Actually, it’s the ladies of The Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society doing their thing indoors because, you know, it’s winter in NYC. And not just topless (legal in public in NYC), but gloriously nude.
Outrage, of course. It’s unprofessional, unethical, probably illegal…the list goes on.
But what if said doctor never did anything with the photos? Never posted them to the web, never cataloged them with identifying information (your face or name), never did anything with them except, presumably, look at them and masturbate?
It’s not a hypothetical. Dr. Nikita Levy, a Johns Hopkins gynecologist in Baltimore, Md., did exactly that. When his breach of trust was discovered in 2013, he committed suicide. Recently, Hopkins awarded a $190 million to more than 8,000 women who had been Levy’s patients.
A Washington Post article, A gynecologist secretly photographed patients. What’s their pain worth? (Jan. 14), interviewed several of the plaintiffs, who were awarded damages ranging from $1,750 to $26,000.
None of the women knew for a fact whether they were photographed by Levy. Yet they spoke of humiliation, fear, a distrust of doctors and lawyers, panic attacks—a whole range of trauma. “They will never be able to fathom what we’ve all been through,” one victim said through tears. “Sleepless nights, missing work, your body at work but your brain elsewhere . . . we lived through hell, and some of us are still going through hell.”
The pain is real, no doubt. But it’s the result of what?
The suspicion that their genitals were photographed in a non-sexual setting by a pervert (a word I usually use loosely, but not here) who kept the photographs to himself. (I say “genitals” because the news articles about Levy said he used a penlight camera to take the photos. I guess it’s possible that he also may have videoed women in the nude. But the news reports give the impression that he was taking close-up shots of genitalia.)
(Side note: The Post used of term “sexually explicit” to describe the photos. Is a close-up photograph of a vulva that isn’t sexually aroused or positioned to suggest sexual arousal or titillation really “sexually explicit”? Isn’t it just a photograph of a vulva or whatever?)
My question is this: Is there something going on here (speaking of the women’s genuine reactions) that speaks to U.S. society’s attitudes toward sex? Why so much pain and shame and humiliation over the possibility that a doctor (a popular guy with most of his patients and known for his “warm demeanor”) took and kept photos of their genitals? And with no information that would distinguish your genitals from the genitals of the 8,000 other women?
I don’t get it. I’m a nudist. I’ve been photographed nude (both Polaroid and digital). I’ve been photographed while sexually aroused (including closeups of my genitals). All were taken with my permission. Hardly unique, right? In the nineteenth century, you had to hire Toulouse-Lautrec for homemade porn. Now, you just pick up your phone and your debauchery is preserved for posterity. (Since I know what you’re thinking, none of my sexually explicit photos have made it to the web and won’t, so don’t ask.)
I’d like to think that my reaction, had I learned that my doctor had taken photos of my genitals for his own private use, would be, “That’s weird.” I’d want them back (or destroyed or locked up, as Levy’s photos are) and I’d want the guy punished (this is, obviously, a good argument for women gynecologists).
But panic attacks? Deep shame and humiliation? I don’t think so.
Again, I have no problem being nude in mixed company (and when appropriate, as when everyone else is nude). I don’t automatically associate nudity with sex (which most Americans do). Yes, I’m more like a Northern European in that respect. A close-up shot of my crotch (it’s fairly normal looking, by the way, just like 99 percent of other crotches) does not upset me. Theoretically, that is.
So why the deep shame and humiliation from the women interviewed by the Post?
What do you think?
Those irrepressible ladies of The Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society have taken their topless reading soirees a step further. They found a (relatively) private spot in a NYC park and and took it all off.
Could New York City someday be forward-thinking enough to choose some area in some local park and officially designate it for nude sunbathing? We’d like to think so; we’d like to see that happen. But in the meantime we’re glad that opportunities like this one sometimes exist. It’s lovely to lie topless in the sun. Even more so if you can be topless all over.
Click on a picture for more. Nudity is nice!
A restaurant scheduled to open in London in June will be the city’s first clothing-optional eating place (London’s first nude restaurant has a waiting list 16,000 names long, The Washington Post, April 22).
That’s a lot of people who are very eager to take off their clothes before eating dinner. And why not? For one thing, they won’t have to worry about what to wear, will they? Despite the many reasons that nude dining makes sense, most Americans won’t be able to get past one thing: Nudity is about sex and voyeurism.
Here’s what the article says: “…the restaurant is not a bunch of guys trying to create naked dining for attention, but more of a nudist social experiment that aims to give people a space to challenge their assumptions about nudity, modernity and what kind of behavior we consider natural. In essence, [the owner] claims, consuming food in public sans clothing is ‘an act of rebellion.’
“’When you get a chance, you take your clothes off,’ [the owner] told The Post. “’When you get in bed, you take your clothes off. When you go to the beach or a sauna, you take your clothes off. It’s natural.’” (Note to European guy: When Americans get in bed, they were pajamas. When Americans go to the beach, they wear ridiculous, constricting bathing suits—even little children. And, yes, even in saunas, most Americans don’t take off all their clothes, or they at least wrap a towel around their sweaty torsos).
Yep. I’ve been to a lot of nudist resorts and, trust me, you don’t go there to leer at the nude bodies. Oh, you might initially, on the first visit—but it wears off in about a half hour (when you discover that the vast majority of the bodies are not worth leering at, including your own). After the initial thrill/terror passes, you realize it’s the experience—the delicious, relaxing and freeing sensation that comes from not wearing clothing in a social setting. Everyone I know who has tried it enjoys nudism immensely.
Meanwhile, though, on this side of the Atlantic, any mention of social nudity (or, really, nudity of any kind) earns you a leer or a wink or some off-the-wall indication that you must be a sex addict or something just because you like taking your clothes off (or gets you in the Washington Post.) Hey, I am a sex addict (or as close as you’ll come to finding one—the notion of sex addiction is ridiculous and insulting), and not wearing clothes in a social setting is not about sexual arousal. Nudity, especially outdoors, is very sensuous, for sure. But not sexual.
Nude restaurants, nude cruises, nude bowling, nude hiking, nude resorts, nude beaches, nude housekeeping—can we get past the “nude” thing and just take off our clothes?
If you’re not a nudist, why the hell not? Defend yourself! Just kidding. You’re not into it, that’s fine. But what about this pervasive, anti-nude sensibility that makes it impossible for someone (me!) to, say, walk in the woods nude? Or vacuum nude without closing the curtains (see nude pic below the form!)?
And why is that? Because what is considered “normal” in sexual activity is changing, according to an article in the Globe and Mail (Canada), Many ‘abnormal’ sexual tastes are neither rare nor unusual, study finds.
“A new study suggests sexual fantasies, urges and behaviours that are often considered abnormal are actually quite common among the general population, raising questions about how psychiatrists and psychologists define what is sexually normal or not,” the article said.
The study reached out to about a thousand residents of Quebec, and found out that about half of the respondents expressed the desire (my emphasis) to engage in what the study called “paraphilic” or anomalous sexual activities. Well, who gets to decide what these activities are? The authors of the study, I guess.
Also, the folks surveyed “desired” to do the naughty (or formerly naughty). Would it be overreaching to say that nearly half of the people in the survey fantasized about (here’s what lead the list): “voyeurism – surreptitiously watching strangers when they are nude, undressing or having sex…fetishism – sexual arousal by an inanimate, non-sexual object; frotteurism – touching or rubbing oneself against a stranger; and masochism – sexual arousal while suffering, being dominated or humiliated.”
If it’s just fantasy (the realm I deal with in my erotica), then this sounds like an awfully tame list to me. The stuff I fantasize about (but seriously doubt I’d ever do) includes fucking the guy who drives my trash truck on my front lawn (he’s really big from tossing trash cans around all day, and black, which I’m not). Then him tossing me over, sodomizing me and releasing his bladder into my rectum.
Whew. I don’t get that fantasy very often, but, boy, it powers a very intense masturbation session.
So, overall, pretty vanilla stuff in that study, don’t you think? For fantasies? Where’s the rope bondage? Pee play? Anal? Femdom and male orgasm denial? Incest? My piss-in-the-ass fantasy? And nothing about gay sex (male or female).
It goes, I think, to the authors’ definition of normal: “interest in genital stimulation or preparatory fondling with phenotypically normal, physically mature, consenting human partners.” Anything else “is not necessarily disordered, but is considered paraphilic or abnormal.”
My score card (not that I was asked) on the anomalous activities in the study:
Voyeurism. I can get off on it (and have), but really don’t go out of my way to watch people fuck (unlike the motel owner profiled in the New Yorker who “studied” (secretly watched) guests for like 15 years in a very elaborate set up).
Exhibitionism, which I don’t do. But I really like outdoor sex. And part of the thrill of taking your clothes off and fucking (or masturbating) outdoors is the danger of getting caught. I’m also a nudist and enjoy people seeing me nude. But it’s in the right context and is not overtly sexual (sensual, sure, but nudism isn’t about sex).
Frotteurism (touching or rubbing oneself against a stranger). New one on me (unless you’re talking about pickup sex). Is this subway sex? Anyway, if it included objects, I might qualify. Things like bedposts, pillows, trees…
Masochism: Yes! Spank me! When I’m close to coming, I like to be slapped in the face–hard. I like to have my genitals smacked. If my ass is bruised the next morning and it hurts to sit, I know I had a good time. I want hickies! But it’s all in a sexual context and, I strongly suspect, pretty mild compared to what the real BDSM crowd gets into.
Sadism: Nope. I’ll spank in a return-the-favor way. But it doesn’t get me off.
Pedophilia: Nope. Puh-leeze.
Fetishism (sexual arousal by an inanimate, non-sexual object). Hmm. Do dildos and vibrators count? I suspect not. Shoes? Toaster ovens? Nope.
Transvestism: I’m more about getting my clothes off than dressing up like the other sex.
Being Canadian and sensible , one of the authors made this comment about the concept of “abnormality” in sex: “If people are happy, if everybody is consenting, I don’t know why it should be abnormal, especially in 2016.”
Right. For the really abnormal stuff, fantasize (and read erotica!)
erotica, female masturbation, Food for Thought Friday, Lemurians, Mt. Shasta, nude man, nude woman, nudism, nudity, oral sex, orgasms, outdoor nudity, outdoor sex, penis, public nudity, public sex, pussy, sex, sex positions
This week’s Food for Thought Friday question: Where is the riskiest/most adventurous place that you have had sex? Did you get caught?
We stepped out of the woods and walked toward the beach. As we emerged from the canopy into the full moonlight illuminating the shoreline of the lake, I gasped. Mt. Shasta floated above distant forests and hills beyond the lake, its peak and craggy summit shimmering in white. It was a breathtakingly beautiful sight—a gorgeous, iconic mountain glorious in the light of a full moon.
After arriving at the campground that afternoon, we had made camp, gone for a brief swim, fixed dinner and began an exploration. The lake and beach were closed after dark, which was perfect. We ignored the signs, walked around the gate, and had it to ourselves. At least, it looked that way.
Now, on the beach, thunderstruck with the beauty of the scene, we did what any young and healthy couple would do. I pulled Tim into me, kissed him hard, and ground my hips as I gripped his ass with both hands.
“Look, a picnic table,” I said. We raced toward it, hand in hand.
I was out of my cutoffs and pulling my T-shirt off as Tim pushed down his jeans. Looking up and down the half-mile of lakefront, illuminated as if by streetlights by the powerful moon, I couldn’t quite believe we were the only people taking advantage of this magnificent scene. It was just so beautiful. Barely ten at night, the moon was already high in the sky. We could see our shadows as we struggled out of our clothes.
I stretched out on my back, nude, lengthwise on the wood table. “Kneel on the bench here,” I said. We had a femdom thing going on our two-week tour of Northern California. I gave the orders, Tim obeyed. His cock was rock hard, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I wanted him in me fast, ready to fire his load. I took the head of his cock in my mouth and suckled. My fingers kneaded his balls, tight against the base of his cock. My other hand went between my legs, spreading the juices as I masturbated. My horniness, and no doubt Tim’s, was in direct proportion to my fear of getting caught fucking on a public beach. On a picnic table. In the nude. In the shadow of Mt. fucking Shasta.
In less than a minute, my mouth filled with the saltiness of his precum. He popped out, and I opened my knees, presenting. Tim, now standing at the end of the picnic table, positioned between my legs.
“See anyone?” I asked. His head swiveled and he scanned around us as he ran his cockhead up and down my wet and swollen pussy lips, probing for my entrance. “Not a soul,” Tim said. “Nor a Lemurian.” An aside: The descendants of Lemuria are reputed to live deep inside the mountain. They’re seven feet tall, can disappear at will, and speak with slight British accents. We never saw any.
I guided him inside me—and gasped for the second time as Tim’s thick cock penetrated me. I was exquisitely primed—outdoors in the nude, bathed in moonlight, my lover between my legs, my pussy filled, an almost mystical view of Mt. Shasta. I wrapped my legs around Tim and raised up on my elbows to better take it all in. My tiny breasts shimmied in rhythm with Tim’s frantic thrusting.
Just as that glow at the base of my spine began to smolder—that would be orgasm number one—my paranoia spun out of control. What if someone comes up the beach? A family with kids? A fucking ranger? “Faster! Goddam it! Fill me up!” I snarled. The position wouldn’t let me reach Tim’s balls, so I pushed and kneaded my boobs, providing visual stimulation that invariably got him off faster.
I held Tim in a death grip between my legs. He plunged deeper, his cock got harder, and I knew he was close. Why so long? I looked around, still didn’t see anyone, and dropped my head back on the table. It was all animal sex now. And I’m noisy when I fuck. I whimper and groan and squeal. Tim, who had no doubt picked up on my paranoia, put his hand over my mouth. “Not so loud,” he hissed.
I don’t follow orders well. I bit him. He yelped and slapped me. Hard. The shock and the heat on my face pushed me over the edge. My orgasm broke—just as Tim came. My hips came off the table as he pounded me, emptying his balls deep inside my womb.
Tim’s lips found my lips, maybe slightly swelled from his slap, hard to tell. I was over my paranoia. This was our first fuck in days, and I knew this guy could go again. I had him scissored between my legs. He wasn’t going anywhere. I started to grind, my ass elevated off the table, my tongue buried in his mouth. I was fucking him whether he liked it or not.
It took a minute or two, but he responded and got harder. Now, he was thrusting. Now, I was his little fuck doll. My arms wrapped around his massive shoulders,he pulled me off the table—I’m barely a hundred pounds of certifiable sex maniac—then set my ass on the edge as he fucked me furiously. My ass was wet and slippery from cum and pussy juice, while his back was drenched in sweat. From the effort of fucking. Of fucking me. I ran my hands up and down his back, pushing his sweat around, shoulder to ass, as he pounded me into the table.
“C’mon, baby, you can do it,” I cooed in his ear. “Fill me the fuck up. Harder. You can do it! Shoot your load! Fuck me!”
Tim pulled me off the table, enveloping me in his arms, as he exploded, his roar muffled by my shoulder. He came faster the second time than the first. So did I. Our fuck frenzy had wiped away my paranoia. But not for long. Remembering where I was and the risks we were taking, I pushed Tim out of the way and looked around. No one. Just the two of us, a little the worse for wear, the glass-smooth lake, that insanely bright moon, and Mt. Shasta.
Tim stood in front of me, panting, sweat trickling off his nose, his dick wilting. I took his meaty cock in my hand and milked the last of his semen, smearing it on his glans and shaft.
“Got any tissues?” I asked. Tim raised his head and looked at me. He was glassy-eyed, barely sentient. He shook his head.
Fuck. I’m not a woman who can hold a load of jism inside and release on demand. You know, quick scurry to the bathroom and plop in the toilet. In a few seconds Tim’s loads would be running down my legs. Not to mention my hands were wet with his sweat and jism and my juices.
I leaned back and spread my legs. “Clean me. Clean up your mess.”
To his credit, Tim obeyed without thinking. His lips and tongue lapped my engorged labia as he sucked up his splooge. Okay, sure, I had an ulterior motive. Three minutes later I came again, the soles of my feet on his shoulders, my sticky wet fingers running through his long blond hair, my hips bucking into his face.
Hand in hand, we walked back up the beach. Every few yards, we would turn and take in the grandeur of Mt. Shasta. We reached the gate, pulled on our clothes and returned to our campsite.
Go to F4TF for more crazy sex.