A Review: Attempting ‘The Naked Man’
It’s quite a move.
I’d found myself in a bit of a sexual rut, which was a bummer.
Not the kind I had grown used to experiencing, where a lack of sex directly correlated with the absence of a partner with whom to have it with. You know, your good ole’ tried-and-true dry spell. Many if not most of us have experienced more than a few lonely nights of that ilk and know how to deal with it for whatever length of time we have to until luck looks directly our way once again. (Sometimes it seems like luck has pretty severe cataracts, doesn’t it?) Those coital lapses help build character, man.
But this was a different thing entirely. I had a serious girlfriend — an absolute smoke show with an almost startlingly active libido, so pretty much everything I had ever wanted and had been seeking in the midst of those aforementioned bouts with abstinence — and I was having a tough time getting horned up.
This is not to be confused with having a hard time getting hard and staying that way for an appropriate amount of time. That had already been a problem for years due to meds I take to keep an even keel somewhere in the visible distance, and I snagged meds to take as needed that counteracted that. (Sildenafil is scary easy to legally get.)
What had actually happened to spur this was my turning over in bed one morning.
This slight maneuver threw out my back something fierce — either rather miraculously herniating two discs on the spot (miracles do occur and they are not always good ones), or finally nudging those discs to a spot where they would cause a stabbing and throbbing pain combination more severe, persistent and lasting than anything else I had experienced in a life that had already been peppered with several rather lengthy periods of nearly unbearable physical pain.
I was barely able to move or function for several months, spending almost all of that Chicago winter in my apartment, often sleeping on my couch’s reclining chair (I prefer the finer things in life) because I couldn’t lie down flat. We took one trip during this ordeal, to New York for a wedding. At the hotel before the reception I tearfully apologized to my girlfriend that I hadn’t been bringing it well or often in the sack and that it was only due to the pain I was feeling that was intense beyond what I was able to properly articulate.
I was anxious and worried that our lack of sex when we were young and supposed to be at our peak virility would take a toll on the relationship, or that she might take my inability to perform as a sign of disinterest. When really, it was just that sometimes you really want to do something and you just can’t.
It was a compassionate and loving conversation, and looking back on it reminds me that I should have been so honest and vulnerable with her much more often.
After I winced my way through the weekend bookended by two excruciating flights (beautiful wedding, though) she accompanied me when I went in for an MRI. Turns out being unable to lie still and flat without crying and your muscles uncontrollably spasming is a tall order. At one point, the tech got verbally frustrated not so much with me as an individual, but my frenetically quaking muscles. She got enough visible film for my doctor to deign that I was all kinds of fucked up. Like, to the point he didn’t seem to believe me when I told him that all that had happened was I had attempted to shift from lying on my left shoulder to lying on my right shoulder.
“Nothing acute you can think of?” he asked.
“If I had a better story, I’d definitely tell it to you.”
“I just haven’t seen anyone this bad who hasn’t been in something like a serious car crash.”
“My chiropractor said the same thing, actually.”
“You’re seeing a chiropractor?”
“Couple times a week.”
“Whoa! Stop doing that immediately. That could hurt you even worse. I can’t say for sure, of course, but their work may have contributed to your injury in the first place, or made it worse once it occurred.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Do not see a chiropractor until you have healed.”
“Do you know when that might be, or?”
“Let’s discuss your options.”
I’m paraphrasing, but he was basically like, “We could do surgery as an absolute last resort, but for now we should probably knock you halfway out then shoot some steroids right into your fuckin’ spine, man.”
“Right on.”
So we went ahead and did that. I’d already impressively eclipsed my insurance deductible for the year, and if I didn’t experience some relief soon I was afraid I was going to lose it in more ways than one. So, buy the ticket, take the ride.
Turns out steroids are absolutely awesome.
I get why people get into them.
And in my case they worked rather quickly. At least when it came to treating the pain I’d grown begrudgingly used to attempting to cope with. I wouldn’t find out how well they’d actually worked for a few weeks, once they’d had a chance to set in and do whatever they were supposed to to help provide any kind of lasting relief. But due to being slightly ‘roided out, I started to feel great a few hours after the Friday morning procedure. I was able to sleep in my bed that night and by the next afternoon I was feeling rather spry and felt like I was prepared for some long overdue, semi-vigorous love making.
I didn’t know how long this steroid-induced dulled pain with a side of vague euphoria would last, so felt I should strike while the iron was hot — even if I wasn’t confident my performance would blow any minds. I’d barely walked in months, so was bound to get winded, and was still forbidden from doing any kind of heavy lifting. There was also the realistic prospect that by giving it a true college try in the sack, I might end up injuring myself worse.
But sometimes (okay, almost all the time) horniness coupled with a craving for intimacy with someone you love clouds your best judgment and wins the day.
I knew that when my girlfriend came over that evening she wouldn’t be expecting much on the sexual front — which isn’t what you want your girlfriend to feel, of course, and had catalyzed my plan to surprise her in a way I thought and really, really, really hoped she would enjoy. Because if you attempt The Naked Man and it isn’t met with enthusiasm, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to conjure how it’s liable to go south with a real quickness. Given that this same woman had once requested fucking on my balcony in broad daylight, though, I assumed the odds of it going over well both comedically and sexually were in my favor.
Sometimes fortune favors those willing to go full buff.
And shooters shoot.
(If you’re unfamiliar, The Naked Man is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. You surprise a significant other by getting naked in front of them when they do not expect it, to see if this elicits a sexual response. It’s a risky maneuver to be sure, and one I’d opine should only be attempted, if ever, with someone who really knows and loves you. Otherwise you may very reasonably find yourself with a criminal record.)
I tracked her location and when she got close to my place, I went out to the balcony to watch for her. When she was close to my building’s entrance, I fully disrobed and unlocked my door. Then I perched one foot up on my coffee table, put my hands on my hips and waited.
“Alexa! Play Cigarettes After Sex on Spotify!” I said, inspired to soundtrack this with a band that has been a Boner Jamz Playlist staple for many years now.
She knocked.
“Come on in!”
The door opened a crack then quickly slammed shut.
Not the start I was hoping for. I pictured her running down the hall back to the elevator.
But then I heard voices coming from the other side of the door.
She was chatting with my neighbor from across the hall, who I had met only once when I knocked on her door for a wellness check after a few days of Chicago Tribunes had piled up and I was worried that she may have fallen in her apartment or worse. Turned out, though that she, just like me, sometimes did not leave her apartment for days at a time. And didn’t have much of a stomach for the news these days anyway, but continued her subscription regardless. A kindred spirit.
I moved quickly as I could to my bathroom and closed the door, thinking that if my neighbor needed to come in for some reason I could just feign that I’d just gotten out of the shower, which would be better than her seeing me in my Birthday Suit. If she hadn’t already.
I heard the door open again and my girlfriend say, “Scott?”
“Are you alone?” I shouted from the bathroom.
“Umm, yeah?”
“Have a seat on the couch real quick and hang on a sec. I have something for you.”
I was pretty confident she and my neighbor hadn’t seen me standing in the living room like Captain Morgan when she cracked open the door, so I could still preserve the surprise.
“Okay,” she said over the music. “Your neighbor, Mrs. Wick, says hi. Nice lady.”
I came out of the restroom, turned and faced my girlfriend. I sauntered over to the coffee table and reassumed my earlier position.
Then I proceeded to seduce her with the Helicopter Dick move.
This wasn’t initially planned, but once you’re out on stage some light improv can really do wonders.
I was still nervous I might get a “What the fuck, man?”
But not that day, friend. Not that day.
Her eyes lit up. She clapped her hands several times in glee. My heart grew three sizes and so did my hard-on. (Okay, that’s not true. While I am a grower and not a shower, claiming that it tripled in size in a matter of seconds is something of a stretch.)
“Someone’s feeling better!” she said, then shot up from the couch and skipped to me for a long kiss.
I will, much to my chagrin, vividly remember this moment and the ones that followed for the rest of my fucking life.
We had so much fun while it lasted, though.
Trying The Naked Man: 4.5 STARS