laugh at me as if I am a little girl far far far away from really understanding the ways of the world, one little girl tugging at the beard of her god saying “oh daddy why oh why did you make it so? oh daddy tell me do?” when, dear, when you next laugh at me like that, well I will be furious and determined, not only to get perfectly naked, but to kick you in the balls.

I am not advocating violence, but everyone knows that a revolution begins by deposing the crown jewels.

—
By Buffy