Liberation.
That’s all the reason you need. Liberate your labia, liberate your willy and his lugnuts. Don’t keep them covered up or tucked away in your dark and sweaty places.
Let the sun shine on them. Let the snow freeze them. Let the rain soak them.
And once your so-called “private” parts have been exposed to the elements and you’ve ran blissfully atop mountains, through valleys, meadows, canyons and across rivers with your bosoms bouncing or whippersnapper waving wildly about like one of those phallic inflatable floppy tube dancers, then you’ll know.
This. This is how things are supposed to be.
This is freedom.
It’s not so much that the world doesn’t need to see what you’ve got. It’s that what’ve you got needs to see the world.
I know, it sounds profound. And it is. As profound as the feeling you’ll get when you shed your soul-shackling burqa and introduce your own beauty to nature’s. It will be like reuniting with a long-lost friend. It will be like climbing Mount Everest. It will be like base-jumping. It will be like making love to James Franco.
It will be epic.
So do it.
Find yourself on an adventure and take off your clothes. Run free. You won’t regret it. In fact you’ll thank me and want to pay me because I just gave you better advice than any therapist ever will or could. It’s that good.
And a naked adventure isn’t always to an exotic place with snow-capped peaks or screensaver vistas. You can take a naked adventure anywhere, almost. Just watch for the prudes. They’re out there, like the po-po, like hall monitors, like fun-sponges, like that little kid from school with glasses and greasy hair who would run and tell your teacher whenever there was an inkling of cootie contagion. Years later, he or she is suffering from sexual frustration. Don’t be like that kid. Go on a naked adventure. Bring a friend or two.
Free yourself.
