When Stu was an 18-year-old college freshman, in need of a job, he jumped at the chance to earn his way by posing naked for art classes. He especially loved watching the students as they studied his body and captured all of him on their drawing pads. He then moved on to bigger thrills (stripping in bars, performing in live sex shows, and running a bare butler service). He still takes it all off for artists and photographers—in person and online. In his book, ‘Lights On—Clothes Off: Confessions of an Unabashed Exhibitionist,’ (available on Amazon) he fully exposes his exciting exhibitionist life. Enjoy this month’s Sans Clothing column.
His book: lightsonclothesoff.com
His email: firstname.lastname@example.org
Based on frequent requests I’m offering a bit of my book this month. This month’s Sans Clothing column focuses on Chapter Seven and it exposes my nasty high school gym teacher. His name is fake but the story is true.
“OK you sissies. Line up so we can get this class going!”
Here’s what floored and shocked me—his so-called inspections. The first time was hard to believe but I quickly figured that this is how the coach got his jollies. Too bad these inspections weren’t required in each class by the school board or some government agency. These were the only parts of gym class I liked—ok loved—and they didn’t happen often enough. The ‘Leiman Inspection.’ In the first class of the year, we were told to always come dressed in a clean white T-shirt, dark blue gym shorts (which we had to buy in the school office), a jockstrap, and white socks and sneakers. While waving a jock in front of us he stressed the importance of wearing one to every class. This was our gym uniform and there were NO exceptions. All of us even had to get a form signed by one of our parents that outlined our gym class uniform requirements. Mr. Leiman reminded us of his rules during the first couple of classes in September.
And then this. “I’m going to be sure you men are all dressed properly for this class!” he shouted. “Your clothes need to be clean. And you better have a jockstrap on to protect those pretty balls of yours. Now drop your gym shorts!”
What? In front of everyone? We were ordered to drop our gym shorts to our knees while Mr. Nasty walked around to check us. Seriously?
The first time this happened three of my classmates were in trouble. One was wearing underwear and no jock. He got a rather harsh in-the-ear scolding. But the other two were only wearing gym shorts. No underwear. No jock. Mr. Nasty, in his loud and obnoxious way, told the two to pull up their gym shorts and to go stand in the front of the class. Then he ordered them to drop their gym shorts down again. They had to face all of us, with their shorts down by their knees, while he lectured the whole class for about a minute about why we should be wearing a jockstrap.
I felt sorry for those trembling red-faced guys. It was clear from the look in their eyes that they hated their forced exposure. One of them had tears rolling down his cheeks. But of course, in my own mind, I was scolding myself for being properly dressed for gym class.
After the first inspection, I stopped wearing a jockstrap. I couldn’t wait until I was caught. It happened about three weeks later. I stood in the back line while everyone had to prove that they were in the required uniform. I beamed inside when I realized I was the only bad boy that day.
“Mister, get your butt up front! Now!” he shouted.
I marched to the front of the class, with my head down and the best frown I could muster. I hoped that the lecture and scolding would take lots of time. My classmates thought that I was embarrassed and horrified but really, I loved standing front and center with my gym shorts down around my knees. No underwear. No jockstrap. And no one else up front to compete for those probing eyes.
I was thrilled watching about twenty-five sets of eyes checking me out while I stood there pretending to be mortified. No one knew the glee that took over my head. Or the slight rise I felt in my penis.
Mr. Nasty gruffly shouted to everyone, while I stood there sporting a terrifying look. “You all need to look at him!” As he pointed to my penis he added in his big booming voice, “He’s pretty big down there and those pubes don’t protect his privates. He should be wearing a jockstrap so he doesn’t get hurt in this class. That’s why they’re required. You all better get it.”
“You, young man,” he continued as he stared at me, “you should know better. Stand there, just like you are, for the next five minutes so this sinks into your pretty little head.”
Five minutes? I wished he had said all period but after the time was up he told me to pull up my shorts and join the game of dodge ball. I quickly caught on to his approximate schedule and made sure that once in a while I’d “forget” my jockstrap. I was hoping upon hope that that day’s gym class would be my lucky day. I didn’t want to be the only one who forgot his jock—that would have given me away. But when I was caught again later in the first semester I was the only one who had to suffer the wrath of Mr. Nasty while standing front and center for all those eyes to devour. I guessed that the other guys in class were so shocked by the inspections that none of them ever forgot their jockstraps again.
I’d love to hear from you and your Sans Clothing desires. If Sans Clothing nudity, exhibitionism, or voyeurism are issues you’d like to chat about here’s my email: email@example.com. If you would like a free link to a blog with a story about my art class posing, along with nude photos, just ask. And please check out my book, www.lightsonclothesoff.com, and past Sans Clothing columns.
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