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<p><font size="5" face="helvetica,arial">We arrived </font><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial"> at the designated meeting spot with
dilated pupils, sunglasses on, as was always the
case. We were veterans at showing up at 6am,
forcing ourselves to stay awake each night before
with the help of various illicit substances,
priming ourselves for exposure.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">There were a lot of reporters that last time –
almost three hundred people showed up, although it
was early (6am), and cold (40 degrees fahrenheit).
Lots of video cameras.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">In typical New York fashion, stereotypes abounded,
from models and dancers to tattooed and pierced
young things, nightclub leftovers, and old men.
When it came right down to it though, everyone
came to get naked – immortalized with our clothes
off.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">So there we were, on our backs, looking up at the
airbrushed and miraculous face of Nikki Taylor
clothed in Liz Claiborne. Jokes flew, as always.</font></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><font size="5" face="helvetica,arial">A party boy </font><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial"> – you know the type – came in from
the suburbs to "get naked."</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">"Hey, are you guys here to get NAKED?"</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">He looks a little shocked by the lack of party atmosphere.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">There's another guy who looks like
he spent the night before in Atlantic City. Shirt
unbuttoned to the middle, yellow patent leather
loafers, gold Italian horn hovering just beyond
the border of a frontier of chest hair.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">"We're awl supahmoduls," he yells out, "we're awl moduls heah."</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">Who brought this guy?</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">At the count of three, we're streaking down Broadway – it's only 5:45am, but the taxis slow,
horns honk, and the huge Marriott sends it staff
running out onto the streets. I expect to see a
crew of Japanese tourists any second now,
recording devices in hand, but from the position
I'm in (on the ground crumpled in a ball), I can
only hear the whoops and hollers of bystanders.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">With a yell from Spencer Tunick, we reposition ourselves, lying flat on our backs, facing
downtown.</font></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><font size="5" face="helvetica,arial">We're here today </font><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial"> to "protest violence," Spencer
says.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">We're causing it, I'm sure. The entire staff of
the Marriott neglects its duties, passengers in
taxis ignore the meters for a moment, bystanders
stand in shock. (Yes, there are still some things
that can shock a New Yorker. Would you believe
nudity is one of them?)</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">"Dey got bawls," I hear a bystander say.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">"Dey got REAL bawls."</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">Yes, as a matter of fact, some of us do.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">I look around and look at lots of balls. And
breasts, and arms, butts, legs, backs. Cellulite.
Tan lines. Tattoos. Bald spots. And some hairy
ones.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">The jokes start flying again – someone else yells
out, "I always wanted to be on Broadway!"</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">Scattered laughter.</font></p>
<p><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial">I stare at the patch of sky between skyscraper and
billboard. Broadway beneath me is warm.</font></p>
<p align="right"><font size="4" face="helvetica,arial"><b><a href="#four" onmouseover="window.status='{ continue }';return true" onclick="flip('ddd');">>></a></b></font></p>
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<p><font size="5" face="helvetica,arial">It's good to be exposed. </font><font size="3" face="helvetica,arial"> For a few weeks after
this event I regard my thick thighs and tiny
breasts as unique, and mine, even without the
myriad modifications and adornments – things I've
added to claim (or reclaim) various separate parts
of mine. Not the same, not like Nikki Taylor's.
But definitely a whole, entire, naked body
belonging to me. Worthy enough for Times Square,
or the Brooklyn Bridge, or the Gaseteria on
Lafayette and Houston, or the Nevada desert. And
most certainly, for the naked, vulnerable,
sleeping boyfriend spooned against me.</font></p>
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