The Naked Dancing Report.

You first read about it here and I promised to tell you what happened. Well, here's the story. I give it to you a matter of moments after the event, with the playlist that was used continuing in the background and my breathing still a bit heavy after the effort. It was supposed to be freeing, liberating and all that, but the fellow forgot to mention the word "knackering".

It's now four fifteen on Sunday afternoon as I narrate the story to you.

I'd meant to do this whole naked dancing thing several days ago but K, the fifteen year old, has managed to lose my ipod speaker thing, so the plan was delayed. I even told her why I was so keen to get the speaker back, the real reason, the one about naked dancing, but even that hasn't motivated her to find the thing.

So a short while ago, after watching the Singaporean Grand Prix and deciding that the only person who could actually stop me from feeling a bit sorry for myself was me, I decided to give it a go. I had to dewire another set of speakers and move that into my bedroom and generally do some prep.

First I drew my blinds, paying careful attention to whether there might be any cracks big enough for people to see in through. This involved several goes at the blind drawing thing until I felt happy to move on.

One of my important considerations was volume level; if I risked going too loud, what with living in an apartment, there's always the chance of someone complaining. It's only ever happened once before and that was a drum related thing, so I knew that chances were very low, but a neighbour knocking on my door and complaining when I'm fully clothed and looking good and pretty stylish is very different to one greeted by a naked, somewhat out of breath and panting me.

But of course, this is all about being free, letting oneself go and having a blast, so the volume had to be loud enough to let me do all that. Surprisingly therefore, I went for a medium type of output, after a bit too much thought.

Hmmm.... then it was the setlist to think about. As this was to be my first time I didn't know how many songs it would go on for. Choosing one good funky song involved the risk that, once finished, I'd rush to the ipod, scroll everywhere to find the next one and lose all the momentum and sense of continuity. So I reckoned I'd have to look for a playlist that would give me a few suitable songs together. A bit of a hunt and I found the "energetic" one I'd made some time ago. It looked perfect, though some of the songs were perhaps a bit too rocky and not quite dancey enough.

The last question was the actual getting naked issue; do I take my clothes off first and then start the music or approach things with the music on? I pressed option one.

The first song was "I gotta feeling" by the old Black Eyed Peas. Perfect, I had thought. I started the ipod then took off my clothes, being careful not to look like some kind of male stripper practicing in his room on a Sunday afternoon.

Before I knew it there I was; stark butt naked, except for my watch, a leather bracelet thing (all the metrosexuals are wearing them here these days), and my Havaianas flip flops. I'd been in two minds about the flip flops, but it was an unusually warm day and I love wearing them, that's the Havaianas, not flip flops in general, so had pressed option two on that.

I felt a tad nervous and apprehensive as I started. I've got one of those decent length dressing type mirrors in my bedroom and I'd never realised how distorted the image in it is. It makes my stomach look much rounder than it is in real life and my willy curiously smaller, hardly bouncing at all as I danced. I figured it's probably to do with all this Einstein and speed of light thing that's been in the news lately. Perhaps all mirrors are now fundamentally flawed, let alone windows.

The song wasn't a good choice, something I realised that about halfway through. You see, I couldn't help but recall the video. All those images in my mind, of sexy good looking people, of Fergie and them getting ready to go out and party, just didn't sit comfortably with what was appearing in my mirror. And I still wasn't fully relaxed anyhow. The song finished and the playlist moved on to something that felt really perfect from the off; Mr Slim performing this number, a favourite of mine but much less well known than his big hits:



And I got on down to it like the dancer that we all think we are in our dreams. I shed the Havaianas to give better traction and proper boogieish dancing was the order of the minute as I piroutted, thrusted, swivelled and flung myself about as if, well as if I was dancing naked in my bedroom with no one watching me. It was fucking great it was.

I suddenly realised why, about twenty years ago, a young girl family friend had asked "why does Uncle RD dance like a jelly?" I'd spent twenty years thinking that it was a childish and stupid question and, in a moment, I understood how wrong I was. Still, I went for it some more. I discovered that I could wander down the corridor and watch myself in the bathroom mirror too, though this was only a waist up view, it was only the bedroom mirror that gave the willy and arse view.

I was glad I'd been to the gym the day before, the upper body looked okay if I'm honest. My stomach needs more work but I'm happy to say that it's not a full Sri Lankan rice belly by any stretch of the imagination yet. And of course there's that mirror fault to bear in mind.

I guess it would be the same for anyone but, when doing naked dancing, one can't but help throwing in way too many of those hip and willy thrust and swivel movements, so much more than we'd all do if fully clothed. It's just natural, it has to be. I've got to tell you, if you've never tried it, it's fun to make your willy go in circles, then change direction and make it go the other way; anti cockwise, as I now like to call it. In my case they were very small circles, but circles nonetheless, ones that would never have been apparent had I been wearing trousers or pants. Or "a trouser" as you Lankans would say.

Obviously for women this wouldn't happen, but I figure for them there's always breast swivelling to be done. It's clean, it's fun, it's healthy and their man would love to watch it too. What's not to like?

I was getting well and truly knackered by now but the third song came up and it was this one, one of my favourite ever No Doubt songs:



You'll know that it's more of a rock song and it encourages less funky and more rock star stage dancing. I continued, striking poses during the mellower bits and giving it more Mick Jagger than the previous song's cross between Michael Jackson and Michael Douglas.

By the mid point I was so tired that it became like the last few minutes on the cross trainer at the gym, when I concentrate on finishing and nothing else whatsoever. Looking at myself in the mirror was a thing of the past, though I did manage to sneak in a small amount of glances, probably only about forty or forty five.

It finished, I finished and sharply grabbed my clothes and dressed myself. As I sit here now, telling you about it, the playlist has moved on to some Audioslave.

My verdict?

I loved it. I hadn't anticipated the tiredness and fitness side of things, which may be a bonus if I do it more. But the lightening up, the freeing and relaxing sides were brilliant. As was the willy swivelling.

I intend to repeat it, though probably won't tell you about it every time. You know how I like to keep these things private.

Ah yes, I must get that mirror fixed too.