To Whomever Left Ice Cream in my Freezer

I'll assume that it wasn't William Carlos Williams, and that I must now explain myself.

Your ice cream was lost to the French Renaissance writer Francois de Rabelais, who believed that it was best to please the physical appetites with whatever's at hand, and not feel guilty or hung up about it. The spirit of Rabelais possessed me from beyond the grave and, despite my valiant efforts to fend him off, he used my mouth to devour your frozen confection, which I will replace at first opportunity.

So sorry. I must now go back to licking the carton.

A Lost Art?

A great conversationalist can make anyone they talk to feel like the most important, interesting person in the world. But how many people can connect that profoundly while watching silly videos, listening to music, and carrying on two other discussions simultaneously?

“Instant” messaging is a prodigious time-sink, thanks in part to the distractions available on every Internet-connected computer. Who wants to be minimized? Who wants to wait seven minutes or more for a two-word reply? My friends are not just one "task" out of many, so I'm uneasy with the entire format.

Many people I love become barbarians online. Shouldn't instant messages observe basic social niceties such as saying "goodbye" instead of just vanishing? I've failed to observe etiquette a few times too, of course, but I've always apologized and tried to atone for the slip.

One-on-one online conversation seems so consistently rough around the edges that nobody is to blame for my exasperation. I am not pointing fingers at people, but at communication problems.

I just started reading The Letters of E.B. White, and I have an idea.

Do like your great-grandma did and write me a letter! You don't have to stamp an envelope or anything, just type it into an e-mail. I check my inbox daily.

If you don't like writing, come visit me instead. I'll feed you and sing you a song, maybe even for free. Overnights are alright, too, so bring your friends. My place sleeps up to a dozen. Comfortably.

And be sure I have your e-mail address. I sometimes handwrite letters, then scan them for e-mailing. There aren't many physical addresses in my, um, address book.

Check your mailbox! I'll see you soon.

Yours, as always,
Nicholas

Please Pass the Breasts

On the twenty-first I'll be attending a nude dinner for four (the nudity was my choice; more on that shortly). The hosting married couple have a long, bonded history with a mutual friend, and having heard a lot of stories involving me, they want to make acquaintance. I've agreed, in part because I've rarely cohabited with naked human beings outside of sexual contexts, and I'm interested.

A single skinny dipping excursion in the dark immediately before high school graduation was my only exposure. That night I connected as a friend to people I've rarely seen before or since, and I maintain a strong fond feeling when I remember their faces.

Our hosting couple laments that past dinners have ended awkwardly, with their guests revealing themselves to be not only nudists, but swingers. It's apparently rare to find naked, platonic companions. Let me repeat myself here: this is not about sex. I had heard through the grapevine that they're nudists, and I told our mutual friend to forward the message that if they prefer to be naked in their own home, I wasn't averse.

Platonic nudity, I have heard, improves the social climate. People are less guarded, more outgoing. It's hard to be pretentious in your birthday suit.

Wearing a costume does affect the way you perceive yourself. This black cotton t-shirt, these bracelets I'm wearing, and these broken-in jeans comprise tonight's disguise. When I stop to notice, I feel discomfort from all that cloth. I've never stopped to ask myself whether I actually enjoy wearing clothes. Yet to wear nothing is new to me, and my own bare body itself seems like a surreal costume, because I am so rarely unclad in front of others. This is neurotic territory at best, and that saddens me.

Only a handful of women have seen me naked as an adult. Some were so self-conscious that they demanded the lights should be out before they'd agree to strip too. I resisted this request every time, because I wanted to see the body, the nakedness, the humanness. It was always a thrill to make them feel beautiful, rather than merely sexy, because the nudity was not just about sex. It was about peeling off the mundane, stiff, professional daily world and leaving it on the floor layer by layer to create a safe empty space together, one all our own. It was about penetrating beyond the surface of this person's life, being trusted, helping that person feel good about herself, and then making her feel good physically. In the process, I'd like to think that common ground was formed, though at least once I was indeed used and cast aside.

Sex has always been associated with my experiences of mutual nudity, and I feel cheated. Why should I view my body as a strictly sexual object, uncovered only for bathing and gratification? Our bodies are miraculous in every activity. Why not appreciate that, in hopes of gaining a healthier appreciation for unguarded, exposed humanity? I can't empathize with a shirt. I can't empathize with denim. I can't empathize with a sundress. Body is the only thing I can really, humanly understand. Body, body, body.

I'll be there, friends. Eight o' clock. And I'll bring dessert. We'll all have a good laugh, because I'll have no idea which fork to use.