The Nude Journal


And it happened. We kissed, our clothing came off and I could see her, fully naked for the first time, and it was even better than I had expected. I spent the night exploring every part of her body, committing it to memory, and I used a good number of the condoms that I had brought with me, being an optimist. It was everything that I had literally dreamed about—I mean, I had seen her breasts, and I had seen her in a bikini, but seeing the whole thing, uncovered and on display for me, was a revelation.

The next morning, I woke up, and rolled over, expecting to see Madeline, and hoping for more sex. But she wasn't there. She was sitting, in sweats, her hair tied back, on the hard chair in the room, sobbing. I assumed that it was something that I had done, or hadn't done, or that she didn't really want to have sex. I said, "Madeline, what's the matter?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm really sorry."

"What could you be sorry about?" I asked, uncomprehendingly. "That was incredible. You are incredible."

She stood up and came to the bed, sitting down next to me. She took my hand. "I lied to you," she said, and I could see her red rimmed eyes tearing up. "I never meant to hurt you."

"What do you mean you lied?" I had no idea what she was talking about, and I had just lost my virginity to the girl I loved, so my head was spinning.

"This wasn't my first time," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

I didn't know what to say. "Camp?" was the first word out of my mouth, and she nodded.

"It happened. Once. It hurt and I never did it again."

"Then why didn't you tell me, Maddie?" I asked, reverting to the name I used when I first had a crush on her.

"I didn't want to ruin this," she said.

After that, there was yelling, and crying. And an admission that, although they had only had sex that one time, they did other things that she and I had not, to that point, done, which led to a long, quiet ride home, the radio playing to fill the silence. As much as I liked her, I felt betrayed, and for better or worse, I couldn't continue the relationship. The fact that we soon would be going to colleges that were very far apart made the decision marginally easier. That night, I entered Madeline into the journal, regretfully, for the last time.

New York City, December 14, 2004

Despite my clear interest in the naked female form, I had somehow avoided strip clubs. It just seemed tawdry, and expensive, and to be fair, I had been able to see my share of nude women, not only on line, but by that point, live.

After I broke up with Madeline, I had a memorable summer. That year, when I worked at the pool for the summer, I did not hesitate to reciprocate in flirting. As a result, I found myself making a number of entries in the journal—although I limited myself to women who were 18 years old, or more. And I promised myself never to get involved with any of the married, bored housewives who came on to me. Instead, I filled my summer with brief relationships with a few girls my own age, and a handful of young divorced women, who taught me a great deal.

After the summer, I went off to a good college in New Jersey, but by Christmas break, I hadn't been with a woman. My journal reverted again to pictures and videos, but I certainly hoped to return to more personal entries. I'm not sure why I continued with the journal, but it had become a habit, and a seemingly harmless one at that.

One night during break, I got an email from Samuel, who was home from school, too. All it said was, "We have to go to this," and a link. When I clicked on it, it was an announcement of an appearance by none other than Abby Melons, the first naked woman I had ever "seen," at a strip club on the far west side of Manhattan. I wondered why Samuel was getting such announcements, and marveled that he remembered that day, seemingly so long ago. I was a little suspicious about the fact that this performance was on a Tuesday night, not exactly a big bar night, and from the grainy picture, it did not seem like Ms. Melons had aged particularly well. But I was bored, and it seemed like it might be a hoot.

So, we went into the city, and found the club, paid the cover and went in. It was exactly as I expected—dark, lots of drunk guys, and a surprising number of women, watching surgically enhanced, tattooed and heavily made up women gyrating on stage. We got a table and ordered a couple of beers and watched the show.

I cannot deny that it was somewhat of a turn on—naked women dancing, even if they were not the most beautiful of women—were still naked women dancing, and I admit that I briefly tried to figure out how I was going to enter these anonymous women into the journal. But, after a couple of overpriced beers, I stopped caring.

Finally, the music stopped, and the announcer said, "Direct from Boston, Massachusetts, star of more than 100 films, AVN Award Nominee, the legendary Abby Melons." The crowd applauded as the music cranked up again, and Abby took the stage. In the dim light of the club, and in the haze of drink, I didn't see the aging, plastic-boobed woman, dancing in a third-rate strip club. Instead, I flashed back to that day when my 12-year old self saw his first naked picture, and I felt myself get hard.

She danced, perfunctorily, and her eyes looked dead, between flashes of false flirtatiousness as men stuffed bills into her G-string. It was a professional performance, I guess, and then it was over. As she left the stage, the announcer stated that she would be signing pictures, for $10, at the back of room. Samuel and I looked at each other and smiled, and when they set up the table, we got on line. After a few minutes, I was standing before her, staring down into her deep, tanned and wrinkled cleavage holding a wrinkled bill in my hand. I handed her the money, and she signed a nude picture of herself, clearly from years ago, and slid it to me.

"Thanks," I said, and she looked up at me. "Um, you know, you were the first woman I ever saw naked, when I was a kid."

"That's sweet," she said emotionlessly, then looked down and reached for the next bill.

Samuel and I left the club, and I dropped the signed picture into the trash. Later, when I got home, I entered Abby into the journal for the last time.

October 8, 2011 New York

I sat in the restaurant, looking at Danielle in the candlelight, totally infatuated. After a few unsuccessful relationships, I met Danielle through, of all people, Sam, who was at the time dating her roommate. We went to a party at their apartment, and there was clearly some sort of a spark. We spent much of the evening talking, and I found myself just following her around, helping her clean up empty glasses and restocking the food.

Other than socially, I was in a pretty good place. I liked my job, had good friends and a nice, if small, apartment. I was over Kira, who had broken up with me a week after she was entered into the journal, and I wasn't really looking for a relationship. Which, of course, is when they find you.

The day after the party, Sam called me and encouraged me to call Danielle, and I didn't need more than that. Our first date was nice—a quick, casual dinner followed by a slow, conversation-filled walk around the city, ending with a short kiss in front of her building that sent waves of electricity through my body. We spoke every day the next week, and our second date was at a jazz club, and ended with some serious groping on the couch. We spoke multiple times a day during the next week, and we both realized that something special was happening.

Tonight was the third date, and I felt some tension, because of the expectations that seemed to hover over that milestone. We made it through dinner, and every time I touched her hand, I felt that feeling deep in my gut. After settling up the check, we left the restaurant and hailed a cab.

"My place?" I asked, and when she nodded and smiled, I knew that it was going to happen.

She nestled against me in the cab, and I buried my nose in her fragrant hair, enjoying the way it tickled my face. I stroked her arms and neck, and she purred with pleasure as we hurtled along the dark New York streets. We were out of the cab and up the stairs in an instant, and kissing an instant later. Our clothing came off effortlessly, as if it was meant to be, with urgency, but not frantically, until we were both naked and lying on my Queen sized bed.

I held Danielle close, loving the way that her naked body felt against mine, feeling the warmth of her breasts pressing against my chest, the softness of her stomach squeezing my hard cock against my abdomen, and the heat of her pussy pressing against me. But I forced myself to draw away so that I could, in the light that came in the window from the streetlights, to marvel at her body.

No, it was not centerfold perfect, but this was real life, and frankly, it was still damn good. And I wasn't objective—I was in love. I traced the outline of her body. From her shoulder, down her side, across her hips, and briefly into the small patch of pubic hair before returning up the other side, to the shoulder and down to her breasts. I watched her smile as I traced the shape of her breasts, the roundness of her areolae and her protruding nipples before I leaned in and kissed her.

After that, it was a blur of kissing, rubbing and slickness, thrusting, grinding, panting, yelling and laughing before we lay together, breathing hard, and holding on to each other. And then, it happened again, and again, before, at some point, we fell into deep sleep, entwined and exhausted.

It was not until the next morning, when I extricated myself to use the bathroom, that I quickly entered Danielle into the journal for the first, and I very much hoped, not the last, time.

New York. Later this morning

So, I was lying there in bed, trying to figure out what to tell Danielle about the journal, or even whether to tell her about it, when I realized that I had no choice but to come clean. It was clearly one of those situations where any cover up would be worse than the crime, such as it was. I hoped that she would be at worst annoyed by it, offended, possibly, by my decades-long record of objectification of women and porn watching and if she insisted, I would delete it, even though I kind of was attached to it.

But if I said nothing, and somehow she got wind of it, accidentally though using my computer, or by a stray word from me, or Sam, I suspected that she would be more offended by my failure to make full disclosure. So, I decided to tell her.

At that moment, Danielle rolled the blanket off of her, still sleeping, and treated me to another show of her sweet nakedness. Thoughts of the journal left my mind as my blood rushed to another place. I reached over and began to stroke her gently, feeling her curves, her softness and her muscles, and she began to make that purring, moaning sound that I loved so much. She opened her eyes and smiled, and I leaned toward her, pressing my lips against hers.

And we were off to the races again. There is little more intimate and loving than sweet morning sex, and the fact that we had, the night before, acknowledged that we were going to be married, made it all the more incredible. Afterwards, we lay next to each other, holding hands.

When the moment had passed, I decided it was time. I turned to Danielle and said, "Remember what you said last night about not having secrets?"

I felt her stiffen and pull away from me, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me with concern. "Yeah," she said warily.

"Well, um, I have one—" she pulled away even further, and yanked the blanket over her nakedness, but I quickly grabbed her hand and continued "but it is kind of silly. In fact," I smiled hopefully, "I think you will find it amusing. I'm kind of embarrassed, actually."

Danielle's beautiful face looked at me with confusion, and I wished that I had just left well enough alone. But I hadn't, so I needed to keep going. Clearly, Danielle was going to keep quiet until I had fessed up.

"So, you see, um, when I was twelve—" I began, and explained to her the origins of the nude journal, and, as I fumbled my way through the explanation, she started to smile, which I took to be a good sign.

"Let me understand," she said, shaking her head in disbelief, but with a light tone in her voice which gave me hope, "since you were twelve, every time you saw a naked woman, on the Internet, in a magazine or in real life, you felt compelled to run to your computer and make a record of it?"

Sheepishly, I said, "when you say it that way, it actually sounds even more embarrassing."

She was not done making me squirm. "And now, you are almost 30 years old, planning to get married and you still are making entries?"

I looked down and nodded. Danielle laughed before she continued. "I just have one question."

Trying to anticipate her question, I said, "Of course, I'll delete it."

Her musical laugh surprised me. "No, you moron, I don't give a shit about your precious list." I breathed out for what seemed the first time. "No, you pervert," she said, chuckling, "my question is, 'What did you write about me?'"

"Come with me," I said, taking her hand and pulling her off the bed, and was treated to a beautiful, fully nude view of my love as the blanket fell to the floor. I led her to my computer, where I pulled up the file, entered the password and quickly navigated to a date that was seared into my mind—October 8, 2011. And there was my entry, one which varied from the more descriptive entries in the past:

10/8/11—Danielle Vaughan Perfect.

Looking over my shoulder, her firm breasts pressing against me, Danielle read the screen and tightened her grip around me before kissing my head.

"You know," she said, "I intend to wear out your fingers making entries about me."

I stood up and turned toward my naked fiancée who wrapped her arms around me before she stepped back, once again giving me the view that I never believed I would tire of. Before I could say anything, she said, "And you also know, that I intend to tease you mercilessly about it until we are very old."

I smiled and pulled her close again, loving the way her body felt against mine. "I deserve that," I said, lowering my head in feigned shame.

Danielle pulled back and said, "O.K., I'm going to shower, and you need to make your entries for last night and this morning, right?"

She turned, and as I watched her ass sway out of the room, I replied, "Right," before I sat down at the keyboard and typed away.

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