All the major celebrities have nude pictures lurking somewhere in their past. They pretend to be embarrassed about them, but in fact it’s a clever marketing ploy to drum up some sensational news articles and garner more publicity.
I figure I could use some publicity, so today I’m going to unveil a nudie pic from my own misguided youth. And no, I’m not talking about baby pictures. I was twenty-two at the time, and old enough to know better.
I have to warn you, this is not a tastefully-done boudoir photo. It’s a tawdry snapshot from a time when someone who shall remain nameless (and whom I’ve cropped from the photo) convinced me to expose myself in public.
I knew at the time that it was a bad idea.
I protested, but I was young, and peer pressure is a terrible thing. And I believed in the power of friendship. A true friend would never ask me to do anything humiliating or potentially damaging to my reputation, right?
Here’s the proof:
Believe it or not, I am actually wearing a dress in that photo. (For the record, Camille was a fellow martyr, not the bride who strong-armed us into this disaster.)
The bridesmaids’ dresses were flesh-coloured taffeta. Low-cut and strapless, they had an inadequate wrap-around skirt secured only at the waist. I’m sure I mooned half of Winnipeg just trying to get in and out of the car while the wind whipped that skirt around.
But the top was worse. Much worse.
When the dress arrived the day before the wedding, I refused to wear it. The top was so loose that one false move would’ve given the girls far more freedom than was advisable (or legal, for that matter).
So the seamstress altered it. She was obviously vindictive about the last-minute change. When I got the dress back the morning of the wedding, it was so tight I couldn’t draw a full breath. My assets were attractively portioned into four boobs: Bisected by a tourniquet of fabric, two naked bulges overflowed the top of the bodice, while the sadly flattened remainders were viciously crushed against my ribcage.
It was the 80s, and back then, cleavage was usually concealed in church. You should have seen the poor minister’s face when I shuffled up the aisle clothed in little more than the tattered remains of my dignity, my half-exposed boobs burgeoning over the bodice with each humiliated breath while I tried to keep that slit-to-the waist skirt closed. He probably wondered if I was inside the dress trying to get out, or outside it struggling to get in.
Trust me, it was the latter.
Somehow I got through the day, but the damning photographic evidence is preserved for all time: Me, apparently stark naked in public, smiling for the camera.
So do you think that’s enough to make me famous? Or just mortified?