So here I sit, licking my wounds at a café on 17th and Market. The bitter tang of my Arabian Mocha-Java brought little comfort as I pretended to scan the Guardian for job opportunities. In truth, I was people-watching, letting the warm sun and the colorful parade of passersby distract me from my imminent fiscal demise.

A ragtag group gathered at one end of the plaza; I paid them no mind. But soon, their energy pierced my despair. Several of the guys, and then I noticed a couple of gals too, were shirtless, sunlit movements drawing the eye. Someone broke out body paint, painting bare skin with childlike artlessness—the predictable mix of peace signs and anti-capitalist slogans.

A scruffy lot. So far, their protest seemed more like a rehearsal than a revolution—more drum circle than destiny.

Casual nudity in protests is common enough. But I wondered—does youthful rebellion lead to an unkempt appearance, or is it the other way around? Perhaps some aspiring sociologist could write a Phd thesis on the correlation between anarchist leanings and decrepit Birkenstocks. Not me; not my field—yet another line on a résumé I lack.

Skin isn’t exclusive to protests. The city’s vocal Urban Nudist movement braves the chill, though it takes a hardy soul to lounge outdoors in bare skin in our climate. But warm, sunny days inevitably draw out the body-freedom crowd.

Unlike traditional nudist groups who gather behind tall fences, Urban Nudists reject the idea of hiding their lifestyle. No sign-waving, chanting, or body painting—no excuses needed. Instead, they go about their daily routines unclad: reading books at cafés, sipping java, or tapping away on laptops in the plaza, and bored locals pay no heed.

The argument is uncomplicated: skin is normal, so why hide it? More power to them. I’m comfortable if they are—though personally, I’d need a sweater, or maybe a scarf. I’m all for skin—it’s the packaging we’re delivered in, after all.

I suppose they are protesting too, just less boisterously so. In any case, urban nudism is a growing movement which many cities more and more ignore.

Public nudity can earn one a citation little more troubling than a parking ticket, though even that is seldom enforced. Popularly, nudity takes place within sanctioned events and the prudes choose not to see. Many of the city’s marches, footraces, and similar spectacles have a well-accepted and popular nude contingent. Spectators can be heard cheering and shouting, often asking for selfies with the groups of naked people.

The police cite the unsanctioned nudes now and then, but seldom. As a rule, they order everyone to get dressed. Then, duty done, warning given, it's off to the nearest donut shop.

An advertisement caught my eye:

Are You a Boob?

This is not for you! We need a man, highly intelligent, an engineer well conversant with technology, and politically astute.

A competent man at home with culture and politics as well as with engineering and mathematics.

He must be well versed in the methodology of the sciences.

He must be tall, perfectly healthy, and physically fit, handsome of face and figure, comfortable with his body, fluent in English, with some grounding in the Romance languages.

Must be willing to travel, no family or emotional ties. Permanent employment, high pay, adventure, and danger.

You must apply in person.

​

I recognized the address as but two blocks from where I sat. Intrigued but suspicious; it must be some con or a joke, not worth the time to investigate.

While mulling the question in my mind, I saw . . . HER!

I almost missed her arrival. The gathering colorful characters had begun stripping. Some retained a figleaf of propriety, others flamboyantly clad in bare skin and garish body paint, modesty protected by nothing more than counter-culture symbology.

Then SHE stepped from the crowd; time slowed, and the sun shone brighter—the entire plaza fell silent.

She appeared like a vision, stepping out of the chaotic collection of semi-naked activists. No paint, no slogans, only skin—a flawless expanse of deep-bronzed muscle and form. Her crimson hair cascaded to her waist, unrestrained and alive with the breeze, and she moved with the ease of someone who owned every inch of the space around her.

She paused. A single heartbeat. Our eyes locked—her smile, enigmatic, eyes twinkling as though a secret shared. Then gone—swallowed by the masses.

She stood tall and well-muscled, lean, taut, and rather buxom. A fit, broad-shouldered, and muscular mesomorph with flaming red hair that extended to her waist, falling free and unrestrained. Although she would be the center of attention in any setting, she was well beyond attention-getting in the plaza. She appeared to have stepped from a Boris Vallejo or Frank Frazetta fantasy.

Stunning in form and figure; and stark naked!

Skyclad!

Clothed with the sun!

Barefoot to the chin!

​

Unlike the rag-tag collection of characters gathering for their colorful protest, she wore no paint, displayed no slogans, and no counter-culture symbology. Nothing marred her exquisite, deep-bronzed skin, not so much as a freckle. Simply fully, totally, completely nude, she stepped from the gathering crowd, confident, poised, as though stepping from the pages of a sculpted and airbrushed fantasy layout. Unlike the protesters the passersby ignored, she magnetically drew every eye in the plaza.

Unperturbed, ignoring the open-mouthed silence and staring eyes, she strolled abreast of my table, and paused a bare half-heartbeat. She looked me in the eye, her smile, an enigmatic puzzle, her eyes twinkling with mischief and delight, as though possessing a secret she dare not share. Then she joined the colorful collection of semi-undressed protesters and vanished within their ranks. I followed her with my eyes as long as possible, bewitched, drawn to her magical form. Despite my rapt attention, she strolled into that chromatic congress and vanished.

I scrambled to my feet, paper in hand, brew forgotten, and unable to track with my eyes, followed with my feet. Futilely so, it turned out.

It shouldn’t have been difficult—tall, striking, and as naked as the day she was born! Yet, somehow, she vanished into the throng of body-painted protesters like smoke on a windy day.

It made no sense. Logic told me she should be visible from blocks away, her fiery hair and sun-bronzed skin blazing like a beacon. Logic can be a feeble reed sometimes.

I hurried through the plaza, scanning every face, every figure. Gone! Swallowed whole by the crowd.

Cursing under my breath, I slowed my pace. What was I even doing? Chasing a stranger, just because she happened to be naked and stunning? I didn’t know her, didn’t have any reason to think she might want to know me. Yet I couldn’t shake the sense that her fleeting appearance had been… deliberate. As though she held a key to a door I had yet to unlock.

Realizing my buffoonery, I slowed my pace and abandoned the quest. Aimless now, I continued to drift in the same general direction, propelled by inertia. I glanced at the store windows, read signs and handbills, and wandered along in an introspective fog.

I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, my frustration growing with every step. Then I spotted it—a plywood-covered window with graffiti scrawled in bold red letters:

Are You a Boob?

It stopped me in my tracks. The question was the same as in the Guardian. My gaze dropped to the crumpled paper still clutched in my hand, and I scanned the details again:

I checked the address. Not graffiti—a makeshift sign. I stood at the doorway, watching the line of applicants—or suckers—snaking inside. Like Alice, I teetered on the edge of a yawning rabbit hole.

This Alice is not about to tumble! No red pill for this cyber nerd; I'm the blue-pill type!

At least I could answer the question! Only a mindless boob would become so entranced as to stalk a strange woman, no matter how she dressed. Or didn’t!

What had I been thinking? I could answer that one, too.

Cursing, I turned toward home. I could salvage the day if I returned to my room, curled up with my laptop, and pounded out a few job applications. Adding a dozen more to the thousands I have sent into the ether might sound pointless, but sooner or later, one must score. Perseverance and all that!

I sauntered along, hands in pockets, drifting up the hill toward my rented berth, pondering the morning’s events, wishing I stayed in the plaza and finished my Java. Why was I so drawn to this mysterious character? I guess I must admit the one obvious answer, but the city does not lack for unusual and quirky characters, including nudes. So, why did this one exert such an unwonted influence, such an unreasoning attraction?

I wished I had carried my laptop this morning instead of leaving it locked in my bedroom. I should have stayed at my table in the plaza, working on resumes instead of chasing a mirage. I kicked myself again for my infantile reaction to that flaming-haired woman!

It’s not as if I have lacked females willing to share their charms. Yet something about her presence grabbed me in a way I’ve never experienced, as though we shared a strange bond of which I remain unaware. Just seeing her strolling nude through the plaza left me shaken, unnerved, and violated.

Who is she? No doubt, a female bodybuilder. Women do not develop a toned physique like that without working at it. Well, neither do men. I tried it for a while; trust me, it is hard work. In an age of convenience, muscular strength ceases to be about survival—it's naught but wasted spectacle.

She didn’t appear to be with the protesters. Where did she come from? How did she disappear? And most of all, why take a casual nude stroll through the city? If to get my attention, she did.

She got everyone’s attention!